Archive of Our Own

Unlike every other aspect of their lives, it starts quietly.

It crackles to life under the seeing eyes of the fluorescent vending machine lights, casting a promising glow over tear-stained sleeves and an unwrinkled handkerchief held out by a hesitant hand.

They’re barely fifteen.

But as Miya Atsumu reaches over to accept the checkered fabric and Sakusa Kiyoomi stays to give him the comfort of company, they unknowingly rouse something into existence.

It starts exactly like this:

“You look stupid,” and he holds his hand out. In his grasp is his favourite handkerchief, checkered green and yellow, embroidered with his initials.

Miya Atsumu’s face twists into a sour expression. It looks marginally less threatening, partly due to the tear tracks that run down his flushed cheeks. “Hah? Are ya tryin’ to pick a fight?”

“No. I’m just telling you things how I see it.”

“Kickin’ a man when they’re already down. Did your parents teach ya any manners at all?”

Kiyoomi huffs exasperatedly before waving his hand holding the fabric again in Atsumu’s face. “Did yours?”

His handkerchief is eyed suspiciously for what seems like minutes before Atsumu finally holds his hand out to take it. He wastes no time rubbing his eyes with such a ferocity that Kiyoomi is afraid he’d pull his eyelashes off and then burying his nose into it to clean his face up. For someone so hesitant to accept an act of kindness from a stranger, Atsumu is eager to reap its benefits like it’d be ripped away from him any second.

Kiyoomi doesn’t ask why Atsumu is hidden behind a vending machine crying his eyes out. He saw it well enough from the stands.

Match point: the final hit of the ball, dropping as it takes Miya Atsumu along with it. A precarious misstep, the rolling of an ankle, and the horrified gapes of everyone on Yako Junior High’s side of the court. Kiyoomi released his white-knuckled grip on the cold metal railings, leaving behind his family’s curious shouts for his name as he stormed out of the court bleachers.

There’s only silence as Atsumu continues to bury his face into Kiyoomi’s handkerchief. It seems like he’s trying to disappear within the spindles of fabric, now too embarrassed to raise his head, as conveyed by the reddening tips of his ears.

Kiyoomi would laugh. Instead, it pisses him off like nothing has ever pissed him off before. “Hey. Lift your head.”

Atsumu stiffens. There’s a moment where everything hangs in the air motionless, before Atsumu slides the fabric off his face. He still doesn’t look up.

“It was my fault,” he draws a shaky breath. “If I had just been payin’ more attention, we would’ve taken the match back.”

Kiyoomi bristles as he fights the urge to kick him into sense. “Is that it?”

“...Wha?”

“Is that the only reason why you can’t look at me?”

Atsumu’s shoulders draw up to his ears. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I think you do know,” Kiyoomi hisses. “You think everything’s about you, don’t you? You’re self-absorbed, you don’t think about anyone else—”

“Wh— hey! Aren’t ya supposed to be comfortin’ me?”

“Not if you’re being stupid,” Kiyoomi huffs. “You got unlucky and the other team was just that bit better in the end at that moment. None of that takes your skill away from you. And it’s annoying how you seem to think you’re less of a setter because of a simple accident. Actually, you’re annoying.”

The electrical whirring of the vending machine fills the quiet. Kiyoomi’s words taper off into the air, and Atsumu remains hunched, but his ears and the sharper edges of his cheeks are a lovely shade of maroon.

“That’s probably the most I’ve heard ya speak, Sakusa-kun,” Atsumu says, finally, smiling to himself. “Your interviews don’t give much away, y’know.”

Kiyoomi purses his lips. “You know me, then.”

“How could I not?”

“You know me,”

“Now you’re jus’ sayin’ the same thing over and over, Sakusa-kun, are ya okay?”

“So,” Kiyoomi deadpans, leveling a steady gaze on Atsumu’s eyes hidden underneath a plume of glistening eyelashes. “So, there’s no reason why you should be doubting me when I say that you’re a phenomenal setter.”

That gets Atsumu to lift his head. Finally, he meets Sakusa’s eyes. “Ya really think so?”

“That’s enough. Your ego’s gonna get too big,” Kiyoomi says, turning his nose up to hide the heat that rushes to his cheeks. “But I don’t need you to start doubting yourself now.”

Atsumu beams. “If Omi-kun says so.”

“…Omi-kun.”

“D’ya like it? I just thought of it.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, frowning away the upward tick of his lips. “Just get up, Miya.”

Atsumu blinks, quietly into the considerably warmed up air. After a minute of consideration, he shakes his head. “Nah. I wanna stay a bit. Gotta think about some things.”

“Can’t you think somewhere a little more sanitary? I definitely saw the janitor skip over the spot you’re sitting in when he was mopping earlier.”

A hearty laugh breaks through the atmosphere, intertwining with the mechanical sound of the vending machine. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond immediately. He lets himself gaze over Atsumu’s still rigid shoulders and his eyes, a little duller than the sparkly gold Kiyoomi always sees in his post-match interviews after a particularly stunning victory.

He doesn’t respond at all, except for the way he sheds his jacket off his torso and sets it down on the empty space beside Atsumu, perching himself there. He hears a startled noise beside him, and it would be humorous if his face wasn’t flaming in embarrassment, so he buries his mouth into his elbow as he draws his knees up to his chest.

He suspects that he might have been possessed for a brief moment as he sits and really processes his actions.

But when Atsumu laughs, a loud and ugly one ripped from his chest, he finds that it was all intentional; that he might have just wanted to hear that real laugh again— the one Atsumu had let out during the first set after pulling off a brilliant setter dump.

As they sit and stifle their amusement, Kiyoomi watches Atsumu shed his rigid stance, relaxing into himself, and finds himself letting out a relieved breath.

It follows them past that afternoon; manifesting as whispers during their drive home when Atsumu looks too closely at how his parents’ fingers intertwine above the gearshift. It’s in the flustering thoughts that intrude as Kiyoomi watches one of Motoya’s beloved romcoms, featuring too-familiar blond hair that reminds him of red-rimmed eyes and hunched figures.

It follows them into the spring, dormant but breathing steady, as they step into their high school gymnasiums for the very first time. They land themselves on volleyball magazine covers underneath gaudy yet flattering titles, climbing through the rungs and into notoriety during the little time they’ve had to assimilate into the newest chapter of their lives.

