Archive of Our Own

“The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. . . . Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you.”

Now. 4:12 p.m. Osaka, June. 75°, rainy.

“What's wrong with what we already have? What happened to keeping it casual?”

If you told seventeen year old Sakusa Kiyoomi about the predicament of his twenty-two year old self, he’d laugh in your face. Cold and sharp.

But reality is a bitter pill to swallow, razor-sharp around all the edges yet impossible to ignore. This was never written down as an event in his painstakingly crafted life planner. Messing around with Miya Atsumu in a “no strings attached” manner was not a pre-planned event in his life planner.

It was an accident. Never meant to happen, not the first time, the second, and all the times that followed after. He never meant to let it gain momentum, to let it snowball into what feels dangerously close to permanence. Let alone letting it last four years.

Uttering the words "I think I’m in love with you" to Miya, only to face the sting of outright rejection, wasn’t something Kiyoomi had preplanned.

This seems oddly similar to an excerpt out of his ongoing mental book of what-will-go-wrong-if-you-tell-him fantasies. Maybe it is. Maybe this is just another oddly cruel, realistic dream. It’ll be more bearable to know his subconscious is more pessimistic than reality is. At least fictional imaginations fade away with time.

But the rhythmic sound of rain splattering against windows beyond the walls mingled with heavy panting inside the bedroom suggests otherwise. This all seems too real.

Like an ice-flavored lollipop, melting away with consumption. Its existence is temporary, slipping through fingers no matter wound how tight. So hold on tighter, maybe, just maybe, it won't slip through your grasp next time. Hold on tighter, strain every fiber of his muscles to keep Miya from escaping his grip. Hold on tighter, pick up the pieces he’s made of him like handling fragile shattered glass of a mirror. Hold on tighter, make him feel wanted, like he's the center of gravity for Kiyoomi.

“I know we’ve talked about this, but-” he starts, voice strained as he pushes himself from the bed. Now standing, kiyoomi locks eyes with Miya, leveling the field between them.

A flash of something flickers through Miya’s eyes—gone as quickly as it appears. Before Kiyoomi can process further, Miya turns on his heel and strides toward the door, movements deliberate but tense.

The door slams shut before he can finish his sentence, leaving Kiyoomi rooted in place, watching the space where Miya had stood only moments ago. Silence fills the room. Outside, the rhythm of rain thuds against the windows and pavement below. Beneath that, the fan circles and turns with white noise and a momentary humm. The densha occasionally rattles the floorboards as it speeds past, breaking the stillness.

In the corner of his room, the suncatcher scatters fragments of rainbows onto the walls from rays captured from the slowly reappearing sun. The clouds begin to part, tinted sunlight filters through the blinds, slowly lighting the room to luminance. The atmosphere begins to clear, the oppressive weight of rain clouds lifting, yet it feels like Kiyoomi just got ripped from the orbit around his sun.

The sunlight has returned, the rain has subsided. Yet it feels like gravity has failed him.

Their flavorless relationship was never designed to carry weight, to hold meaning, or to stand the test of permanence. It was a fleeting arrangement, something unspoken and undefined—an indulgence in simplicity, free from the complications of deeper connection. But as time slipped by, the edges blurred, and what was meant to be temporary began to feel like a tether. Like an ice-flavored lollipop, there to fill the void yet lacking any significance in flavor. A tangible memory followed by an inevitable absence.

The earth keeps spinning, indifferent to his internal turbulence. Outside his apartment, bystanders walk past, holding umbrellas in blissful unaware ignorance. Yet Kiyoomi feels like his world just got flipped off its axis.

Then. Tokyo, December. 45°, cloudy, chance of snow.

“Quit fussing, the walls are thin, you know?”

A push and pull, the motion smooth and deliberate, powered by a well-coordinated wrist. Obscene squelches ricochet off the too-thin walls of the dormitory. Is the budget for Japan’s national youth camp low enough for them to settle for polymer walls for the dormitory? Noises carry and vibrations definitely make it through the walls. Some people are trying to sleep– mind you.

A muffled whimper signifies Sakusa's response.

“Yeah, there– there you go–” This time, it’s Atsumu who has to bite down on his lip, hard enough to almost draw blood, in a futile attempt to silence the noise that threatens to escape him. His breath hitches, heart racing with movement. He can feel the thudding against his ribcage.

“You hypocrite,” A snarl comes his way velvety and unsteady, laced with symptoms of being out of breath. It’s accompanied by furrowed brows that are almost covered under black curls. His dampened hair so sweaty that it almost plasters directly on his forehead slick with perspiration, the fleeting useless, distracting thought crosses Atsumus mind.

The absurdness of noticing something so trivial like this almost makes him laugh.

Involuntarily, Atsumu reaches his clean hand- the other is occupied- to brush the fallen bangs away, an instinctive, thoughtless gesture. Obstructive strands are pushed out of the way, revealing a pair of raven black eyes, dilated to only leave a ring of iris visible, filled to the brim with… incredulity?

Wait, rewind. Looks like that should not be given when they’re in a position like this.

“You-! Don’t just put your hand near my face! Do you know where that’s been?” Sakusa’s voice bursts out, decibels louder than the monotonous voice usually carries. There's a genuine flick of a frantic edge, uncharacteristic yet dare he say, a bit charming? Atsumu’s lips twitch as he fights back a snicker.

“You’re a real freak, omi-kun.” Atsumu murmurs, the teasing lilt in his voice softened by their proximity. He presses his forehead to Sakusa’s, their skin sliding against each other, slick with the sheen of sweat that clings to them both. The contact is intimate yet playful, a contrast lingers in the air.

Atsumu’s hand trails across the mattress, feeling around blindly until he finds what he’s searching for- Sakusa’s free hand, the one not preoccupied with its possessive grip in his hair. He entwines their fingers, holding a firm yet warm grip. Its grounding, a subtle gesture of reassurance. “My fingers are up your ass right now. You’re worried about the wrong thing…”

“Shut up. Just- get on with it.”

Mingled huffs of air disappear into the night, the quiet punctuated by the soft rustling of sheets beneath them. It’s a strange sensation, but not unwelcome– their chests rising and falling in sync, the shared breaths like a secret between them. His mind, usually sharp and alert, feels sluggish, drawn into the moment, surrendering to it with surprising ease.

Kiyoomi’s thoughts drift lazily, the warmth of Miya’s body against his, the comfort of the moment, and the simple satisfaction of being in this space with him. I won’t be opposed to getting used to this, crosses his mind briefly.

For now, he lets go, content with being in the present.

--

Sunlight filters through the window, slowly seeping into the room with quiet insistence, making its presence unbearably apparent. Kiyoomi blinks awake at the light intruding through his eyelids. He stretches his limbs, slow and languid, his neck pops with a satisfying echo. The bedsheets, thrown over him haphazardly, feel cool against his skin.

He braces his arms on the mattress behind him and pushes himself up, movement still heavy with sleep.

His eyes sweep the room. The spot next to him on the bed is empty. Miya’s luggage bag is nowhere to be seen, and the room has been cleaned and restored into its original state, leaving no trace of what unfolded the previous night.

No remnants of Miya remain except for a piece of scribbled-on napkin that catches Sakusa’s eye. His gaze lingers for a moment before reaching to pick it up to read the words scrawled across it.

I'd be down for this again if you’re too

(060-xxxx-xxxx)

Something about the note lingers like a strange absence in the air, a reminder of fleeting presence now gone. Like ice-flavored lollipops. Enough for him to fill the void by rolling it around in his mouth, not enough for it to linger with a taste. Its weight leaves a fragile sense of comfort on his tongue, reduced slowly by the urge to savor more. He clicks his tongue to feel nothing but the hollow space where the lollipop once occupied. Euphoria that fades too quickly.

This lingering emptiness after the lollipop melts, he promptly ignores in favor of the flavorless comfort.

Are you satisfied? With this meaningless relationship, you can only have this much. Are you satisfied?

I am.

Now. 6:36 p.m. Osaka, August. 82°, sunny.

The front door opens with a soft click of the lock and a turn of the door handle. A familiar figure stands at his doorstep who he immediately recognizes– a mop of styled yet somehow messy blond hair. Miya.

Miya greets him with a trademark grin and lifts a paper bag he's carrying. A silent invitation. Kiyoomi eyes the bag, narrowing his eyes and raises an eyebrow in question of the content inside.

“Soju. Lychee flavored, ‘cause yer a freak.” Miya’s voice carries his usual carefree and laid-back tone as he shifts from one foot to another, the paper bag rustling in his loose grasp. “Oh, and kareepan from lawson.” He adds casually, as an afterthought.

Kiyoomi darkens his expression to visually convey his displeasure with curry buns from the convenience store. They’re always soggy and over-seasoned. The texture makes him question how long they’ve been sitting on the shelf and the bread sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Miya catches Kiyoomi’s look and stares back with an equally offended snarl. His voice shifts to a tone of indignation and clutches the bag to his chest to defend its honor. “It’s for me. Don’t think too highly of yourself now, Omi-kun.”

With a sigh, Kiyoomi opens the door wider begrudgingly and steps aside to allow Miya into the genkan of his apartment. A grin sneaks up on his face as he invites himself inside with exaggerated childlike excitement.

Wordlessly, Kiyoomi extends a hand towards the paper bag, a silent offer to take it off his hands to allow him to take his shoes off. The weight of the bag catches him in surprise and his fingers instinctively wrap tighter around the flimsy handles, arm dipping under the weight.

A sharp scoff. “How much did you even buy?”

Pausing mid-knot of his shoelaces, Miya glances up at Kiyoomi with a glint of amusement catching in his iris. “Just four bottles,” he replies in feigned oblivion. Straightening up, he lines his shoes neatly beside the others before dusting off his jeans. “One for me, one for you, and two for you to keep.” he finishes, carrying himself like he’s done a monumental favor for Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at him, weighing the bag in his hand again unconsciously.

“How generous,” he mutters flatly, though the slight curve of the corner of his lips suggests he’s not entirely displeased.

A moment of stifling silence hangs in the genkan, thick and expectant, as if they’re both waiting for something– some acknowledgment of what had happened the last time they were here, that strange, unspoken thing that lingered between them like an invisible thread. Neither of them says it, but the weight of it is undeniable, pressing down on the space.

Mustering up courage to tell Miya a second time, Kiyoomi starts.

“Hey–”

"Man! I’m starvin’!" Miya suddenly exclaims, his voice breaking through the quiet like a clap of thunder. He straightens up, movement liquid smooth, and turns to stride into the kitchen with fluidity like he owned the place. His presence fills the space with an ease that makes Kiyoomi almost forget about the past rejection.

“Omi-kun, would you mind bringin' the soju?” Miya calls back over his shoulder with a lazy grin, voice dripping with nonchalance once he slides himself on one of the kitchen stools. He lets out a relaxed exhale as he props his chin up with one hand, head lolling to one side like he’s just settling in for the night. The effortless comfort in his actions contrasts sharply with the tight knot Kiyoomi still feels in his chest.

Any semblance of the conversation Kiyoomi was about to start slips away, replaced by the familiar routine of Miya’s unpredictable presence.

With a sigh, Kiyoomi walks over to the kitchen island to join Miya., the soft pad of his steps echoing lightly in the short corridor. He pulls back a chair, the scrape of wood sending a jarring shockwave to his ears, and sets the bag on the table with a small thud and clank of the bottles. With an eager smile, Miya immediately starts unpacking the bag of its contents, setting a bottle of soju in front of each of them. The green tinted glass catches the soft glow of the dim pendant lights of the kitchen island.

His hands dive back into the bag, Miya pulls out the kareepan and flaunts it in front of Kiyoomi’s face like some treasure. Kiyoomi scrunches his face again in immediate disapproval, swatting a hand to bat him away.

Miya feigns offense, casting a dirty glare at Kiyoomi, but the expression lasts only a second before he’s back to unwrapping his kareepan with exaggerated care. Kiyoomi ignores him and stands to reach the drying rack for two glasses. The smooth glass is cool to the touch, almost acting as a grounding force.