Many things change, like the way Osamu finds his first love in green eyes and Suna Rintarou, and how Atsumu trades his natural brown for a brassy, bottle blond in an attempt to cement his individuality. Like the way Motoya unhooks his dinosaur keychain from his bag, deeming it too childish, and how Kiyoomi trades in his peace of mind for bottles of sanitizer and individually-wrapped masks.

What remains constant, however, is the gentle beat of Atsumu’s heart as he meets familiar dark eyes from across the net. He hears his brother huffing out an amused chuckle, which he eagerly ignores, because the pile of Volleyball Monthly magazines featuring Sakusa Kiyoomi is now tucked into a shoebox under his clothes instead of his desk and is still none of Osamu’s business.

Their gazes are held for another beat more before a whistle blows and the moment is forgotten. On the court, the whispers are silent and the flustering thoughts come to an abrupt halt. Two pairs of eyes that were once focused on each other sharpen as the ball is tossed into the air and the game begins, heartbeats faint behind the deafening roars of the need for victory. Barely scratching their first year in the high school volleyball circuit, they both turn a blind eye to everything else. Their hunger to make a name for themselves— to be figures that send everyone cowering at the weight of their skill— elbows its way towards the forefront of their minds.

They’ve got a lot to prove.

And prove, they did.

They’re both invited to the All-Japan training camp. Atsumu breaks past relative obscurity and Kiyoomi builds on his pre-established reputation as a formidable opponent, and their reward is their names plastered on the door to their own dorms in the Ajinomoto National Training Center.

“Kiyo, take a picture of me in front of the door, quick!” Motoya says, hastily shoving his camera into Kiyoomi’s hands. “Make sure you can see my nametag, okay?”

Kiyoomi makes a show of grumbling and sighing as if clicking a simple button was such an arduous task. Yet, he still takes the picture with steady hands, ensuring Motoya’s name is on full display beside his grinning face, before chucking it back.

“Ya want a picture together?”

He’s heard this voice a million times before. Not because of conversations held in person, but because of a few (countless) hours spent on his tablet watching post-match interviews of Inarizaki’s star setter. Motoya catches him in the act more often than not, and his excuses of ‘scoping out the competition’ are waved off by knowing smirks and amusedly raised eyebrows.

His indulgences aren’t useless after all, because he turns his head to face Miya Atsumu without a hint of surprise or meekness that would tarnish his stoic image. God knows that Miya would exploit the hell out of any weakness he could sniff out in the air.

No, it’s the keeping his gaze on Miya without accidentally getting lost in his eyes that becomes the problem. One he avoids by staring resolutely in the space just beside Miya’s face. This way, he can’t confirm whether Miya has gotten more handsome over the year.

“That would be amazing, Atsumu-kun!” Motoya answers just before the silence stretched into awkwardness. Thankfully, because Kiyoomi forgot a question was even asked. “Come on, auntie would love to see some photos of you here!”

At the mention of his mother, Kiyoomi’s eye twitches. Motoya, wearing his damned smirk, knows that he’d baited Kiyoomi with the best bait there is. He casts one last glance at Miya, already holding Motoya’s camera, before swallowing his pride and forfeiting his dignity to sidle up next to Motoya.

His limbs feel awkward, horribly so as he tries to relax. But then he feels a pair of golden eyes staring at him for a beat too long, and suddenly, he forgets how to be normal. His hands feel too clammy pressed up against his sides, his neck feels like it’s on an off angle, and his legs seem to be either too bent or too straight. He can’t decide.

Amidst his internal turmoil, he hears Motoya laugh and Miya shift into position in front of them.

And then:

“Hey, Omi-kun,” Atsumu suddenly says, his voice softening around Kiyoomi’s name. His head snaps up from where he was glaring holes into his shoes, and their eyes meet again for the third time in this lifetime. Kiyoomi can’t help the gulp he’s forced to take as Miya smiles at him, crooked and toothy, partially hidden by Motoya’s digital camera he’d gotten for Christmas. “Ya look pretty when ya smile. So ya gotta do it for the picture, ‘kay?”

Before he knows it, Miya ducks behind the camera and takes the photo, capturing the exact moment Kiyoomi’s heart bursts through his chest and explodes before their very eyes.

Later, Motoya would develop the photo four times. One for his wallet, one for Kiyoomi, one for Kiyoomi’s mother, and one for safe-keeping in a top-secret location just in case Kiyoomi tries to burn them all. Motoya hand-delivers it to him the second he gets it back from the shop, and it takes only one second of him looking at himself— flushed with a starry-eyed gaze directed towards the person behind the camera, hands dangling uselessly at his sides as he’s caught mid-flinch— before he whips out his phone and uploads ninety of Motoya’s ugliest baby pictures on the world wide web.

In the end, they’re both sufficiently embarrassed, and apologies are offered through pickled plums and pink marshmallows.

Kiyoomi doesn’t forget about the comment. He doesn’t forget about Miya Atsumu, either, through the mounds of assignments and the numerous bruises blooming and fading with every practice.

The next spring comes in a whirlwind, and bestowed upon Atsumu is a title that crowns him the best high school setter in Japan. Kiyoomi earns himself two-page spreads in almost every volume of Volleyball Monthly, blurbs gushing about his feat of being one of the top aces in only his second year.

Their names, fittingly, strike fear into the hearts of teams endeavouring for a title in tournaments they partake in.

When the invitations for the All-Japan training camp are sent out once again, Atsumu finds himself neck-deep into his side of the closet, rummaging around for presentable lounging clothes. He tosses a yellow shirt over his shoulder, deeming it too gaudy and tryhard-y, which is immediately followed by another brown shirt, one he deems too rag-like.

It hits Osamu square in the face, and it seems like that was the last straw that tips him over, because it’s the last thing that happens before Atsumu is hauled to his feet by the back of his collar.

He lets out a yelp, and the dress pants he was about to shove into his suitcase flutters to the ground.

“Get it together, ya scrub!” Osamu yells, shaking him. He’s got a disgusted look, one that explicitly shames Atsumu without even saying a word, and he feels weirdly like a scolded child as he stares back at his brother. “What are ya doing? Since when did ya care about your damn clothes?”

“I’ve always cared about how I dress!” Atsumu flushes, wrapping his fingers around Osamu’s wrist, trying to make him let go. “Not like ya would understand, ‘cause you’re a heathen!”