The moment he sets them down on the counter with a soft clank, a brief silence fills the space again. Occasionally murmuring voices from the tv is the only sound– he's on a rewatch of Brooklyn Nine-nine– broken only by the tearing of Miya's so-called bread as he shovels bite after bite into his mouth, scarfing down like it’s his last meal on earth.

Kiyoomi watches Miya for a moment, his gaze briefly softening as Miya devours his kareepan, before returning his attention to pouring soju. Uncapping the soju with a sharp twist before pouring it into the glasses. The action is almost methodical, a calming routine—until a loud gasp jolts him out of his thoughts, making him nearly spill half the bottle onto the counter.

He spins his head around sharply, startled, and opens his mouth to jab. "What are you—"

"Omi-kun! You didn’t chill the glass beforehand!" Miya interrupts, his finger pointing at Kiyoomi with dramatic accusation. His eyes widen in mock horror. "Now the soju will be lukewarm. Geez."

Kiyoomi slumps his shoulders, his expression shifting to one of disbelief as he glances back at Miya.

"How was I supposed to chill the glasses if I didn't even know you were coming?" His voice carries a mix of frustration and resignation, the absurdity of Miya's complaint sinking in.

Miya, still holding his finger accusingly in the air, seems to consider the question for a moment, his brow furrowing as if genuinely thinking. Then, without missing a beat, he shrugs dramatically and adds, "Well, I did text I was coming over, didn’t I?"

“A five-minute warning doesn’t count,” Kiyoomi makes air quotations with his fingers as he emphasizes his next point. “‘I’m on the elevator up’, doesn’t count.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

“Yeah? Well, in my defense–”

Amidst the constancy and familiarity of bickering with Miya—or perhaps it’s just the subtle haze brought on by the soju—Kiyoomi finds himself slipping back into their usual rhythm. The exchanges, sharp yet oddly comfortable, wrap around him like rays of the sun beating down during a sunshower. Warm and grounding.

The world beyond the kitchen island fades into irrelevance, leaving only the clink of glasses and jabs of banter. He knows exactly where this is going, direction clear as it's an unmarked path he’s walked countless times before, yet he makes no effort to stop it. Miya brings out the worst in him– inertia taking over the wheel as he throws his head back with another sip of soju.

The familiarity of his back pressed against the cold, unyielding wall, entrapped between the heat of Miya's body and his roaming hands. The quiet squeak as his bedroom door hinges open, hands shuffling through and messing up carefully styled hair, and a gentle thud when he falls back onto the freshly washed sheets. His hands instinctively find purchase behind Miya’s neck, fingertips brushing against the rough texture of a recently shaved undercut.

Kiyoomi surrenders to Miya’s presence, and falls, and falls. Like the slow pull of a satellite caught in the field of gravity of a star. With each second, drawing him closer, closer, giving him no time to resist the warmth. A force of nature, a sunburst cutting through the gloomy clouds.

The warmth is intoxicating, even more-so as he’s reminded that it’s temporary. Kiyoomi knows the extent to this warmth. He knows the rain will return. He knows that this sunshine, like so many fleeting moments, will soon vanish, replaced once again by the rain clouds.

There is a paradox in the joy Miya brings him– he knows it can’t last, yet it’s in that knowledge that the beauty of the moment exists. It’s temporary, but it’s enough. Kiyoomi savors it, embraces it, knowing that when the rain pours again, as it always does, he will remember the warmth of this sunshine, however brief it was.

The words “I can’t keep doing this” gets swallowed down his throat.

--

“Get up. I’m bringing the sheets down to the laundromat.” Kiyoomi pulls at the duvet, the fabric heavy beneath his hands, barely giving way under the weight of 180 pounds of athlete muscle. He tugs harder, using his full strength to wrestle it from under Miya.

Miya grumbles over the comforter, groaning as he lazily throws an arm over his face, curling up even tighter, clearly uninterested in getting up. His half-hearted resistance being a mix of a hazy protest and reluctance.

Kiyoomi frowns, an eyebrow twitching in annoyance. If this is going to be a battle of willpower, Kiyoomi’s definitely walking out of the door with a medal. There’s no way Miya’s stubbornness will outlast his determination.

With a sigh of frustration, Kiyoomi steps around the bed and gathers the corners of the duvet. Miya’s distant mutter of “Wait, what are you doing?” goes completely unnoticed as Kiyoomi lifts two corners of the blanket, securing the edges in his hands.

The moment Miya feels the weight of the duvet shift, he is promptly rolled off the mattress, hitting the hardwood floor with a loud thud. The suddenness of it causes Miya to yelp in surprise, but Kiyoomi’s focus is solely on gathering up the bedsheets with a practiced, almost mechanical, precision.

He hears a string of curses spill from the floor in a muffled protest, the kind of indignant grumbling that makes Kiyoomi’s chest tighten with repressed laughter. The shuffling of fabric follows, unmistakable sounds of Miya hastily pulling his clothes back on in defeat. Kiyoomi doesn’t bother looking back as he exits the room, arms full with the bedspread and comforter.

The corner of his lips quirks up into a small, smug grin—subtle but unmistakable. His win again.

The weight of the linen in his arm feels lighter than the satisfaction blooming in his chest. As the soft thud of Miya’s socked feet trails faintly behind, Kiyoomi allows himself a moment of quiet triumph while heading out of the front door.

The slam of the metal door reverberates down the hollow stairwell, the sharp clang cutting through the stillness like a hammer striking an anvil. Kiyoomi pads down the concrete steps slowly, careful to keep the bed sheets collected within his arms. Each step falls with a soft thud, careful not to let the load unravel.

The door creaks open behind him again, followed by Miya’s unmistakable tread as he closes the gap. The silence is broken by Miya’s voice, smug and irritatingly loud in the confined space.

“Betcha’ didn’t remember to bring the quarters, didya now?” Miya’s smug voice carries louder than it has to be. His earlier stupor state of unconsciousness replaced by the ever-persistent need to be an asshole.

Kiyoomi responds with a low, dismissive grumble, unwilling to engage. The truth of Miya’s accusation gnaws at him, but admitting it would only stoke the flames of Miya’s ego.

The stairwell grows dimmer as the last rays of the setting sun filter weakly through the narrow windows. Shadows stretch and yawn across the walls, leaving the space bathed in a dusky half-light. The quiet hum of the descending night presses in, creating a cocoon of dim serenity. Despite himself, Kiyoomi finds the moment oddly soothing—save for the annoying presence trailing him like an overenthusiastic puppy.

At the base of the stairs, Kiyoomi halts abruptly, his steps echoing softly against the concrete walls. Without turning his head, he jerks his chin toward the heavy metal door ahead, silently signaling Miya to handle it. His dark eyes flick pointedly toward the handle, a clear indication of what he expects.

Miya, catching the silent command, raises an eyebrow in mock indignation but strides past him anyway, grumbling half-heartedly under his breath. With a dramatic flair, he pulls the door open wide, its hinges letting out a low groan. Kiyoomi steps through without so much as a thank-you, the faintest twitch of amusement ghosting over his face as Miya mutters something behind him.

The door at the bottom of the stairway leads to an underground parking lot. The air is damp, carrying faint traces of motor oil and concrete dust, while the low ceiling amplifies the sound of distant footsteps and the occasional hum of a passing car engine. The lighting is sparse, scattered in pools of weak, yellow-tinted bulbs, leaving long stretches of shadows that make the space feel larger and emptier than it is. The parking lot always holds an eerie atmosphere, the lack of windows lending to a sense of disconnection from the world above.

They make their way across the lot. A muffled clang echoes as their footsteps brush against a heater vent. At last, the small apartment-shared laundromat door comes into view, its edges illuminated by harsh, sterile light spilling out from the narrow glass panel at its center.

Pushing the door open against his back, Kiyoomi steps into the laundromat, and sudden brightness floods his vision. The sharp glare of fluorescent lights bounces off the green tile walls and steel washing machines, making him wince, one eye reflexively closing against the intensity. The sharp contrast between the dim parking lot and the clinical brightness of the laundromat is disorienting for a moment, but the rhythmic whirring of machines and the faint scent of detergent soon accommodates.

Miya strolls in after him, spinning his keyring on one finger with an air of practiced ease. A light whistle escapes his lips, carrying the melody of a pop song that Kiyoomi instantly recognizes. It’s the one that’s been blaring endlessly on the radio, so overplayed that it’s practically seared into his memory.

Kiyoomi shifts the bundle of bedsheets into Miya’s unsuspecting arms, his movements deliberate and swift. The startled squawk Miya lets out as he scrambles to catch the load and simultaneously save his spinning keys is comical. Kiyoomi doesn’t spare him a glance, already turning his back to walk over to the rented lockers to grab his detergent and softener.

Miya’s grip tightens, eyes darting to the pristine white duvet threatening to slip from his arms. Sheer panic flashes across his features as he registers the checkered tiles, grimy and sticky with use. If even a corner of that duvet grazes the floor, he might have to start writing his will. Tell ‘Samu it’s been a nice lifetime of bothering him.

They move in comforting silence. Kiyoomi steps forward, moving methodically as he pours the detergent and softener into the washing compartments. Meanwhile Miya shovels the bundled sheets into the washing barrel. The sharp click of the hatch snaps, and he dusts his hands, waiting for the machine to whirr to life.

Miya shifts his gaze to look at Kiyoomi with a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Well, are you gonna put the coins in, or are we gonna hafta’ ask a neighbor to spare some quarters?”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes to stare back disapprovingly. “We both know you have the quarters. Just put them in.”

Miya meets his eyes with a grin that teeters between playful and defiant. He reaches into his pocket to pull out the quarters before shaking them with clinks in his palm.

“What's the magic word?”

“I don’t have time for this, Miya.”

“C’mon, it won’t hurt, pinky promise.”

“… ”

“Welp. I guess this load will forever stay unwashed then. Imagine all that bacteria that’s gonna grow into a biohazard…”

Miya could really go for an uppercut right now. Square on the jaw.

“...put the coins in the washer. Please.”

“What was that? Sorry, couldn’t hear you over the washing machines!” Miya shuffles closer, cupping a hand to his ear with exaggerated curiosity.

Kiyoomi glares, patience thinning.

In a split second, he lunges toward Miya, his hands reaching out to grab at the quarters, but Miya, with his stupid grin, holds the coins out of reach.

"Give– give me that," Kiyoomi mutters, his voice laced with frustration as he makes several futile grabs. Miya lifts his arm higher in retaliation and jumps back to sit on a dryer, his grin widening as he relishes in the playful struggle. Kiyoomi's annoyance only fuels, and the standoff between them stretches longer as Miya holds the coins just out of reach.

Are you satisfied? A voice nags at the back of his mind.

It hurts, Kiyoomi thinks, as he jumps again to grab Miya’s wrist in a tight hold. It hurts, the sting of their casual bath-and-forth banter, so familiar and comfortable. He can’t help but find himself craving and indulging in more. It feels like a cruel reminder of reality, of what he doesn’t have. He finds himself savoring the small, mundane moments with Miya– time he spends carrying nonexistent weight. Interactions that leave aggressive marks deeper and deeper, yet Kiyoomi doesn’t want it to stop, ever.

A tight hold gets secured around a wrist. Miya gets pulled off the dryer. They start chasing each other around the laundromat.

Like ice-flavored lollipops, their presence is only temporary. Never quite leaving a lingering flavor, just enough to satisfy for the time being. Meaningless time spent together fleeting, every second spent in the comfort of his company drills a deeper hole into his heart. He yearns for the day they can put a flavor to this relationship.

The coins drop with a loud clinking sound, scattering across the tiles as Miya, caught off guard by Kiyoomi’s sudden jab, loosens his grip. His fingers press lightly against the sides of Miya’s abdomen, crumbling his composure as the sound of coins hitting the ground echoes. Loud laughter ricochets off the tiled walls.