“Nuh uh,” Osamu frowns. His grip on Atsumu’s collar is still tight, no matter how much Atsumu thrashes in his hold. “It’s ‘cause of Sakusa Kiyoomi, isn’t it? ‘Cause ya want him to be your boyfriend?”

Steam is probably coming out of Atsumu’s face with the heat that rises up into his cheeks. He doesn’t know. He’s too busy trying to claw Osamu’s face off after his comment. They tumble to the floor with twin grunts, and Atsumu was just about to land a fair and even punch at Osamu’s chin before he’s pulled away by a familiar hand.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Suna drawls, shoving Atsumu away as he helps Osamu up more gently. “But Osamu’s right. You’re being way more annoying than usual.”

“You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause you’ve gotta be on your damned boyfriend’s side,” Atsumu growls. He snatches the dress pants from the floor and attempts to pack it once more, but again, it is forcefully pulled from his hands and shoved back into the closet.

“Osamu doesn’t have to be my boyfriend for me to say that packing these pants is a bad idea.”

“Maybe because ya both have atrocious fashion.”

“Or maybe it’s just because they’re actually ugly. And who wears dress pants to bed? Are you trying to look insane?”

Atsumu huffs in annoyance. “Well, what if he’s into that? The uptight, rich lookin’ type.”

“Ah,” Suna smirks, and Atsumu knows he’s fallen into a trap. “So there is a guy.”

He feels like prey boxed in by two smirking predators. Dumb, stupid looking predators. Atsumu groans in response. “Yeah, yeah, whatever! Ya got me. But it’s not Omi-kun.”

Suna brandishes his phone screen towards them. It’s already pulled up to a tab of Sakusa’s fanpage. Past the usual information of heights and birthdays, the names of Sakusa’s parents are blue and underlined, and once clicked, lead them onto a full Wikipedia page detailing the Sakusa family’s numerous businesses.

“Uptight and rich,” Suna chirps. “In summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

When Atsumu remains silent, Osamu takes it upon himself to raise his hand and cuff Atsumu on his head. “Nice goin’, scrub. Ya don’t ever think about anyone besides yourself and the one time ya do, it’s someone that’s as much of an asshole as ya.”

Despite the fact that both Osamu and Suna are insulting him, Atsumu doesn’t seem to be the main focus of their attention anymore. They’re focused on ribbing on him to each other, retreating back into that couply bubble that gives Atsumu goosebumps, so he purses his lips and dips his head back into the closet.

This time, he settles on more respectable lounging sets, not too casual but not too uncomfortable either, and folds it with a lot more care than he did during his first year. He smooths out the wrinkles methodically, swiping a gentle hand over the creases, before tucking them into his suitcase.

Osamu’s words don’t just fall into the void. While many may think that an asshole is all there is to Sakusa Kiyoomi, Atsumu knows more. He knows of the Omi-kun that held out his handkerchief, fancy with the distinct smell of lemon detergent, and sat with Atsumu beside that vending machine until their spines hurt and their legs grew numb. He knows of the Omi-kun that sat unaware of the gentle smile that made its way on his lips as he watched Atsumu laugh, and the pale hand that reached out when he thought the world ended along with their final middle school match.

In no way does he correct their perception of him, though. Maybe he’s a little selfish. Maybe he just wants that side of Sakusa all to himself. Sue him, if you must.

Despite the unreasonable amount of time he spent fretting over something as inconsequential as his clothes, he doesn’t forget the hunger that crackles beneath his skin, itching to feel the comforting weight of a volleyball. He doesn’t ignore his need to flourish above everyone else, to be the best there is.

For the first time in a long while, Osamu is partly wrong. Atsumu does not want Sakusa Kiyoomi to be his boyfriend. At the very least, it’s a crush. At most, his first love. Everyone knows how fleeting those are, all-consuming but short-lived. But there’s a difference between liking-slash-loving someone and wanting to date them, and Atsumu is certain that the latter does not apply.

With him, Atsumu feels a certain kind of peace that only comes when one detects a kindred spirit, someone who might match their every step and their every stumble.

He’s got Osamu, of course. No one will ever know him more than Osamu himself. But where he finds a low simmering in Osamu’s eyes, he finds a raging fire in the mirror. Each win to him is gasoline onto the flames, fueling the ever-growing thirst for more, for victory, for betterment.

In Osamu, it is docile. In Sakusa Kiyoomi, he sees a reflection of the fire he finds in himself. Past the sombre exterior, there lies someone who is as desperate as him, as passionate to hold his own on the court and stay standing.

Who can’t help but fall in love— just a little— with that?

Atsumu has never been cowardly. So instead of cowering away from the new, nebulous feeling, he takes this by its horns, and pulls it towards him.

He departs home with a suitcase rolling behind him and deafening jeers from Suna and Osamu. He isn’t too worried about it when, waiting for him after a stuffy train ride, is the opportunity of a lifetime, and additionally, a boy that has admittedly piqued his interest.

His second year is mostly the same as his first. They run through drills, he sets for the best hitters the high school volleyball circuit could offer, and he feeds into that desperate appetite to be better. One of the only differences, really, is the joy he gets from antagonizing Kageyama Tobio.

And possibly the stares he feels burning the side of his face when they break up for a time out.

Once or twice, he manages to catch Sakusa out. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments and Sakusa is right back to doing whatever he was doing before then, pretending as if nothing was off. Nothing seemed to convey an interest far beyond observance, and it’s a comforting thought to think that maybe, Sakusa is curious about him too. 

He does not give Sakusa the mercy of playing along with his avoidance. Who is Miya Atsumu, if not confrontational and unafraid?

After everyone filters out of the gymnasium, he finds Sakusa picking up another ball and tossing it into the air. Atsumu watches as he slams another serve onto the opposite end of the court, brushing the painted lines, and preens in content. But he only takes a momentary second to stretch his wrists before he’s right back in it, plucking another ball from the pile and goes through the motions once more.

There it is: the insatiable hunger.

Atsumu grins to himself before rushing to the court.

The ball crashes into his forearms and launches into the air in a beautiful arc.

From the across the court, Sakusa makes a disgruntled noise. “Miya.”

“Omi-kun.”

“You’re not getting ready for bed.”

“What an astute observation.”

“I’m surprised you even know what that means.”

“Ya underestimate me, then.”

Kiyoomi huffs, picking up another ball. His gaze sharpens almost immediately, locking onto Atsumu. “Only fools would underestimate you.”

Chills run down his spine, but he does not cower. He smiles, almost too wide, as he moves to receive Sakusa’s merciless serve. The ball hits his arms perfectly, leaving a satisfying ache and a vaguely circular redness that feels more like a trophy than a growing bruise. It flies right back into Sakusa’s hands.

They’re silent for a beat. Then:

“Ya hungry?”

“The cafeteria food is ghastly.”

“Oh, I know. How can ya mess up rice?”

Sakusa hums in agreement. “I suppose we have no choice.”

“Who said that?” Atsumu chirps, beaming at Sakusa’s wary glance. “I brought food from home. We’ve got a choice— at least for tonight.”

Sakusa casts him a dubious frown, but they both know it’s more for show than true uncertainty. Truly, anything would be better than rice that’s simultaneously undercooked and overcooked, paired with vegetables that are slimy and borderline inedible.

“Well? What’s the verdict?” Atsumu asks, allowing a small burst of hope to grow as Sakusa sighs gravely.

“I swear to all that is good, if I get sick from your food, I’ll sue you into the ground.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu smiles as he begins walking out of the gym. He feels a little hop in his step when he turns to see Sakusa trailing close behind him. “Ain’t this a lil’ scandalous, Omi-kun? The great heir of the Sakusa empire, goin’ back to a room with a poor commoner. Are ya sure I won’t get sniped by your betrothed for this?”

Sakusa’s eye twitches. “I’ll smother you to death with your own pillow before anyone could snipe you, Miya.”

His laughter rings throughout the hallway.

Later, as Atsumu shovels onigiri into his mouth with little regard for the disgusted glares sent his way, Sakusa speaks up with unexpected tidbits about himself.

“You were wrong. I’m not the heir,” Sakusa says after swallowing a side of umeboshi. “I’ve got an older brother and sister. They’re already helping manage the ‘empire’, as you called it. They’re much older than me.”

Atsumu stiffens up before he’s whirling around, wiping his mouth aggressively. “I was jokin’. I didn’t really think your family would have heirs.” He pauses. Gasps. “Omi-kun, do ya actually have a betrothed?”

Sakusa clicks his tongue and hurls a crumpled napkin at him. “Of course not. You’re ridiculous.”

“Well, if not a betrothed, then what other weird rich people things do ya have to do?”

A flicker of amusement. ”Rich people things?”

“Ya know. Throw parties in ballrooms. Talk to politicians in dumb suits. I don’t fuckin’ know what you lot do, Omi. That’s why I’m askin’.”

Sakusa barks out a laugh, and Atsumu watches in fascination. “Is that what you think we do?”

“Yep. A little dumb if ya ask me, but the ballroom parties look fun. I bet ya’d just be in a corner on your own tryin’ to blend in with the shadows though.”

“There are no ballroom parties, Miya,” Sakusa shakes his head, hints of a smile trickling on his lips. “Just dumb dinners with other families we pretend to care about.”

“That’s no fun. Is there music, at least?”

“If you count the deafening sound of forced politeness and passive aggressiveness, then yes.”

Atsumu groans into his food, scrunching his nose at the impossibly drab recollection of Sakusa’s pathetic dinners. He doesn’t know if he could survive a night trying to be civil, praising people he’d rather curse out. Atsumu says this much, leading Sakusa to huff out another laugh.

“It’s not all that bad. When the guests leave, at least. My parents and I get along fairly well.”

And then it’s silence. Atsumu detects the sudden heaviness the air takes on, and for a moment, he considers letting it go and changing the subject. It would be the most noble thing to do, and the path that most people would take when they see the frown on Sakusa’s face.

So, of course, Atsumu does neither.

“Okay, Omi. Now try tellin’ the whole truth. ‘Fairly well’ ain’t such a stunnin’ endorsement.”

Sakusa stares at him before his lips purse together. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re brash and intrusive?”

“Everyday of my life. Ya gotta get more creative to stop me from askin’ again, ‘cause I think I’ve heard it all.”

Another beat. Sakusa’s lips flatten into a line. 

“They’re forbidding me to go into the professional leagues right after high school.”

Atsumu almost chokes on a bite. He’s up on his feet immediately, almost toppling over a lamp when his elbow hits the bedside table. “Man, what the hell? Have they lost their minds?”

At this, Sakusa hums. It’s almost resigned, closer to a pathetic sigh than one of agreement, but the way his posture remains straight implies that, somehow, he has made his peace with it. 

Atsumu thinks otherwise. To deprive the leagues of a talent such as Sakusa makes him seethe with anger. “Have they ever seen ya play? Why wouldn’t they let you?” 

“University. Volleyball is a risky career. Even a simple injury could take me out.”

”That goes for a lot of other jobs.” Atsumu sounds a little desperate now, but he doesn’t mind if it’s for a noble reason. He wilts at the thought of never meeting Sakusa on the professional stage. “Bein’ on a team with ya— I can’t lie and say I’ve never dreamt of it.”

Sakusa stills at his admission. There’s a noiseless second, one thick with palpable hesitation, before Sakusa exhales a shaky breath. Atsumu looks up, readily admitting defeat to where curiosity got the best of him, and sees a small smile, cracking the doleful atmosphere. 

“So that’s what all that was for, then? Because you want to set for me.”

“I’d be crazy not to want to.”

“I guess you’ll have to make the most of the time we have now, then,” Sakusa laughs breathily. 

“Sure will, Omi. Hell, I’ll give ya the best sets I have in me.”

They stare at each other. No one moves back when they realise they’re sitting a little closer than normal. Instead, Atsumu cracks his own grin, wide and toothy, drawing out another huff from Sakusa. Only then does he lean away, dipping his hand back into the plastic container for the final onigiri, which he shamelessly eats in front of Atsumu.

“So, professional leagues, huh?”

“Yep. Nothin’ else I’d wanna do. I’ll take the risk if you won’t.”

Sakusa doesn’t fall for the bait. “Which team?”

“The Black Jackals. Who else?”

“The Adlers. They’re much better.”

“…You’re jus’ sayin’ that to make me mad.” 

They exchange numbers, with a bit of reluctance on Sakusa’s part and a whole load of enthusiasm on Atsumu’s.