“Okay-! Okay stop! Stop–” Miya’s voice cracks into a breathless laugh, hands flying up in surrender.

“I’ve already– I’ve already dropped them! Stop!” His grin is wide, face flushed from struggling and panting in an attempt to catch his breath. Kiyoomi finally relents and steps back, satisfied.

There’s a glint in Miya’s eyes, part exasperation, part amusement, but mostly, something softer. He shakes his head and stoops to collect the quarters.

“Jeez, Omi-kun, that was a low blow.” Miya scrunches his face into a dramatic grimace before finally returning to stand in front of the washing machine. He drops the quarters in one by one, each followed by a clink, metallic clicks of quarters rolling down the coin slot echoing.

The machine whirrs to life, the sound of water gently sloshing fills the space. Miya steps back with an exaggerated sigh, letting his shoulders drop in a display of mock exhaustion. He leans against the line of machines before his hands grip the edge of a nearby dryer. With a smooth push, he hoists himself onto the surface, getting comfortable with a grin that hints at his amusement. His legs swing lazily, heels tapping against the metallic surface, filling the room with soft rhythmic thuds.

The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale, artificial glow across his face, making Miya’s bleached hair appear tinged with green. The harsh lighting washes out his complexion, drawing attention to every imperfection– freckles scattered across his cheekbones, faint shadows under his eyes, and uneven texture of his skin. Despite this, he still looks magnetic under the unkind light.

Are you satisfied? With this meaningless relationship, you can only have this much. Are you satisfied?

This relationship, hollow and familiar. Are you satisfied?

“I think I’m in love with you.” Kiyoomi says, voice steady yet soft. His gaze remains fixed on the tumbling barrel of the laundry machine, counting the rhythmic spins of the whirlwind inside. It's not a declaration, much like last time. It’s more of an admission, to himself. An invitation for Miya to do something.

The words hang between them.

“Do you have an answer for me this time?” Kiyoomi snarls out, patience running thin, the words sharp and loaded with frustration. His fists clench involuntarily, a mix of anger and humiliation at having to endure the same ritual again. “I can’t keep doing this. Give me an answer so I know what I have to do.”

The whirring of the washing machine pauses, draining the soapy water to start a new wash cycle. The fluorescent ceiling lights flicker. Miya’s legs, once rhythmically tapping against the dryer door, slows to a stop. The sounds fade into an oppressive quietness.

Kiyoomi stands rigid. His eyes remain locked on the washing machine barrel. Miya doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he sighs deeply, turning his head to face away from him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Omi-kun.” Miya mutters, voice strained with a familiar tone. Evasion. The words leave his mouth too casually, too detached. His words ring in Kiyoomi’s ears. Hollow admission that stings even more than silence.

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, exhaling to bring a faux sense of calmness contrary to the turbulence inside his head.

“Just let me know if you’re gonna stay. That's all I ask.” The words come out steady, every syllable accentuated to a careful balance.

Miya clicks his tongue, voice calm and lilting. He tilts his head with an exasperated sigh and clasps his hands together. “I don’t owe you an answer, y’know. We arranged this so we wouldn’t have issues getting attached.”

Kiyoomi’s jaw clenches. “I don’t care. I got attached and I want more. What's your answer?”

“Has anyone told you how spoiled you are?” Miya chuckles dryly, shaking his head.

“Plenty.” Kiyoomi fires back without missing a beat. Sarcasm lacing his voice. “Now give me an answer before I throw myself at the ground to throw a tantrum.”

The air feels brittle, damp and heavy from carrying the weight of Miya’s evasion. Each breath comes harder. This cycle– of attachment and detachment– is an exhausting loop of contentment and disappointment.

He’s tired of chasing fleeting light. Every time Miya runs, he drags the sunshine with him, leaving the skies drenched in rain. Still, Kiyoomi can’t help but crave those fleeting moments when Miya’s presence breaks through the storm, warming his world, if only temporarily.

Are you satisfied?

He isn’t, after all. Maybe he never will be.

Then. Tokyo, February. 41°, windy, clear skies.

Exhale. A cloud of cold breath dissipates into the air, vanishing as quickly as it formed.

His phone speaker, plugged in to wired earbuds, announces the soon arrival of his chikatetsu, Sakusa rises from his seat in the overground coffee shop, steeling himself for the trek to the subway beneath the city.

The Tokyo winter bites at his exposed skin. He pulls his scarf higher, almost covering his face entirely. For a moment, he wishes for longer hair—anything to shield him from the gnawing cold.

Winter is a season of bifurcation. On one hand, the chill offers small comforts: no need to worry about sweating, the return of limited seasonal drinks, and the shoutengai’s festive transformation with twinkling lights and intricate window displays. Occasionally, there’s snow– soft and pristine– blanketing the city in an eerie, peaceful silence. A rare sight, but beautiful.

Until it isn’t. Until the powdery fluffy snow melts, refreezing into jagged ice patches, dirtied by pedestrian wear. When the cold seeps into his bones, each breath is like inhaling shards of glass. His throat burns with every intake of frigid air. Static electricity sparks with every tug of his coat. Worst of all, the inevitable damp chill of water that trails down his sleeves after washing his hands.

A gust of wind lifts his hair, and Kiyoomi ducks his head instinctively, squeezing his eyes shut to avoid the sting. He quickened his pace down the concrete stairs, each step echoing in the emptiness of the underground.

The smell hits first– metallic and sharp, tinged with gasoline. It’s not pleasant, but tolerable. At least it’s not the Hibiya line, infamous for reeking of sewage.

He reaches the turnstiles and fumbles in his wallet for his pasmo card, nearly dropping it, earning a dirty look from the business-man behind him. Sakusa glares back over his shoulder until their stare-off is interrupted by the beep of his card processing.

As he descends yet another flight of stairs, his phone buzzes– consecutive short vibrations. Motoya.

Komori

Sent 12:43 pm

r u On your way!

sorry u have to ride subway

but its only to kanegawa and then u can get on the shinkansen

so u shd be fine lmfao

Sakusa

Sent 12:43 pm

I’m On my way!

Omw.

Kiyoomi is headed to visit Motoya and his new apartment after multiple Skype calls filled with nagging.

He types quickly as he walks closer to the boarding platform, the familiar rhythm of his fingers tapping against the screen of his phone while the bustling noise of the station surrounds him.

When he lifts his gaze from his phone screen, Miya Atsumu’s giant face stares back at Kiyoomi, looming over him like a taunt.

Correction: A subway billboard containing Miya Atsumu’s giant face looks back at Kiyoomi.

His bleached blond hair is styled in that perfectly tousled way that somehow looks effortless but isn’t. A carefully crafted side part frames his face, sharp jawline accentuated under the harsh glow of artificial studio lights. The smile on his lips– arrogant, calculated– doesn’t quite reach his eyes. A model smile, perfect but hollow.

He’s wearing a three-piece suit, every crease precisely pressed, exuding a kind of polished elegance that borders on smug. The deep navy of the suit contrasts with the sterile white of the background. In his hands, he cradles a perfume bottle, delicate and crystalline.

The bold lettering of CARA is impossible to miss, glaring back at Kiyoomi as if mocking him. Beneath it, in smaller but equally sharp font:

Turn heads, for the right reason this time.

Ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. The slogan, the suit, the advertisement, the carefully curated persona Miya puts on. It’s all a spectacle, designed to dazzle and catch eyes, and he looks utterly absurd. The world around him fades into quietness as he relishes in how absurd the advertisement is.

And yet– his fists clench around his phone.

He wants. He wants, he wants.

A hard bump jerks him back to reality. A stranger brushes past, too absorbed in their own rush to notice the collision. The station intercom crackles to life, announcing the arrival of the Inokashira line.

The train is coming. Kiyoomi rips his gaze from the light up screen. It seems futile, the image of Miya’s face having seared itself into his mind. It's crazy. They've barely shared any meaningful moments, only having crossed paths– twice. Both encounters at the youth training camp were confined to the privacy of a dorm room, designed to have no strings attached, secure and fleeting.

It doesn’t make sense. He told himself it’d be just a fling, a fling he keeps thinking back to but nevertheless, a fling.

He shifts on the crowded subway platform, the noise of the arriving train almost drowned out by the pull of his heart.

The warmth is what he craves– the warmth of Miya, a presence like the light that shines through a dark tunnel. The warmth of sunlight breaking through the clouds during a downpour, a moment of serenity amidst rain. The warmth of a steaming cup of coffee nestled between his hands on a winter morning, the heat offering comfort in a world that feels cold and distant. Yet this warmth he longs for is nothing like the boundaries of their so-called flavorless relationship, a place carefully arranged and curated to avoid attachment. The warmth seeps from Miya, deep, unguarded.

He lives in a city drowning in rain, where skies drown under continuous overcasts. He never complains, because on rainy days he’d run to Miya, seeking out the sunshine that he seemed to radiate. But on sunny days, when the clouds are momentarily forgotten, he would ignore the looming threat of another rainstorm.

Do it right, a mantra he repeats to himself. Do it right. Wait and do it right, carefully and precisely.

Moments of warmth are fleeting, he knows that sunny days never last long, so he lives with the quiet knowledge that, when they are gone, Miya’s presence would be an overwhelming warmth that can chase away the storms.

Do it right. Do it-

Fuck.

Passive acceptance fades into a gnawing dissatisfaction that Kiyoomi can no longer ignore. For a while, it was easier to maintain their hollow arrangement than to confront the risks of wanting more. But over time, after getting to know Miya better, he finds himself drawn to wanting more.

The flavorless lollipop rolls around on his tongue, once feeling sufficient but now leaving an empty aftertaste. He can’t help but long for more– a burst of sweetness, any indication of sourness, a spark of something real.

Are you satisfied? With this meaningless relationship, you can only have this much. Are you satisfied?

I…

Now. 9:57 p.m. Osaka, August. 80°, sunny.

“Has anyone told you how spoiled you are?” Miya chuckles, the sound brittle and humorless as he shakes his head.

“Plenty.” Kiyoomi snaps back without missing a beat. Sarcasm lacing his voice. “Now give me an answer before I throw myself at the ground to throw a tantrum.”

Miya’s smile falters for a moment, eyes flickering with a familiar emotion he saw last time when they reached this point of conversation. Without a word, he hops down from the dryer, footsteps deliberate as he heads toward the door.

Kitoomi doesn’t let him escape so easily this time. He reaches out, fingers catching the sleeve of his jacket in a firm, desperate grip. “Stop running from this conversation, Miya.”

Miya exhales sharply, eyes darting to Kiyoomi’s hand before pulling his arm free. “Give me time to think about it, Omi-kun.”

And then he’s gone, slipping into the world beyond the laundromat’s cold fluorescent glow.

The door swings shut behind him, and with it, the warmth vanishes. The sun leaves, retracting its sunshine with it. In its absence, the sky shifts, clouds thick and heavy with the promise of rain gather above, ready to drown him once again.

In such an empty relationship, when can they finally gain a flavor? Something that lingers, sweet or bitter, he finds he doesn’t mind either. As long as the taste can linger for longer than momentary.

“...pass me the tape?”

“Here.”

“Just gonna scoot right past ya’.”

“...”

“Nice weather today? Sunny… no clouds…?”

“What are you talking about.”

On some days, when the rain beats down harder, he particularly craves the feeling of sunshine against his skin– an ache for familiar touch. He rolls his tongue, the hollow space a bitter reminder of where the flavorless lollipop once rested.

It apparently takes 60 days to form a habit. Kiyoomi wonders how many days it will take to undo one.

Now. 5:48 p.m. Osaka, January. 42°, cloudy.

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. Kiyoomi might understand that now.

Miya’s “Give me time” stretches into days, weeks, and months. The seasons shift– summer gives to fall, the air cools and vibrant shades of green fade to red and gold. Fall gives to winter, frost starting to nip at the days as snow blankets the world. Another V. League season begins, silence between them grows as no words are exchanged outside of volleyball. Kiyoomi waits for change.