Their messages are unexpected, to say the least. While many would expect Atsumu to be blowing up the other’s phone, it is actually Sakusa’s responses that are lengthy and divided into multiple messages. 

On one notable instance, where Atsumu was lying down on the top bunk and icing a bump on his forehead after a particularly rough spar with Osamu, his phone vibrated so much that it falls off the edge of the bed. 

Osamu, nursing his own bruised lip, peeked over from the bottom bunk with an inquisitive glance. The phone continued to buzz on the floor. “A jilted lover?”

“Don’t be fuckin’ annoyin’. It’s just Omi-kun,” Atsumu said, burying his cheek into his pillow. “He’s rewatchin’ this K-drama and he’s got a lot to say about it.”

“So. Jilted lover.”

“Whatever. Shut up. I’ve still got a headache.”

Calls become a regular occurrence, especially when Atsumu is in the process of battling his toughest fights: English homework.

Kiyoomi stares forlornly at Atsumu’s contact image on the screen, taken on the last day of their training camp. He’s sticking out his tongue, looking real stupid, while Kiyoomi himself stands behind him, stone-faced. He frowns at picture-Atsumu before sighing loudly, ensuring real-Atsumu hears him over the phone. “It really isn’t that hard.”

“Oh, bullcrap!” Atsumu yells, voice loud despite the electronic crackles. “Just ‘cause you’ve been learning English since the womb doesn’t make it easy! Now help me fill in the blanks—”

“I’m not doing your homework for you, Miya.”

Atsumu groans.

With their third year comes their ineligibility for the All-Japan youth camp and the sombre air of finality.

The end of a chapter in their lives hover above every day that passes, and while they’re keen to celebrate it, they also grieve it. 

Atsumu especially begins to cherish every practice as if it’s the last. He knows it’s not— at least not for him. He’ll continue to play volleyball until he’s wrinkly and confined to the hospital bed, and even then, he’s sure his eyes will open just to watch a match on the television. But Osamu had decided to give it up all together, and even despite it causing their worst fight yet, Atsumu would not be Atsumu if he didn’t support him with everything he’s got.

That doesn’t mean he won’t make the most out of their last official practices, nor will he make them easy for Osamu. After all, he wouldn't be Atsumu if he weren’t spiteful and vengeful.

He visits Kiyoomi often now, too. Well, as often as a jobless high school student can afford.

He hops on a train that shuttles him right into the heart of Tokyo, where Kiyoomi awaits with his perpetual glare when dealing with the public. The visits are brief and are mostly spent in Kiyoomi’s absurdly fancy home, relatively gigantic for Tokyo, at which Atsumu never fails to marvel. 

However, there are times when Kiyoomi abruptly stands in the middle of their lounging, stomps to the front door, and slides his shoes on. Atsumu feels strangely like a dog, perking up considerably as he follows at Kiyoomi’s heels, stepping outside to be greeted by the stuffy Tokyo air.

It’s one of those days, and Atsumu and Kiyoomi make their way through the crowd to someplace unknown to Atsumu. 

He’s visiting during a break, where miraculously, he bears no burden of homework or a looming test. He’d booked the tickets online in an excited trance, and by the time he’d managed to come to his senses, Kiyoomi had messaged him, asking if he was free to come visit.

The city is cheery today. It usually is, when Atsumu comes to visit, but there’s an edge in the air, as if it is waiting for something. Atsumu can’t help but begin to wait for something, too, despite the fact that none of them really know what they’re anticipating.

Despite the odd atmosphere, Atsumu savours them all the same— the city, the sights, Kiyoomi.

He isn’t a fool, regardless of what Osamu thinks. There is no doubt how he feels about Kiyoomi. What little he knows of love, he finds in Kiyoomi. The comfort, the warmth, the spark. It’s there, when he stares at Kiyoomi’s back as he leads them through Tokyo, and when he’s staring at Kiyoomi’s sleeping face, drooling and messy in a way he’d never let himself get if he were awake.

The line between friendship and something more is never blurred between them. It remains solid, no breaks or chips at the paint. Atsumu is sure of what he wants.

And as he stares at Kiyoomi, whose eyes seem to avoid his with a vigilance and whose ears seem to be perpetually flushed, he’s pretty certain he can decipher what Kiyoomi wants, too. He has been for a while.

But they had much to do, much to prove. To conquer the court and do what they must, they knew the line must remain solid— unbent. They lost matches, won a lot more. They pushed themselves to their limit, working and fighting, until they saw the top of the summit.

They grew alone, did what had to be done.

Now, third years and pushing club retirement, Atsumu is satisfied with how his high school years end. He can truthfully say he did his best and left a mark on his trail, and proved himself to everyone that was watching.

Now, he sees it fit to nudge at that line. To try for another branch of happiness, allowing himself to receive the warmth he now knows he can give too.

So, when Kiyoomi leads him to a public garden, where sunlight is dappled on the ground by overhanging tree leaves, Atsumu wastes no second reaching out and pulling Kiyoomi down.

They meet in the middle, as they always do, and for two such explosive and aggressive individuals, the kiss is gentle and sweet. They kiss like they’re asking for permission in every move, soft and slow, as Atsumu’s fingers cup Kiyoomi’s jaw.

It is only when they pull away that Kiyoomi mutters their first words in hours:

“We should do that again,” he whispers breathlessly against Atsumu’s lips. “Lots of times. Tomorrow, and the next day too, and the day after that.”

Atsumu laughs, quiet and private, and pulls him back in.

Back in the privacy of Kiyoomi’s room, Atsumu cards through his hair with care.

“I don’t want to quit volleyball,” he blurts out, startling when Atsumu accidentally pulls on his scalp.

Atsumu whispers a quick apology before he leans over Kiyoomi’s head, meeting his eyes albeit upside-down. “Ya ain’t quittin’, Omi. You’re too good for that. It ain’t the professional leagues, but the collegiate teams are more than good enough. The pros have matches with them sometimes, too.”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, rising out of his arms. “I don’t want to quit volleyball.”

“…Not sayin’ it’s not cute, but ya always repeat stuff over n’ over and it’s startin’ to worry me—”

“I want to play in the professional leagues,” Kiyoomi declares, and that shuts Atsumu up quickly. His spine straightens as his brown eyes grow wide, and at that, Kiyoomi finds a newfound confidence to what he really wants out of life. “I’ll get a degree. I’ll study for four years, play at the collegiate level in the meanwhile. I’ll go to college, I’ll be prepared, and then— I’ll go pro. I’m going pro.”