The sound of sneakers squeaking against the waxed wooden floors abruptly comes to an end as the practice match wraps up. Kiyoomi wipes the sweat from his forehead, feeling the dampness stick to the back of his shirt. It’s a familiar discomfort, the sticky, sweaty aftermath of a long practice. He stretches out by the benches, trying to find some peace after the exhausting drills.

It doesn’t last long.

From the distance, he hears the familiar banter of his teammates, lighthearted and easy.

“I’d definitely go for the ocean. Who knows what I might find if I go too deep into space!” Hinata's voice rings with genuine thought.

Miya’s voice follows, “Yeah, but how are you sure there aren’t undiscovered creatures in the ocean, Shouyou-kun? What if a giant squid sneaks up on ya?”

Kiyoomi glances up from his stretch. Miya’s chugging from a water bottle, his towel casually draped around his neck. He turns his attention back to his stretches, a flicker of something bubbling up– something he’s been trying not to confront for too long.

“Omi-san,” Hinata plops down next to him, already diving into his stretches with that energetic, cheerful air. “What about you? Would you rather explore the ocean or space?”

Kiyoomi lowers his torso to stretch his legs out against the cool floor, avoiding the question as he focuses on his form. But before he can answer, Miya’s voice cuts through the air, asserting his opinion before Kiyoomi can even respond.

“It has to be space, right Omi-kun?” Miya’s voice is louder yet lilting in its usual manner. “The deep ocean trenches are too scary for any explorin’.”

“I’d be content with staying on dry land.” Kiyoomi says, voice monotone as he finishes his stretch, casting a brief glance at the scene around him.

“Always the realist, Omi-kun.”

Somewhere amidst the chatter, Bokuto joins in too, his booming voice cutting through the gym with enthusiasm. Their conversation shifts to absurd hypotheticals– treasure-guarding octopus in the Mariana Trench or diamond-farming aliens on Neptune– Kiyoomi barely registers it.

He tunes them out in favor of the prospect of a hot shower. The sticky discomfort of sweat clinging to his skin makes the thought of lingering unbearable. He rises smoothly, tossing a towel over his shoulder, and gets ready to leave the noise behind.

“Wait– Omi-kun!” Miya calls out.

Kiyoomi pauses mid-step, back still turned and debating whether to acknowledge him or to keep walking. His grip tightens around the towel draped over his shoulder.

A beat passes. He exhales sharply, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder, catching Miya’s gaze.

“What is it?” Kiyoomi asks, voice guarded. He doesn’t break eye contact, locking his gaze onto Miyas, a quiet challenge simmering beneath the surface.

“Wait for me?”

“...”

Cold tiles against his back. Warm hands roaming, roaming, and roaming. The showerhead is still on, a constant backdrop.

Lips interlocking. Hands, up his back, across his neck. Warm hands, cold water, and the flavorless lollipop back in his mouth.

Are you satisfied?

Warm is the sun kissing his skin after a storm, the tingling in his chest after a particularly good dig, the lingering comfort of a home-cooked meal on his tongue. Cold is the sterile spray of antibacterial on his hands, the sinking of his heart after a bad twist of his wrist, the sun that vanishes abruptly and leaves a shadow in its wake.

Warm isn’t Miya’s silence, warm isn’t “I’m in love with you” repeated for the third time.

Cold is the press of the locker door beneath his palm, unyielding and sharp against his skin. Cold is the bite of air brushing over his freshly toweled legs, leaving a faint sting behind. Cold is Miya’s weary voice, low and deliberate, “You’re not in love with me,” followed by a sigh.

Kiyoomi’s eyebrows knit tightly, a frown etched on his face. He keeps his gaze fixed on a bare patch of metal inside the locker, the paint scraped away to reveal dull, unpolished steel.

“Who are you to decide that.”

Miya meets him with a knowing look from his left, meeting Kiyoomi with an expression of resignation and certainty. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

“...” “Seriously.” Miya’s voice adds, growing in insistence. “Tell me what you even like about me. Somethin’ other than my handsome face.”

The feigned attempt at casual humor grates against Kiyoomi’s nerves, igniting a sharp urge to punt something– or better yet, someone.

Miya steps back with an air of ease, lowering himself onto one of the locker room benches with an easy grace. His legs stretch out in front of him, ankles crossing lazily. Leaning back on his hands, he lets his head tilt up slightly, his sharp gaze settling on Kiyoomi with an air of expectance.

Kiyoomi can feel Miya’s gaze searing into the back of his head.

“Why do you need to know,” he finally asks, tone low and clipped, not daring to turn around just yet.

“I think I deserve to know.” There’s a hint of mischief in his eyes, as if daring Kiyoomi to continue.

Kiyoomi holds his ground, locking eyes with Miya in a tense, silent showdown. The words that finally slip past his lips are blunt, piercing.

“You’re hypocritical.”

Miya’s expression flickers, his eyes searching for the meaning behind Kiyoomi's accusation. “What? How am I being hy-”

“I like that you're hypocritical,” Kiyoomi’s voice cuts in, voice low but certain. “You keep contradicting yourself. You don’t stick to anything. It’s kind of freeing, somehow.”

Miya freezes for a moment, mouth half-open to argue, but no words come.

“I don’t like how you make me out to be some reckless asshole.” Miya mutters, narrowing his eyes.

“I like how you’re reckless too.” He finally turns his head to face Miya.

Miya squawks, a sound somewhere between disbelief and protest, his expression shifting rapidly– annoyance, confusion, faint amusement. His jaw tenses as if he’s chewing on Kiyoomi’s words, debating whether to pick them apart or leave them be.

Before he can decide, Kiyoomi starts again.

“I like how you don't overthink. You go for what you want, say what you want. Whether it’s with volleyball or… actual human interaction. I guess I’m calling you simpleminded.”

“These all sound like insults, omi-kun.”

“I’m not done, Miya-san.” Kiyoomi retorts sharply, matching his tone with dry mockery.

“Theres more?” Miya’s eyebrows shoot up dramatically as he places a hand over his chest in mock alarm. “My ego might be bruised after this.”

“We both know I don’t care about your worthless ego.”

“You know me so well,” Miya’s grin doesn’t waver, if anything, it widens. “That’s why I like ya’.”

“Can we try to have a serious conversation for once.” Kiyoomi asks, his voice laced with frustration.

“This is plenty serious,” Miya replies, feigning confusion. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

Kiyoomi shakes his head, exasperation growing. He takes a step closer and looks down into Miya's eyes, narrowing his own into a glare that’s sharp and unwavering. His voice comes out tight, forcing each word past clenched teeth.

“This always happens. Every time we reach a point where we have to talk about your feelings, you get all avoidant and try to play it off with jokes. Stop that.”

Each word is delivered with deliberate force, as if trying to hammer them into Miya’s thick skull.

Miya scoffs, shrugging. “I didn’t know I signed up for a psychoanalysis appointment.”

“You didn’t. But you sure do need one.”

“This is getting nowhere. Why do you keep sayin’ that?” Miya shoots back, his brows furrowed.

“Saying what?”

“Sayin’ you’re. Y’know,” Miya waves his hands vaguely, eyes widening as he struggles to articulate. “The L word.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t flinch, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of derision. “Are we in kindergarten, or are you just scared of your feelings. We’re both adults. Grow up.”

Miya shifts on the bench, his usual confidence flickering for just a moment. He folds his arms across his chest, leaning back as though creating more physical space between them might shield him from Kiyoomi’s pointed gaze.

“I’m not scared of anythin’,” Miya retorts. His knee bounces, a restless energy betraying the nonchalance he’s trying to project. “I don’t know why we have to overcomplicate everythin’. It’s not supposed to be serious.”

Simple words land with a dull thud, each one a jab that scrapes against Kiyoomi’s chest. He doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe that Miya, with all his infuriating warmth and quiet gestures, could have zero fond feelings for him after everything. After the small acts that Kiyoomi spends nights replaying in his head.

He’d be stupid to let Mya run again. Stupid to let him slip away, to keep indulging in the endless push and pull. His eyes stay fixed on Miya, unwavering.

It’s Miya’s fault, really– for being so damn loveable in the worst ways. For making himself indispensable with his careless warmth. If Miya thinks he can keep running, Kiyoomi won’t chase. Not anymore. But he won’t let him off without an answer first.

His hands clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he bites back the urge to snap. Not serious, he echoes in his head, the phrase twisting like a blade.

Kiyoomi doesn’t relent, expression sharpening. “It is that deep. You just don’t want to deal with it.”

“Deal with what?” Miya shoots back, meeting Kiyoomi’s eyes with stubbornness of a child in the toy aisle.

Kiyoomi exhales sharply, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “You know what. Stop running the second things get more serious.

“Thats not fair.” Miya mutters, voice quieter now. He shakes his head and pushes off the bench, pacing a short distance like a caged animal.

“Whats not fair is your avoidance,” Kiyoomi replies, voice unwavering. “It’s exhausting. Always chasing you, always waiting for you to stop pretending this doesn’t matter.”

“Miya,” he says, voice softening. The weight of the name heavy between them. “I’m serious. I can’t keep doing this– this chasing.”

Miya turns his face halfway, shadowed by something Kitoomi can’t quite place– uncertainty, guilt? Maybe both. He can’t tell. “I never asked you to chase me.”

“No,” Kiyoomi agrees, voice steady, even as his chest tightens. “You didn’t. But you started it. I really like you, Miya.”

He pauses, letting the confession hang in the air before pressing on, each word deliberate, final. “But I can’t keep running after someone who won’t even meet me halfway.”

Miya’s eyes widen as the weight of Kiyoomi’s ultimatum sinks in. For once, he doesn’t snap back with a witty comeback.

“You really really like me, Omi-kun.” His voice waves at the end.

Kiyoomi nods, expression calm yet unrelenting. “I do. But I think I deserve more than being strung along. And i think, deep down, you know that too.”

For a long, excruciating moment, silence fills the locker room. The air feels heavy with everything unsaid. The faint sound of water still dripping from the distant showerhead fills the void. Finally, Miya starts, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know, Kiyoomi. Let me think about it, yeah?”

Sunshine leaves. Kiyoomi watches its glow fade as Miya retreats, leaving him stranded in the way of the rainclouds. The cold creeps in, past his skin, muscles, to settle in his bones.

He closes his eyes briefly, the air feels heavy in his lungs. Sunshine always leaves, and yet, Kiyoomi can’t wait for its next return.

Fuck. He’s so fucked.

Then. Tokyo, November. 53°, rainy, partly cloudy

The rain has never been kind to him.

It starts off as a mild discomfort, a twinge of hesitation from his knee; a warning sign that the sky was going to be covered in gray clouds soon.

The discomfort doesn’t peak during the rain– it lurks in the aftermath. Once the downpour ceases, the humidity wraps around him like a suffocating cloak, igniting a slow, smoldering pain.

The ache spreads like wildfire, consuming him in waves that radiate from his knee through his entire body. Moving seems like an impossible ordeal, every attempt at movement results in defiance from his own body and shocks that travel up his spine. It makes him feel borderline miserable.

Borderline because he’s too proud to let it get to him. Chronic pain can fuck off a cliff for all he cares. He grits his teeth and pushes through with handy heating pads and drugs.

The rain has never been kind to him.

Now, he stands drenched and shivering, the rain clinging to his clothes, and he’s knocking on Miya’s front door.

Rewinding… T minus one hour.

Kiyoomi rubs his eyes again, willing the number on the screen to change through sheer manifestation.

The harsh glow of the digits remain the same.

Biomechanics Mid Term Nov.12

50 pts Submitted Nov 12, 2016 at 9:41 AM

Score for this quiz: 43 out of 50

This attempt took 62 minutes.

43 out of 50. That’s like, 85%. Holy shit.

What is his grade in the class currently? 92%? The 85% will average out to be what, an 88%? Holy shit.