His proclamation hangs in the air. The silence is welcomed as he lets it sink in, and where he expects hints of hesitation and reluctance, he feels freedom and assurance. 

Atsumu breaks it with a vindictive yell, launching himself back to embracing Kiyoomi, and he feels Atsumu’s wide grin against the back of his neck.

College is a bit different from high school.

Kiyoomi isn’t much of a fan.

Firstly, his cousin decided to go straight into the leagues the moment he got his high school diploma. His parents had no such qualms about letting their son do a ‘high-risk’ job before getting a degree to fall back on, so he could do that. Because of this, he had to brave the beginnings of college by himself with nobody to hide behind and field all the conversations for him.

He rose to the challenge, of course. He’s not completely helpless— he just prefers not to interact with others when he doesn’t have to.

Thankfully, his team isn’t that bad. They’d be better if they weren’t so nosy.

He says this much to Atsumu during their nightly phone calls.

Prefectures away, Atsumu settles into his brand new schedule of being a professional volleyball player. He got into the MSBY Black Jackals, as everyone expected, as their first string setter. Their schedules are absurdly full, jam-packed with attempts at assimilation and adjusting to their wildly new environments. 

But when nightfall comes, they indulge and revel in the familiarity of each other’s warmth. Amidst the chaos of their new lives, they find time to keep each other company.

“They just want to know more about ya, Omi-kun,” Atsumu hums. Kiyoomi hears the shifting of fabric on the other line as Atsumu tucks himself to bed. “You’re interestin’,”

“You’re probably the only person who thinks that,” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “They probably think I’m a bit odd and want to figure me out.”

“Well, ya are a bit odd,” Atsumu laughs. Kiyoomi purses his lips to stifle his smile at the melody. “But it’s cute.”

“I think you should shut up.”

“I think I won’t. Hey, Omi-kun! They’re probably gonna ask if ya’ve got a special someone in your life soon. Are ya gonna brag about your handsome perfect professional athlete boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t aware I had that. But sure, I’ll tell them about my boyfriend that’s lame and cheesy and once got trapped in a public toilet—”

”No! We agreed to never talk about that again—”

———

“Once, I had to get my girlfriend to drive over and get me toilet paper from home. It was so embarrassing, I don’t think I looked her in the eye for a week.”

A laugh rings out through the space, and everyone stiffens up at the unfamiliar sound.

For a split second, the team believes they just had a collective hallucination. If Nakamura hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would’ve immediately leaped to book a doctor’s appointment, because it wasn’t an ordinary laugh, no. It was Sakusa, deadpan extraordinaire, that burst out into warm laughter.

The team looks at Sakusa, who is methodically folding the net into even squares. There’s still remnants of a fond smile lingering on his lips as he brings himself up to his feet, taking a moment before he turns to regard Nakamura with an amused expression.

Nakamura immediately flushes at the attention. He still can’t really believe his stupid story got Sakusa to laugh, and he feels himself preen at the feat.

“What did she say about it?” Sakusa asks, stunning everyone for a second time. Beside Nakamura, Sasaki looks to be on the verge of a heart attack.

He doesn’t blame him. Sakusa looks fatally handsome when he’s smiling.

“Well… she just laughed, really. And then made me cupcakes when we got home.”

Sakusa smiles a little wider. He sees another teammate’s jaw drop on the other side of the gym, uncapping a bottle of water and down it in record speed right after. The entire gymnasium is in a trance, hanging onto Sakusa’s every word.

And then:

“The person I’m dating got stuck in a toilet stall when we were in high school,” Sakusa recalls fondly, picking up a ball from the floor. “My phone was ringing like crazy. We were there for so long, trying to rip the door off its hinges twenty minutes before our matches.”

Nakamura’s eyebrows raise, along with many others. “Did you succeed, then?” 

“No. He had to climb over the door,” Sakusa huffs in amusement as he slings his towel around his neck, and then he’s off, walking towards the locker rooms. “Thank you for your hard work today. Good night.”

In his wake, he leaves silence. Everyone watches as the locker room door falls shut. The quiet stretches on for what seems like hours.

That was, until, Sasaki sighs gravely. “I’m kind of irritated that I don’t have a chance with him.”

“Me too!”

“I’m telling your girlfriend you said that—”

“—is it wrong to want to date a bro platonically—”

“Shut up and keep mopping, the both of you!”

They figure it out approximately a year later during a match, of all things.

They’re not doing too well, with all things considered. Two of their first string players are out of commission due to injury, the coach himself is biting his nails down to the quick, and the players are palpably tense.

The team they’re against is strong. Really strong. They’re holding their own for now, but exhaustion is starting to weigh on their bones and the pressure of everything combined is wilting the team spirit.

Sakusa seems especially affected. For the first time since his introduction to the team, it’s the most frazzled he’s been. His shoulders are drawn up high, and his moves are significantly more stiff than usual. The stress is getting to him, surprisingly, and Nakamura is starting to get worried. They’ve never had to worry about Sakusa before, but in this special case, they helplessly watch as he frowns holes into the court, desperately trying to keep himself together.

Nakamura begins to make his way over, trying to throw together a plan to help, but he’s stopped in his tracks by Sasaki’s shadow.

Sasaki spots him first, practically hanging over the railing in the front row of the stands. He sidles up next to Nakamura, nudging him gently with his elbow. “Hey. Isn’t that Miya Atsumu? The setter from the Jackals?”

Nakamura looks up, spotting the blonde hair hidden beneath a black cap, before gasping. “No way. What’s he doing here?”

“To watch the match, obviously.” Sasaki sighs. “It’s the worst one for him to watch. We’re going to lose.”

“With that attitude, yeah.”

“Just look at Sakusa, man. He’s the best we have. When he’s fucked up, I get fucked up. We all do. In summary, we’re screwed.”

Nakamura agrees. But they can’t give up that easy—

“Omi-kun!”

Everyone on court looks back up to the stands.

There he is: Miya Atsumu, almost climbing the railings, waving his cap like a madman. He stands out well from the faceless crowd— if not for the hair, then his frantic demeanour.