Kiyoomi exhales and leans back in his chair. He runs a hand down his face. The exam is over. The results are in. There’s nothing he can do about it anymore. The weight of the permanency seems to dawn upon him like a freight train.

It had rained the entire week following up the exam.

As a consequence, chronic pain stemmed from his hypermobility started flaring up. His knees, his back, his wrists. It left him curled up in bed for days.

He tried, he really tried.

Prescription drugs he picks up monthly (they don’t allow more than a months dose to be picked up at once, issues with overdose or something), physical therapy routines from physicians and books, even that muscle relaxant cream from Thailand that his grandma swears by. Nothing worked.

He didn’t hold high hopes, but someone (Motoya) told him it’d be good for his lifespan if he wasn’t so pessimistic (realist) all the time.

The frustration gnawed at him, a constant mastication at his limitations. He was tempted to throw a tantrum, maybe knock everything off his desk, spill the contents of the trash can across his floor, smash the pristine set of bowls Motoya gifted him as a housewarming gift on his counter. But he couldn’t. The pain held him hostage, every attempted movement reminding him of the bounds of inertia.

All he could do was lay horizontally, immobilized by throbbing pain and stewing in frustration. He had shit to do. Mind constantly looping through the same checklist: exam to study for, volleyball to play, an apartment to clean.

Kiyoomi thought he could tough it out.

So, there he was– shuffling into the lecture hall, sleep deprived even tho all he’d done in the last few days was sleep. Fuzzy-headed and fucked up on a cocktail of painkillers and draped in sweatpants and a hoodie that smelled faintly like the sun and clean laundry. Miya’s, maybe.

The exam itself was a blur, too many going back and forths between two seemingly correct answers. He even added up all the answers he was sure he got correct– the result came out to be a sad 40 out of 50. The second he hit “submit”, Kiyoomi was out the door, to drained to care, too miserable to check.

Now, a week later, the number he’d been dreading stares back at him, unchanging and unwavering.

Outside, rain hammers against his window. The muffled sound of car tires hiss and glide across the slick road. Leaves caught in the whim of the wind, sway and rustle. The Earth keeps spinning on it’s axis. And Kiyoomi’s GPA– once a pristine 4.0– has slipped to a 3.9.

He knew it was still good. Objectively fine. But Kiyoomi didn’t do “Fine.” Fine wasn’t good enough.

He nuzzles his face into the crook of his arm, with knees pulled tightly to his chest. The ache in his joints protest the movement, but he barely notices. He has worse things to worry about.

Inhale, exhale. It’ll be fine.

He repeats the mantra to himself. His brain knows better than to believe in meaningless words of comfort.

So, he runs toward the only thing that can chase the rainclouds away.

This is how Sakusa Kiyoomi finds himself standing at Miya Atsumu’s front door, drenched and shivering. Rain clings to him, soaking through every layer, pooling at his feet. His hoodie (it still smells like the sun) now hangs with water, sticking to his skin, but it’s the cold seeping into his bones that makes him clench his jaw. Getting rained on can’t possibly be good for his joints, but the bus stop was two blocks away from Miya’s apartment complex. It had started drizzling halfway here.

His knuckles rap against the door, each knock a little more desperate than the last, until he leans his forehead against the wood and closes his eyes.

His joints ache from the cold. His once-pristine GPA just dropped. His life is probably only going downhill from here.

And yet, here he is, at Miya’s door. Because, despite everything, he can’t deny the pull of that flavorless, unchanging warmth.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before a familiar voice pulls him back into consciousness.

“Omi? Omi-kun? What the fuck.”

The words are laced with concern and disbelief. Kiyoomi blinks slowly, the world around him swims into focus. His head feels heavy, and his limbs ache with the lingering cold. His eyes scan the place until they find the source of kansai-ben. Miya’s silhouette hovers over him, dimly backlit by the light in the hallway.

It takes him a moment to register his surroundings– hardwood beneath him, cold and unforgiving. His back slumps against the door. When did he sit down? He doesn’t remember letting exhaustion pull him under. Everything blurs, a jumble of rain, aching joints, and quiet resignation.

“Omi-kun, get up,” Miya’s voice cuts through again, sharper this time, but with an edge of something softer beneath it. Concern, maybe.

Kiyoomi presses his palms against the slick floor and tries to push himself up on his feet, but he slips right back down– a result of his knees giving out and the water pooled on the floor making him slip. His head hangs low, hair sticking to his forehead. He hates this.

Miya crouches in front of him, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. Quiet concern softens his features. He tilts his head, studying Kiyoomi.

“Something wrong, Omi-kun? You don’t usually show up at my door like this.”

The words are casual, tinged with a teasing lilt, but Miya’s tone carries something deeper beneath the surface– a weight that doesn’t quite match his usual bravado. His voice softens, a gentle coxing, like someone trying to soothe a skittish stray cat, wary and ready to bolt at any moment.

Kiyoomi swallows hard, his throat tight.

“I…fucked up my GPA,” he starts, avoiding Miyas gaze. His voice cracks under the weight of frustration but Miya doesn’t flinch, locking his eyes with a calm, steady patience that only unravels Kiyoomi further.

“And I feel like shit,” he adds, voice breaking again, the floodgate finally opening. “The rain makes my joints act up. I have to wash the dishes. I haven’t changed. The yucca plant is probably dehydrated. I fucked up my GPA.”

A pause. His knee throbs with every breath. “My knee hurts. Have I mentioned that I fucked up my GPA?”

The string of words tumble out like a confession.

“Okay, okay,” Miya starts, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s unpack this later, can I get you inside first?”

The warmth that bubbles up his chest is overwhelming. His vision blurs slightly. Kiyoomi can’t do anything but nod pathetically.

Miya moves like he’s done this a thousand times– careful, deliberate, hands surprisingly gentle. One arm loops under Kiyoomi’s legs, the other behind his back, strong enough to hold him steady. His hands are warm, it almost makes hell seem cold.

“Tell me if this is okay, yeah?” Miya’s voice is low and comforting near his ear.

Kiyoomi circles his arms around Miya’s neck and clings to the warmth.

A soft chuckle escapes him. “Alright then, I need to get my keys out, hold on tight.”

The hand behind his back disappears for a moment, and he mourns the loss of that heat, touch still lingering on his skin as if it hasn’t left.

A bit of jostling, and the front door opens with a click. Miya’s hand returns to Kiyoomi’s back, solid and steady. He can feel Miya shifting carefully, moving with intent to avoid bumping his legs on anything as he shuffles through the door. Each step seems measured, careful, like he’s trying not to disturb the fragile calm of the moment.

Once inside, Miya sets Kiyoomi down by the couch with a soft thud, the back of his body resting against the skirting. The action is quiet, thoughtful– nothing hurried, nothing demanding. Kiyoomi watches, too exhausted to move as Miya retreats to the foyer, his silhouette disappearing briefly before he returns, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Oh, Kiyoomi blinks in realization, his body slumps further against the couch. Miya’s probably just come back from practice, still wearing the tiredness of the day. Miya just came back from practice. He’s probably tired. Hungry. And Kiyoomi showed up at his front door, drenched, like a homeless cat without a place to return to.

He wishes the ground could swallow him whole.

During his wallow in guilt and self-pity, he doesn’t notice Miya quietly moving back to his side.

The silence stretches before Miya breaks it, voice gentle and carrying a hint of concern. “Omi, you’re drenched. Did you walk here?”

Silence follows. Miya doesn’t press.

“Okay… we can talk about that later,” Miya darts his eyes around the living room, feigning a sense of calmness. “I only have a standing shower…and I think you’d crack your head open if you tried using that right now. Do you just wanna wipe down and get changed?”

Kiyoomi fiddles with a loose thread on his sleeve. He swallows.

“...yeah.”

Miya’s voice turns practical, yet still warm. “Do you think you can get up for me?”

The look Kiyoomi shoots him is pure, unfiltered annoyance– his expression a lethal glare. Miya grins in response.

“Jesus, you’re actually spoiled to the core.” Miya says, before getting up and heading in the direction of the bathroom.

And for a moment, Kiyoomi feels the edges of his frustration dull, replaced with something close to relief.

Miya returns from the bathroom with two towels, one of which he lays on the couch for Kiyoomi to sit on, in hopes of avoiding a water-drenched couch. Gently, he nudges Kiyoomi to move off the floor and onto the couch, offering a quiet, "Tell me if it gets cold, okay?"

Kiyoomi hums a barely audible acknowledgment. He then feels a towel dropped haphazardly on his head. He shoots Miya a dirty glare which he ignores before pawing at the hem of Kiyoomi’s sweater. He lifts his arms up in assist, wincing as the movement still strains a bit too much. The simple action reminds him that while the pain is constant, Miya’s touch soothes like a quiet balm.

He sets the drenched sweater aside, and removes the towel from Kiyoomi’s head to pat down his shoulders. Then his arms, Miya’s hands are methodical, lifting Kiyoomi’s hands up to carefully run the towel over every finger. Then his sternum, then lower, wiping away rainwater that clings to his skin. Kiyoomi stays still, muscles still sore but grateful for the quiet attention, the heat of Miya’s touch seeps through the towel and onto him.

Miya shifts his position, moving to kneel on the couch beside him. He gestures for Kiyoomi to turn slightly, guiding him to turn his back towards him. Kiyoomi follows the cue.

Miya’s hands sweep over his back, removing the last of the rainwater, and in the quiet that follows, there’s a sense of warmth in the mundane, simple act of care.

Kiyoomi feels the dip in the couch where Miya kneeled bounce back as Miya stands up and walks to the duffel bag, the rustling of fabric filling the space. He watches as Miya crouches to fish something out from the bag.

Upon closer inspection when Miya steps closer, Kiyoomi notices that it’s a maroon red hoodie, embroidered with Inarizaki Volleyball Team in black thread across the front.

He raises an eyebrow in question.

Miya shoots a disapproving glare back, meeting his gaze.

“Don’t worry. It’s freshly washed. Smell it if you want to,” he says, glare holding a strange mix of amusement and mild annoyance as he offers the hoodie. The tension in his features surprisingly contradicting– half wanting to coddle Kiyoomi and half ready to snap at him for the drama. But he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he watches as Kiyoomi gingerly takes the hoodie wordlessly.

He pulls the maroon hoodie over his head, trying to avoid any unnecessary strain on his aching body. He winces slightly as the lifting of his arms pull at his deltoids, but the soft embrace of the hoodie offers unexpected comfort.

This is pathetic. He might be okay with that.

God, that makes it even more pathetic…he finds that he doesn’t mind.

Now he’s in a paradox.

Miya then kneels on one knee before Kiyoomi, palm resting lightly on Kiyoomi’s knee, grounding and steady.

“I’m gonna change you out of your sweatpants now.”

Kiyoomi watches without protest. He notices the clumps of Miya’s beach-blond hair, damp and matted from practice. Is he insane for wanting to comb a hand through it?

With deliberate, careful motions, Miya peels off Kiyoomi’s wet socks, setting them aside. His hands then tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, a silent ask for permission. Kiyoomi lifts his hips, accommodating the movement despite the ache radiating through his joints. The soaked fabric pools at his ankles before Miya pulls it off completely.

The towel in Miya’s hands feels warm against Kiyoomi’s skin. He starts at his thighs, pressing gently but thoroughly, soaking up every drop of rainwater. It’s warm, despite his bare skin still hitting the cold air. Miya’s hands move with a measured care as he moves to wipe his knees, avoiding any unnecessary pressure. The touch is light but effective, thoughtful in a way that makes his chest tighten.

Miya continues down to his calves, then to his feet, patting them dry with the same quiet precision. The rain still taps rhythmically against the window, but inside, Kiyoomi is enveloped in warmth. The tenderness in Miya’s action isn’t something that should be present, considering their flavorless relationship, but he allows himself to lean into it, just this once.

It might hurt later, but that’s a problem for future Kiyoomi.

For now, the storm outside is a distant thing, pushed to the far, far, rear end of his mind.

Half an hour later, he sits at Miya’s dining table, steam rises from the bowl of nikujyaga in front of him. The rich, savory scent of the simmered beef and potatoes fills the room, comforting and grounding. The rice sits perfectly fluffed beside it, Kiyoomi silently apologizes to Miya for underestimating the extent of his culinary expertise.

Behind him, Miya hums softly, voice blending with the upbeat pop song playing from a Bluetooth speaker perched on a bookshelf. The familiar melody threads through the quiet. Miya, with a towel in hand, moves with gentle precision, blotting away the dampness from Kiyoomi’s hair. Each motion feels more like reassurance than he’d like to admit, a wordless promise that things, for now, are okay.

His joints still crackle and pop with every shift, the echoes of pain reminding him that not everything can be fixed. His GPA is still beyond salvation, the number now etched into his mind and haunting. But he finds that, in the confinements of this apartment, underneath the rays of the warm sun, he can’t bring himself to mind that much, after all.

Kiyoomi lets his eyes drift shut, savoring the fleeting sense of peace. The warmth from the bowl in front of him mirrors the comforting pressure against his scalp. He shouldn’t get used to this– the tenderness, the normalcy, the way Miya’s presence feels like sunlight breaking through a storm.

He opens his eyes again, and watches the steam curl and dissipate.

He shouldn’t get used to this. He knows better. And yet, he can’t help but want. Desperately. The longing claws at his chest.

God. He’s so fucking stupid.

This isn’t what he does. Kiyoomi doesn’t crave. He doesn’t yearn for things he can’t touch, doesn’t reach out for something that could slip between his fingers. He builds from the ground up. He is steady. He doesn’t yearn for things he can’t touch. He doesn’t yearn for things he can’t touch.

Yet here he is, breaking his own rules.

This flavorless relationship, it should be enough. But somehow, somewhere along the way, the emptiness creeped in.

The fleeting feeling of the lollipop rolling on his tongue no longer satisfies. That brief, surface-level comfort, the kind the comes and goes without leaving a trace, isn’t enough anymore. And now he’s hungry for more.

Kiyoomi is only human. Miya can’t just show him a glimpse of a comet and expect him not to crave the entire galaxy.

He can’t help but long for a flavor. Sweet, sour, bitter. Chocolate, strawberry, vanilla. Whatever Miya offers, Kiyoomi will take. He’ll savor every bite, every moment, and every emotion, even if it burns on the way down.

Kiyoomi feels the weight of the towel ease as Miya finishes drying his hair. The towel is gently placed on the table, accompanied by a heavy sigh. Miya then shifts to the chair opposite him, the soft creak of the legs against the floor fills the silence.

He hears a sharp, barely-contained breath, and glances up to see Miya desperately trying to stifle a laugh. Miya’s lips twitch, eyes flickering between amusement and restraint.

“What’s so funny.” Kiyoomi raises a brow, voice carrying a faint edge of annoyance.

Miya scrunches his face, clearly fighting a grin, before finally giving in.

“Nothin’... nothing’, just…your hair…fuck,” Miya struggles to maintain composure, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “It’s really fucked up.”

The words come out in a mix of disbelief and poorly suppressed amusement, his eyes gleaming with a familiar mischievous spark.

Kiyoomi darks his expression, a familiar scowl setting in place.

“Wow. I wonder whos fault that was.” He bites out.

Miya doesn’t miss a beat, putting down his bowl and chopsticks to lean back in his chair with a challenging grin. “Yours. You came here on your free will.”

Kiyoomi ignores him in favor of digging into his rice.

A rare, comforting silence washes over them, punctuated only by the soft clatter of chopsticks and the low hum of the air purifier. It’s the kind of quiet that feels intentional, not awkward– like nothing exists beside this cocoon of warmth.

Miya has only the kitchen lights on, casting a gentle, golden glow over the space. The light pools in soft halos, illuminating the steam curling from the bowl in front of Kiyoomi. It wraps everything in a hazy calm, a sanctuary from the cold rain beyond the windows.

The nikugyaga is warm, aroma earthy and familiar. Kiyoomi bites into a piece of potato, and it melts on his tongue, comforting in its simplicity. Each mouthful is like unraveling warmth spreading from the inside out. His chest tightens.

He blinks, and his eyes sting. If Miya notices, he’ll tell him its because he shifted his wrist weirdly.

When he finishes his bowl, Miya’s hand appears, wordlessly plucking the empty dishes from his grasp.

Kiyoomi watches as Miya strolls to the sink, pulling on a pair of teal rubber gloves with a snap that echoes. Miya starts scrubbing, methodical and focused. The hiss of running water and the occasional clink of porcelain against metal fills the room.

Kiyoomi sits silently in his chair, unsure of what to do with himself. His leg bounces under the table.

“So…” Miya’s voice cuts through, casual but pointed. He doesn’t bother looking up, too busy attacking a burnt remnant stubbornly sticking to a pan. “I heard from a birdie that you may have fucked up your GPA.”

Kiyoomi stiffens. He understands the meaning beneath Miya’s words: Why’d you come here?

He can’t answer that. Or maybe he can. But the truth would be sharp and jagged. Kiyoomi knows it’s a confession neither of them want to hear.

He can’t always cling to the sun. He’s not supposed to. Sunshine has other places to be, and he can’t afford to bask in it forever. Their relationship isn’t the kind of thing you name or define. It exists quietly, behind closed doors, and fades into nothing once they part.

“I feel better now.”

A lie. His joints still ache, his thoughts still churn, his head is unbearably heavy. But he can’t stay.

“Thank you for the meal, your cooking was okay.”

Another lie. The warmth still lingers on his tongue, comforting in ways he’ll never admit.

“See you later.”

The biggest lie of all. He isn’t sure when– or if– he’ll return.

Kiyoomi gathers himself, and walks out the door, leaving behind the warmth he can’t let himself claim.

God. He’s so fucking stupid.

--

The november breeze bits at his skin the moment he steps outside, carrying the lingering chill of a city still soaked from the rain. The sidewalks glisten under the streetlights, reflecting puddles and scattered leaves. Kiyoomi pauses, his breath visible in the crisp air. He considers checking the weather forecast but quickly realizes– he didn’t bring his phone.

He pulls the hoodie tighter around himself. It’s barely been five minutes since he walked out the door, yet the warmth feels like a distant memory.

The warmth manifests itself into Kiyoomi’s daily life in different quiet, unassuming ways. In the travel sized bottle of purple shampoo tucked into the corner of his bathroom. In a cheap cartoon mug from lawson that clashes with the aesthetic of his apartment. In a pair sweatpants that end an inch above his ankles.

These pieces of warmth don’t belong to him, not really.

But fuck. He wants them to be so bad.

He wants it like a wanderer in a scorching desert, parched and desperate for the oasis just over the horizon. Like a lost sailor in the vast expanse of the sea, eyes fixed on Polaris, the only constant in a sky full of uncertainty. Like a moth drawn to a flame, like a shadow chasing the sun.

An endless chase for something just out of grasp. Kiyoomi wonders if that’s the life he’ll live if he chooses Miya.

Are you satisfied? With this meaningless relationship, you can only have this much. Are you satisfied?

I’m not.

“...”

Now. 11:39 p.m. Hyogo, April. 62°, partly cloudy.

“So. You’re telling me, the guy, which you’ve been fucking and moping and doting over the last four years, basically asked you out– and you turned him down. Three separate times.”

Atsumu, clearly not phased by Osamu’s disbelief, shrugs with a dismissive look. “Well, when you put it like that-”

Osamu cuts him off, exasperated. “I’m seriously about to punt you with this basketball.”

Atsumu barely spares him a glance as he continues to shoot, focusing on his form while the timer ticks down. He paid good money for the arcade tokens, and he will get the comically large nerf gun for 5,000 tickets. “I have a modeling gig the day after tomorrow. Don’t you dare.”

Osamu ignores him to turn back to shooting as well. The Basketball thwack against the net as lights of the arcade flash.

Rewinding… T minus three weeks.

A press of the lightswitch floods the stairwell with a dim, buzzing glow.

Osamu exhales heavily, taking off his Onigiri Miya cap, the sweatband slightly damp with the day’s effort. It hadn’t been particularly busy at the restaurant, but training a batch of new recruits had drained his last reserves of energy. He drags himself up the stairs, each step a reminder of how much he needs a shower and bed.

Reaching the last step, he instinctively pats his pocket for his keys. His brow furrows. The welcome mat in front of his door is crooked. Weird. He remembers straightening it before heaving that morning.

Shaking off the thought, he slides the key into the lock and hears the faint click as it disengages. Stepping inside, he hooks his cap on the coat rack and begins toeing off his shoes.

Then he sees it– a shadowy figure in his periphery.

Osamu freezes. His heart leaps to his throat. A surge of adrenaline electrifies his veins. Someone– or something– is just sitting there on the step of his foyer, motionless.

Holy shit.

His thoughts scramble, a chaotic storm of possible scenarios. Robber? Why would a thief just sit there like they own the place? Some kind of prank? No. Too still. Too eerie. What the fuck.

His pulse thunders in his ears, faster and faster. His mind runs through at least fifty scenarios in the span of 3 seconds. He thinks his heart is palpitating. Fuck. This can’t be his last day on Earth. He hasn’t even tried every Samyang Buldak flavor yet!

Cautiously, Osamu reaches for the lightswitch, turning it on and mentally preparing himself for what he might witness.

The dim foyer comes into focus, and his squint sharpens into an unimpressed glare as the identity of the shadowy figure becomes clear.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groans, instantly recognizing the unmistakable bleach-blond mop of hair. His grip on the doorframe tightens momentarily before he exhales, forcing his breathing into a steady rhythm.

Atsumu. Miya Atsumu. Sprawled in his usual grace, sitting cross-legged in his foyer, hands rested loosely wrapped around his ankles.

“What. Are you doing here.” Osamu glares, voice heavy with irritation but threaded with just enough concern to betray him “And why’re you just sittin’ there like a weirdo?”

Atsumu huffs and rolls his eyes. “Can’t I just visit my favorite brother? Didn’t think you’d mind so much…”

“A visit.” Osamu snaps, tossing his keys onto the counter. “You scared the shit outta me! Get up!”

Not waiting for a response, Osamu leans down, grabs a fistful of the back of Atsumu’s sweater, and yanks. Atsumu lets out a indignant squawk as he’s tugged off balance, hands scrambling behind him to catch himself before toppling over.

Still standing over him, Osamu fixes him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass, the kind that demands an explanation without saying a word. The silence stretches, heavy and expectant, until Atsumu finally cracks.

“‘Samu,” Atsumi whines, voice pitched just enough to irritate, as he throws his head back dramatically like the overgrown child he insists on being.

Osamu doesn’t flinch, deadpan stare unwavering. “You break into my apartment just to sit on the floor and whine at me?”

“I didn’t break in,” Atsumu protests, straightening his posture to meet Osamu’s glare head-on. His eyes narrow, defiance crackling like static. “I have a spare key, dumbass.”

“That was for emergencies. Why didn’t you just call?”

“I shouldn’t have to call you! What are siblings for!”

Osamu crosses his arms. He wonders, not for the first time, who he had to piss off in a past life to be cursed with such a dramatic asshole as his twin?

“What happened? Didya lose a game? Somebody call you ugly on the internet?” A smirk tugs at his lips.

Atsumu glares daggers, lips pressing into a tight line before spitting out, “Worse.”

“Wow,” Osamu tilts his head, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Please enlighten me– what tragedy made you resort to sitting on my floor like a sopping wet stray.”

Chestnut brown meets ashy brown. Atsumu grins, slow and deliberate.

Osamu sighs, long and heavy. He knows he isn’t getting a straight answer out of him any time soon.

--

“It’s been a week. Get out of my apartment. Stop eating all my snacks. Stop cleaning the toilet!”

“I get bored.”

“Go to the gym!”