The team blinks as they process it all. Sakusa knows Miya Atsumu— undoubtedly from high school. He’s here, watching for Sakusa, Omi-kun, and is now about to jump from the stands and get himself arrested.

But Sakusa is looking back up at him, eyes wide as saucers, and Nakamura can only watch as the tension from his shoulders bleed away one second at a time. Where Sakusa was tight and aggrieved, Miya Atsumu is the one that softens and calms. Where Sakusa had lost hope, Miya Atsumu restores, with every maniacal shout of that nickname, with every moment of his presence.

“Get it together, Omi-kun! Don’t be lame!” Atsumu yells, and Sakusa huffs an exasperated breath through a smile. “If ya lose, you’re treatin’ me to ramen!”

Sakusa clicks his tongue, almost fondly, as he shakes his head.

The whistle blows, signalling the end of their time out, and Nakamura and Sasaki feels the change in the atmosphere. The air is thick, and they can almost touch the sudden change in the tide, as Sakusa walks back onto the court with a renewed sense of determination.

They exchange glances. And then, they exchange matching grins.

When they catch up to Sakusa on the court, they smile at him too.

Nakamura makes a show of adjusting his knee pads, before straightening up and giving Sakusa a sly smirk. “So. Miya Atsumu, huh?”

Sakusa’s eyebrows raise minutely, before his lips spread back out into a small, secretive smile. It’s the softest they’ve seen him.

Beneath the shining lights, Nakamura sees what it is to truly love. It’s in Miya’s shameless encouragement, the strength he gives with just his warmth and presence, and in Sakusa’s gentleness and vulnerability, taken into calm and receptive hands.

“Yes. Atsumu.”

It’s not always easy. Love usually isn't.

Life gets in the way, and sometimes, they indulge in their selfishness without much thought. 

It comes with the height of stress— Kiyoomi’s exams shoot past like bullets and Atsumu is cracking under the pressure of everyone’s expectations after Kageyama Tobio takes the professional leagues by storm. It’s months of choppy connections and missed calls and unanswered texts on both ends, that forces everything to balance precariously over a tightrope that didn’t exist before.

Their wavelengths fall out of sync for the first time. That understanding that they found between each other during the beginning starts to flicker in and out of existence, and not one of them has time to sit and fix it. They had thought, with their youthful naivety, that their almost telepathic bond would always remain despite pressures that might threaten to break it.

And then the arguments come. One after another, they drop like a rain of knives. Fights over answering too late; dating rumours between Atsumu and the MSBY PR manager, of all people; and the topic of finally seeing each other in person. They picked at every little thing that shouldn’t have ended in screaming matches.

But one day, to that once solid foundation, the bombs come with a simple apology. One that came after hundreds of others, representing the final straw that finally breaks the camel’s back.

“Okay. Sure. Y’know, I don’t know why I even bothered askin’ ya,” Atsumu laughs, a little derisively. “It’s always ‘sorry’ with ya.”

Kiyoomi’s pen halts over the paper. The ink continues to bleed underneath, muddling the letters that begin to swim in his vision. “Atsumu. You know I want nothing more than to be there for you—”

”Ya say that, but ya do somethin’ that tells me the opposite!” Atsumu hisses. Kiyoomi looks up, meets his eyes through the small phone screen, and stares in shock.

It’s bigger than this. It’s bigger than not being able to go to Atsumu’s games, or skipping a couple handfuls of their phone calls due to practices running a little too late or last-minute exam cramming.

Majority of their relationship has been long-distance. That was a given the moment Kiyoomi decided to stay in Tokyo for university and the Black Jackals offered Atsumu a spot as their starting setter in Osaka. Years of it should have them as experts— in schedules, in keeping the warmth, in love despite the distance between them.

But they’re young, and they’ve got a lot to learn. 

That’s probably why instead of staying calm and thinking it through, Kiyoomi casts his pen aside and bares his most poisonous sneer. “You’ve always been selfish. I can’t come to a game because of a study group I can’t miss and now your little ego is bruised?”

“That’s not it, Omi, and ya know it. It’s not about ego, I just want ya here—”

“I am here, aren’t I? I’ve got so much to do, and still I’m here, fighting with you over heaven knows what!”

“Why is it that you’re tryin’ to misinterpret everythin’ I say? Why can’t ya listen? Kiyoomi, I want you here—”

“Well I can’t be!” Kiyoomi roars. “I can’t be, because I’ve got my own life and I can’t always just drop everything for you, Atsumu, so if you want someone like that, then I don’t know why we’re still doing this.”

Atsumu’s eyes flicker with something. Kiyoomi can’t read it, even though he probably could’ve a few months ago.

Silence consumes them for a beat. And then another. And then, another.

Kiyoomi hears Atsumu shift over the phone, yet his expression remains unchanging. Undecipherable. “Ya don’t mean that.”

”I don’t know,” Kiyoomi whispers. No longer out of rage, but a weary resignation. "I don’t know.”

“… Kiyoomi.” And yet Atsumu still says his name so softly. His voice wraps around the syllables like gentle velvet, like it is something to cherish.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, and he knows it’s the same for him. He swallows the lump that begins to form in his throat, forces himself to communicate instead of hitting that big red button that would end their argument for good. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay? We think, and then we talk. Tomorrow.”

Atsumu is quiet for a while. Then: “Tomorrow sounds good.”

The day comes a little slower, that morning.

Kiyoomi spent his night taking care of himself, shoving the rest of his work aside for another day. He’d worked himself to the bone; with every essay and paper and test he’d given a part of himself away without allowing himself time to recuperate. It went on until he had nothing left to give, nothing left for himself.

The fights with Atsumu— it really was bigger than the both of them.

He knows Atsumu had been working himself ragged too. There are battles Atsumu fights alone in his head.

They’d overwhelmed theirselves so much that they’ve overwhelmed each other, too, and their relationship became another strain in their already tumultuous lives. What once was a reprieve from life became another weight when they stopped cultivating it, when they’d deprived the garden from sunlight and water in the assumption that it was able to sustain itself with the years they’ve spent together.

Love is work. 

Love is tiring, it’s rest, and it’s everything in between.

And for Kiyoomi, love is worth it.

He’s scared. He doesn’t know what comes next.

What he is certain of is clear: he’ll fight for Atsumu. He’ll fight with Atsumu. They’ll still argue, and then they’ll argue some more, but in between, they’ll love each other like it’s the only thing they know how to do.