“I already went today!”

“Go again!”

“It’s off-season! I already went to the gym! I have nowhere to go!”

--

The next sound Atsumu hears is the clatter of tokens hitting the metal tray of a claw machine.

His face scrunches in exaggerated concentration as he moves the joystick with precision. The claw sways uncertainly over a Badtz Maru plush, reflecting his meticulous movements. Osamu leans casually against the side of the machine, skeptical eyes watching, hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts.

Just as Atsumu is about to press the push button, Osamu’s voice cuts through the quiet focus.

“So, Sakusa-kun.”

Atsumu jerks in surprise, fingers slipping, and his heart sinks as he watches the claw descend, only to grab air. He stares at his failure for a moment, taking in the emptiness of the claw’s return.

Frustration bubbles up as he spins around to point an accusing finger at Osamu, his voice rising in mock outrage.

“You made me fuck up the round!” He declares dramatically.

Osamu tilts his head, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So I hit the-”

Atsumu cuts him off immediately, voice rising. “You did not hit the nail on the head!”

“Oh?” Osamu raises an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eyes as he leans in slightly. “Look at me in the eye and tell me this isn’t about Sakusa-kun.”

The challenge in his voice hangs in the air, and Atsumu falters for a second. He shifts his weight, and for just a second, Osamu can see a tiny crack in his facade. Atsumu quickly brushes it off before reaching into his pocket throw feed more coins to the claw machine. He has his eyes set on the Badtz Maru, okay?

He refuses to let the questioning linger, avoiding eye contact with his brother as he focuses on the claw of the machine.

“I’m not even thinkin’ about him,” Atsumu mutters, but it’s too late. Osamu’s eyes narrow, sensing a crack in his defenses.

“Riddle me this, ‘Tsumu. Who are you trying to win that plush for?”

Atsumu freezes again, hand still hovering over the joystick.

“I knew it,” Osamu continues, an obnoxious tone creeping into his voice. “You’re bringing the stupid plush home for your Omi-kun. This is getting painful to watch.”

His eyes widen as he shakes his head defensively. “It’s only because its grumpy looking. And prickly! It literally the embodiment him!”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

Atsumu huffs, ignoring him to watch the claw drop down again, only to miss again.

Finally, Osamu steps in, shoving Atsumu aside. “Move, your fumbling is giving me a headache.”

He takes over the joystick with a determined scowl that nearly mirrors his brother’s perfectly. In just one try, Osamu successfully snags the Badtz Maru plush.

He holds it up triumphantly, victorious grin only adding salt to Atsumu’s pride.

Next on the itinerary is The Walking Dead.

“You think dad leaving fucked me up a little bit?”

Osamu doesn’t flinch, focus glued to the horde of zombies pouring across the screen. “Don’t think too much. You’ll burn through brain cells– what the fuck are you doing! Hit that!”

‘I am hittin’ it!” Atsumu protests, shooting wildly before realizing he was out of arrows. He pulls frantically at the lever to reload. “I’m just sayin’! God forbid I think?”

There’s a spike of frustration in his voice, louder than the rapid-fire clicks of the plastic trigger he’s relentlessly abusing. His in-game character leaps over a railing and lands in a precarious position where a zombie nearly takes him down. He utters a curse, shifting in place like he can somehow dodge in real life.

Osamu scoffs. “We literally lived in the same household, yet I’m not emotionally constipated like you.”

Atsumu’s jaw tightens at the jab.

“That’s different. You had Sunarin and shit,” he mutters, refusing to meet his brother’s gaze. His grip on the plastic crossbow tightens as if the action could provide anchor.

Osamu shuts up at that. For once, he stays quiet.

It’s not like Atsumu is lonely or anything. Its just, he has a tendency to shut people out when they get too close, okay? Not because he wants to, but the thought of being vulnerable– with anyone other than his twin– feels like walking a tightrope over open flames. His skin crawls at the thought. He’s not a big fan of touchy-feely feelings, sue him! They’re messy. Complicated. Unpredictable.

Atsumu had long since connected his aversion to closeness back to their father—an unstable presence in their childhood, who hovered in and out of their lives before vanishing completely when the twins were only eight. The security a child was supposed to find in a parent had never been consistent for him, and when it disappeared altogether, he’d learned to cope by not expecting it from anyone.

Their mother tried her best, doubling down on love and care to fill the void, but she was only one person. She worked a full-time job and a part-time one to keep the household afloat. Atsumu didn’t blame her for it. How could he? She’d done everything she could.

He knows that. He knows. He knows!

He knows that he doesn’t know how to be close, not really. The idea of building relationships– ones that last, ones that matter– feels as foreign as it does daunting. He knows that if Osamu didn’t share a womb with him, there’d probably be nobody that would’ve stuck around.

What's wrong with what we already have? What happened to keeping it casual?

How do you learn to let people in when your instincts scream at you to push them away? When you’ve been taught, consciously or not, that closeness is liability, and attachment doesn’t last long?

Nothin’... nothing’, just…your hair…fuck, it’s really fucked up.

His relationship with Sakusa– flavorless and fleeting– he can’t help but savor the little moments where things feel disarmingly real. A passing look, a subtle touch, or the rare softness in Sakusa’s words. Those moments terrify him the most, hinting at something deeper, something that can potentially last.

Omi? Omi-kun? What the fuck.

But if he gives in, if he allows himself to hope for permanence, what happens when it inevitably falls apart? The question looms, unanswered and unsettling. The answer evades him, lost somewhere between his fears and frustration of wanting more but afraid to grasp it.

Riddle me this, ‘Tsumu. Who are you trying to win that plush for?

He doesn’t say any of this aloud. Instead, he fixes his eyes on the arcade screen, his character mowing down hordes of zombies with a single-minded determination that feels almost cathartic.

“Y’know, if it’s embarrassing to say, you can always just send it in a text or something.”

Astumu barely registers the words at first, too consumed by the frantic pace of Dance Dance Revolution. Notes flood the screen at an inhumane speed, the blaring music pounds in his ears as he stomps on the arrows. His movements are sharp and increasing in frenetic, the combo meter blinks to remind him what he’ll be losing if he messes up.

“What?” Atsumu gasps out, missing a step and stumbling slightly, breaking his streak. He doesn’t look away from the screen.

This could double as a core workout.

“I said–” Osamu raises his voice to be heard over the game’s beat, “If you’re too chicken to talk about wat you feel, just send it in the form of a text.”

Atsumu falters again, missing another arrow as the words finally sink in, throwing off his focus. He groans loudly, as much from his failing combo and from Osamu’s meddling.

“Can you not distract me right now?” he snaps, trying to salvage the game, but the screen flashes a glaring FAILED before he can recover.

Osamu shrugs, crossing his arms as he leans against the machine. “Just tryin’ to help you process.”

Atsumu glares at him, grabbing the front of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face. He hates how he considered the idea for a second. He hates how he’s considering the idea now.

“Holy shit,” Osamu mumbles through a mouthful of takoyaki, his thumb scrolling on his phone. “This is a shit ton of words. I’m not sure I have enough mental capacity to read this right now.”

They’re sitting against a wall in the far corner of the arcade, where the faint buzz of neon lights overhead flicker in sync with the distant sound of games beeping and chiming. The air smells faintly of machine grease and the fried takoyaki they’d picked up from some stall. A cardboard tray sits between them, half-empty.

“You told me to text it to you!” Astumu straightens up in exaggerated exasperation.

Osamu doesn’t look up, still scrolling with obvious disbelief. “I did not ask you to send a wall of text.”

Atsumu scowls, leaning back against the wall.

“I’d apologize if I cared more.”

Osamu’s eyes widen as he reads, disbelief lacing his voice. “This is actually outrageous. You started carrying around antimicrobial? The hospital kind? You barely even used to use hand sanitizer!”

Atsumu doesn’t respond, reaching for another piece of takoyaki, and popping it into his mouth. He’s silent for a beat, the words on his mind swirling as Osamu continues through the wall of text.

After a handful of Osamu’s commentary, Atsumu swallows and starts, “It’s so insane. What the fuck has he done to me? I swear my neurons stop firing when he’s in my field of vision.”

Osamy raises an eyebrow, voice mocking as he glances at him. “Woah, big word for you there buddy.”

A glare. “I’m going to be civilized today and let that slide.”

Osamu chuckles and glances back down at his phone, still scrolling through the long message. He’s, no doubt, still digesting his brother’s uncharacteristically emotional words.

Atsumu has spent so much time building walls around his emotions, especially when it comes to anything remotely related to Sakusa. He’s tried to ignore it, push it away, distract himself with anything but the truth. It’s hard to breathe when he finally admits it.

After a moment, Osamu places his phone beside him, the click of the screen shutting off barely audible over the soft hum of the arcade machines. He leans back against the wall, looking upward at nothing in particular, thoughts seemingly lost in distance.

Aatsumu watches. The silence stretches thin. Moments pass.

Finally, Osamu speaks again, voice quiet but direct. “Sakusa’s waiting, ‘Tsumu.”

It’s a simple statement, but it feels like a challenge, like Osamu is pushing him to face the one thing he’s been running from. The word echo in his mind, ricocheting against all the walls he’s spent years building.

God, when had Sakusa managed to tangle himself up in his life? How can he even begin to untangle them?

But Osamu is right, damn it. Sakusa’s waiting. Has been waiting, will be waiting. How is that fair of him? He still fears– the pressure, the fear of what it would mean to actually let someone in, to let Sakusa see the mess he’s gotten himself into.

“I’m not ready,” he finally mutters, the words coming out in a frustrated huff. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be. He desperately wants. Like the air he breathes, like the feeling of a volleyball at his fingertips, like the rare gazes sent through obsidian-dark eyes directed at him.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to be, It’s he doesn’t know how. It feels pathetic to admit, but he’s scared of the consequences, scared of the possibility of being hurt.

Osamu doesn’t flinch. He shifts his gaze, eyes glazed with understanding that feels both comforting and infuriating.

“You never are,” he says, softly. “You don’t have to be, not right now. Maybe you never will be. But you can’t keep running forever. He’s waiting, y’know?”

The words settle down between them, but they don’t fix anything. Atsumu doesn’t know how to fix this. How to be with someone the way Sakusa deserves. How to stop being so scared of what it means to care. It’s always been easier to push than pull.

But, in this moment, hes thankful for Osamu’s presence, much like a quiet anchor.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Atsumu admits, voice small and laced with fatigue.

Osamu’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Yeah, I don’t get what he sees in you. You’re not exactly the easiest person to love. You’re also dumb.”

Atsumu huffs in lieu of a response, shoulders loosening lightly.

“You’ll figure it out,” Osamu starts again, “But you have to stop running. Face him first.”

Atsumu sighs, throwing his head back, fingers idly toying with the badtz maru plush in his lap. The weight of Osamu’s words don’t leave him, but for the first time in a while, he doesn’t feel so alone with them.

God- he hates it when Osamu is right. How much sense everything makes when he just talks it out. He’ll just take things one at a time– step by step. The journey a thousand miles begins with a single step, after all.

Avoidance won’t get him anywhere. He just has to face things head-on.

Peaceful aura gets interrupted as Atsumu stands abruptly. His expression hardens back into something can resolve, and before Osamu can react, he grabs him by the wrist to yank him up with force.

“Come on,” Atsumu starts with an impatient huff, voice now lighter like he’s shaking off the weight of the heavy conversation. “Let’s take pictures at the photobooth. I want a set with fox ear filters.”

Osamu stares at him for a moment. “No way. Those are for teenager girls. Over my dead body.”

The photostrips ends up being printed and distributed. One set hangs by colorful magnets in a locker, a slice of warmth amidst the clutter. The other pinned onto a bulletin board, behind a certain counter and cash register.

Now. 12:52 p.m. Osaka, October. 74°, sunny.

The handles of the bus rattle as it hits a speed bump, jostling the passengers. Kiyoomi grips the bar tightly, bracing himself against the sudden shift. Beside him, Miya stands close enough that their shoulders brush whenever the bus sways.

Kiyoomi directs his gaze to the window in favor of watching streetlamps and trees speed past.

“Omi-kun. Can I come over later? It’s important, I swear.”

The unspoken conversation lingers in the air between them. A looming reminder of what comes next. Why would Miya suddenly want to visit his apartment?

Kiyoomi pushes down any overly-positive thoughts. It’s not good to set expectations too high.

Despite his caution, a small flicker of optimism begins to take root. It’s been months since they’ve talked like something beyond colleagues. But maybe, maybe– don’t finish that thought.

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to get his hopes up. It’s been months– yet he still wants, so bad, for the return of sunshine. He’d missed the feeling of warmth on his skin.

The question lingers, unspoken– maybe this time will be different.

Upon entering his doorway, Kiyoomi feels an odd sense of familiarity was over him. It’s been too long since Miya’s presence filled the space, flavored or not.

Miya steps in behind him, pausing near the couch. His eyes scan the room, taking in the subtle changes– new furniture, items that were once in view now tucked away, and a few things that are now completely gone, leaving a faint void in their place.

Kiyoomi silently pulls open the fridge, the cool air offers a small relief against the tension in the room. He pours two glasses of water and walks over to the couch, handing one to Miya.

Miya sits down slowly. He takes a deep breath, fingers briefly tracing the edges of the glass before he finally starts.

“You were right. I admit it. I do like you. A lot.”

Kiyoomi’s heart skips a beat, the words sinking into him like a balm to an open wound. He looks at Miya, unexpected warmth blooms from his chest all the way to the tip of his fingers.

Miya glances at him, catching the subtle shift in Kiyoomi’s expression, and raises a hand slightly.

“Let me finish.”

Furrowing his brows, Kiyoomi begrudgingly moves to take a seat on the couch, pulling his knees to his chest to make himself comfortable. He sips at his water. A futile attempt at normalcy.

“I like you a lot, Kiyoomi.” Miya’s voice is steady, but Kiyoomi can hear the effort it takes to keep it that way. His given name, spoken with such softness, sends a shiver through him– an unfamiliar blend of surprise and longing. He fights to maintain a neutral expression, even as his pulse betrays his composure.

“But we can’t,” Miya continues, his words deliberate, as though testing their weight aloud. “An actual relationship– I’m not ready for that.”

Miya’s words hang in the air, heavy with distance that seems to stretch with no end. Kiyoomi remains silent.

The statement falls between them like a stone into still water, the ripples spreading out in waves that disturb the silence before settling again into stillness. It’s strange, how quiet everything feels– contemplative, reflective.

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond immediately, his silence a quiet acknowledgment of Miya’s words. He meets his gaze for a fleeting moment before allowing his eyes to drift down to the glass of water in his hands. Its surface trembles slightly, reflecting the unsteady rhythm of his grip.

Inhale, exhale. It’ll be fine.

He lifts his head again, catching Miya’s eyes. There’s an unspoken encouragement there, a silent go on.

Miya clears his throat, shifting awkwardly on the couch. “Okay, okay. This is embarrassing, so I’m only going to say it once. Listen up, okay?”

Inhale.

“I get scared. I’m a coward. I run when things get too serious. I know.” Miya’s voice wavers, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “It’s hard for me to form attachments when I know there’s a possibility of it ending.”

Exhale.

“I’m not ready for a relationship, but I won’t apologize for that just yet.”

He pauses, biting his lower lip like he’s weighing his next words.

“I’ll try– scratch that, I’m trying to let people in. It might be a slow process. You might have to wait longer.”

“If I try to love you right now,” Miya continues, his voice dropping into something quieter, more vulnerable, “I don’t think it’d end good for either of us.”

There’s a stillness in the room now, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant city noise filtering through the window.

“I’ll try my darn hardest, and if I still can’t love you the way you deserve, then I’ll apologize.”

“Give me time,” Miya says finally, his voice firm despite the fragility of the moment. “Give me time, and when I figure it out, I’ll come back and love you wholeheartedly. I promise.”

Inhale.

Kiyoomi takes a long, measured breath, feeling the weight of Miya's words settle in, heavy and unshakable. The sting is sharp, like the unexpected bite of hand sanitizer on a small, unnoticed cut. It isn’t the kind of pain that demands immediate attention, but it lingers, quiet and persistent, cutting through the fragile thread of hope he had held onto.

He feels his chest tighten, rejection– it’s the closest word he can find for it, though it doesn’t quite fit. The rejection sets in, but its not bitter or cruel. Just reality. An understanding of the truth.

Exhale.

He looks at Miya again, his expression softer now, less guarded. He knows this isn’t easy for either of them. Miya’s honesty, as painful as it is, holds a rare vulnerability that Kiyoomi can’t help but treasure.

“It hurts,” Kiyoomi admits, his voice low, almost as though he’s speaking more to himself than to Miya. “But I understand.”

Kiyoomi sets his glass of water down and leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. His curls shadow his face, but his words remain clear. “I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t suck. Because it does. But I’m glad you told me.”

There’s a pause, heavy with words unspoken, yet it feels less suffocating than before.

“It makes me happy to know that you’re trying.”

The clouds haven’t fully cleared, and shadows still linger, but he can almost feel the faint warmth creeping in, like the first touch of sunlight breaking through after a long storm. He isn’t entirely out of the forest, but he feels a quiet confidence that when he does emerge, the view will be worth it.

This– he’s certain– will be more satisfying than anything rushed.

“I’ll have you know,” his faze lifts, meeting Miya’s with a steadiness that anchors the moment. “I’ve been waiting for sixteen months. Hurry your ass up if you don’t want me wooed away by a better setter.”

Miya scoffs.

“As if.”

The sting still lingers, dull and nested just beneath his ribs. The sting of Miya asking him to wait longer, the sting of his own heart betraying him by agreeing so easily without resistance. The ache settles, bitter and frustrating.

He’ll never forgive Miya for throwing his carefully charted life lightyears off course.

Distant traffic fills the silence of the room, alongside the soft, rhythm ticking of the clock on the wall. Once, twice. Kiyoomi swallows.

“...Does taking time mean no more sex.”

“Taking time means no more sex.”

Upon Miya’s response, Kiyoomi shifts closer on the couch, movements deliberate but unhurried. He stops just within Miya’s space, breath shallow as he leans in, the slightest shift in his gaze betraying a flicker of playfulness.

“One more time?” He whispers, voice low and steady, eyes gleaming.. “For the road.”

In this flavorless relationship, Kiyoomi can’t wait till they finally gain a flavor. Something that lingers, sweet or bitter, he finds he doesn’t mind either. As long as the taste can linger for longer than momentary.

This ice-flavored lollipop– his heart burns for a flavor, and soars with hope.

Even though the conversation ends without a grand declaration– it cements something far more profound– a promise of return. Miya still needs to face himself, to learn how to let others in, to work on the gaps that hold him back. And for Kiyoomi, there’s an unexpected clarity in knowing he doesn’t mind waiting.

He knows that Miya will come back. Miya will return, in his own time, when he’s ready to commit, and Kiyoomi will be here, waiting, steadfast and patient.

The sun feels warmer now, secured by a promise that, while they’re stepping back, they’re not stepping away.

Later.

Days blend into weeks, weeks into months, and months slip quietly into years. Kiyoomi can’t remember the exact number of days that have passed, but he’d assume it’s been two years since they’ve split to get their shit together.

He knows, knows the importance of that.

At first, the separation felt like a sharp ache, a longing that gnawed at him relentlessly. The absence of Miya’s presence– a hollow space where his tongue clicks. His thoughts constantly drifted back to that touch, that warmth, the familiarity of Miya beside him.

But as the days stretched on, the intensity of the ache began to dull. It didn’t disappear, not entirely, but it softened, simmering like a quiet flame at the back of his mind– burning, but controlled, gentle. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Time apart let him reflect on the need for room to breathe before they can truly progress.

Kiyoomi understands now that the sun isn’t always going to shine, that warmth will come and go, and there will be days where it feels like the world is draped in clouds. He knows that for there to be sunshine, there will have to be rain too– the soft, quiet moments of doubt, the days of uncertainty when the weight of life presses down on him.

He’s learned to live with that. He can bear the cloudy days, the moments of solitude, because he knows that, eventually, the sun will break through. It’s just that having the sun– having Miya– around made everything so much better.

The warmth, the light, the presence that filled the space. Life had been warmer with Miya in it. Now, with the distance, he knows that the wait is part of the process– the growth.

And when the time is right, the sun will come back, and this time, it will last.

Later, a second time.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know which god he pissed off to deserve this.

The room feels suffocating, the darkness pressing in around him. His limbs are so heavy, and his mind feels foggy—he’s pretty sure the fever’s frying his brain. It’ll be a miracle if he keeps his cognitive functions after this.

The door creaks open, faint at first, as if unsure. And then there’s the sound of soft footsteps faint but unmistakable.

Kiyoomi struggles to push himself upright, his hands fumbling to find some support in the jumble of pillows and blankets. The world tilts, but he somehow manages to lean against the headboard. Just as he's about to close his eyes again, a voice breaks the silence.

“What are you doin’ up? C’mon, lay down. Get more sleep.” A familiar mop of blond hair comes into view, a burst of warmth in the dim light. Sunshine.

Sunshine moves to peel something off Kiyoomi’s forehead, and it only takes a few seconds for him to realize it's a cooling patch, now warm from use. The crinkling sound of plastic fills the room as a fresh patch is opened and prepared, the soft rustling sharp against the stillness of the dark space.

Cold hits Kiyoomi’s forehead, the instant relief soothing the feverish heat that’s clouding his mind. Fuck, is sunshine an angel sent from heaven?

Sunshine lets out a chuckle, warm and familiar. Did he say that out loud?

A hand lands softly on his head, ruffling his damp curls with a gentle affection.

“Go sleep, Omi.” Sunshine’s voice is low, reassuring. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

The last thing Kiyoomi remembers is the soft press of lips to his cheek, warm and lingering, as though marking the end of a long and silent promise. His heart skips at the tenderness, before knocking out unconscious.

A thought drifts. Yeah, he could get used to this.

Tsumu

Sent 1:20 am

I need to preface this by saying that this is cringe. I cant believe im listening to you. Dont you dare screenshot any of this or else the video of you tripping over nothing and eating shit WILL make its way on the internet.

Hes been telling me. Three times to be exact. Who the hell does that? Just ambushing people with the big L word seriously who does he think he is just barging into my life like that. Shit was supposed to stay no strings attached or whatever but i fear he took the strings and glued them together??

I guess i like him or whatever. Hes tolerable with his stupid face and stupid eyes and stupid hair i dont even think he styles it how does the side part even stay put?? Some witchcraft im tellin you. But hes so fucking. Hes such a presence im sorry that i get overwhelmed like jeez he just says shit and asks for everything he wants, what goes on in his head a question ill never find the answer to

I KNOW okay i know i could be happily ever after or something if i reciprocated but if i reciprocate then that means shit is getting serious? But lmfao it wasnt supposed to be? What if he decides that i stink and im not worth his precious time and dumps me on the side of the road like a stray what then

Idk that just scares me but its whatevs we are all cool

Except that we are not all cool i think my hands pull involuntarily towards him (gross) and i have the overwhelming urge to coddle him and hes so omfg like hes such a bitch i hate the way he speaks and how its snarky and deadpan and the way he has fuzzy cat socks youre a grown ass man i need to kiss him on his forehead and punt him in the stomach holy shit i think im in too deep its not like i think hed be scared away but what if he does

Its kinda sad to admit out loud but volleyball and u are the only constants in my life so what the fuck am i supposed to do how do i let him become a constant? I dont remember how to do that. And he gets all up in my face about it so its not even all my fault

Anyway i guess im trying to say that i like him so fucking much but im scared for what we already have to change because i dont know if it will be for better or worse and i dont know if i want to find out.