He knows this as the door to his apartment slams open just as he was about to run outside, and Atsumu stands before him with his fringe sticking to his forehead with sweat and the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest, determined and there.

The duffel bag he’d carelessly stuffed with his clothes falls off his shoulders as he stares, and continues to stare, at the only boy he’s loved and will ever love.

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu whispers, like his name was an oath. Kiyoomi watches as his hands shake beside him. “You’re it for me.”

Kiyoomi exhales a shaky breath through his trembling smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu declares. “Ya can push me outta here, and if ya tell me to never talk to ya again, I’ll fuck off. But I know you’re the one for the rest of my life, Omi, so please tell me we haven’t gone and fucked it all up.”

Kiyoomi laughs, taking a step closer. “Maybe we have. But we’ll fix it. You and me. We’ll find a way.”

Atsumu huffs a relieved breath. His smile is shaky too, but he takes a step, meeting Kiyoomi in the middle. His hand reaches for Kiyoomi’s. “We never know when to give up, huh?”

Kiyoomi hums. The early morning light hits Atsumu’s face just right, and there, he sees his brown eyes reflect the golden rays like a new beginning. The sunrise begins, and Kiyoomi briefly wonders how early Atsumu must have woken to get there, but Atsumu tilts his head up and leans in, and suddenly Kiyoomi thinks of nothing but the sweet lips on him.

In that moment, all he knows is himself and Atsumu, and he knows they’ll be okay.

Kiyoomi laughs when they pull away, running the pad of his thumb over Atsumu’s cheekbone. “I’d be a little foolish to give this up.”

Atsumu takes a step back, as if taking him all in with a sparkle in his eyes, before his gaze lands on the duffel bag beside Kiyoomi’s feet. “Whoops. Were ya goin’ somewhere? Sorry, I kinda just ambushed ya.”

“I was about to go ambush you in Osaka.” Kiyoomi admits, digging a hand into his pocket before pulling out a train ticket, printed hastily forty minutes prior. “You kind of interrupted my really big romantic gesture with your own.”

Laughter rings out in his apartment, making a home in every crevice, lighting up the flat better than sunlight could ever. Atsumu takes both of Kiyoomi’s hands in his and tugs gently.

”Well, it’d be a pity to waste perfectly good tickets!” Atsumu grins, letting go of one of Kiyoomi’s hands to scoop the bag up and hike it over his shoulder. “Hurry up so we can get ya back in time for that study group.”

Kiyoomi smiles, stepping into the hallway before locking his door. “Screw that study group. I don’t like the people there anyway. I’ve been meaning to find another one that doesn’t run their schedule like dictators.”

Atsumu swings their hands between them as they walk. “So how long are ya stayin’?”

There’s a beat of silence. Kiyoomi frowns at himself a little. “I’ve gotta leave before your game. I’ve emailed my professor asking for an alternate exam date, but he won’t give it to me.”

“Well, nothin’ ya can do about it,” Atsumu shrugs. He tilts his head to beam at Kiyoomi. “I’ll get it recorded.”

Kiyoomi smiles right back. “You better. I’ll be watching you— so you better play your damn best.”

”Ha! I always do.”

———☆———

Love is difficult and easy.

They are everything in between. 

In the new apartment they share just a few hundred meters from the heart of Osaka, Kiyoomi hides his acceptance letter from Atsumu, keeping it under their clothes in the laundry hamper because he knows Atsumu would never empty it.

In the new apartment they share a few hundred kilometers from that first gymnasium where it all began, Atsumu hides the ring box amidst the pots and pans, because Kiyoomi only knows how to cook one thing, and it’s instant ramen. 

They keep their secrets— good ones, at least— until the time is right.

So, five days after Kiyoomi graduates from college and a day before he’s set to start playing for the Black Jackals, he watches as Atsumu, donning his stupid pink-striped apron— a gag gift given by Kiyoomi during their third anniversary— cooks them a meal.

Atsumu had taken him out the whole day. As a testament to their eventful few hours, pictures upon pictures of them exploring Osaka through familiar and new locations flood Kiyoomi’s photo app. His favourite, nestled amidst all the others, is Atsumu overlooking the Dotonbori river. The lights dance along his side profile, and if you look closely, you can see his hand snaking over Kiyoomi’s on top of the railing.

It quickly becomes his homescreen.

Atsumu takes him out, and then, he takes him home. Back where the world condenses and becomes just the both of them.

“Et voila!” Atsumu chirps, walking over and placing the plate of hot food in front of Kiyoomi. Steam rises from the rice, and Kiyoomi revels in the heat of it before picking up his chopsticks and digging in. “Hope ya like it, Omi-kun. Ma finally sent over the recipe. Only took me a bit of convincin’!”

Kiyoomi hums around a mouthful of food. When he swallows, he’s got stars in his eyes, marvelling at Atsumu like he’d just served him the best meal he’s eaten in his life. “It’s okay.”

Atsumu grins at him. “Just okay?”

“Mhm.” Kiyoomi shovels more food in his mouth. Atsumu has never seen him eat so messily.

They talk about the day as they share a meal. They talk about the unmasked mascot they saw smoking on a curb and the horrified kid staring slack-jawed at him, about the movie they watched yesterday and how Kiyoomi abhors the main character for his detestable haircut, and the cute cat they saw on the way home and if ‘the apartment allows pets, do you think?’

They laugh and they smile, with Atsumu plucking out the broccoli off Kiyoomi’s plate and dropping the bell peppers in their place, and Kiyoomi reaching over to wipe Atsumu’s face because he’s always ‘such a messy eater, you dumbass.’

This love is theirs.

So when Kiyoomi tuts and bends down under the table to pick up a grain of rice that fell from his chopsticks, he re-emerges to a black, velvet box placed neatly beside his plate.

He almost gives himself whiplash with the way his head snaps up to meet Atsumu’s eyes. The nervous grin that greets him does nothing for the rapid beating of his heart, pounding against his rib cage and threatening to jump out from his throat, and he watches in stunned silence as Atsumu stands up.

The chair scratches their floor as Atsumu pulls himself to his feet. And then he’s right back down again, this time in front of Kiyoomi on one knee, swiping the box from the table.

The box pops open to reveal a pair of golden rings.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says with a trembling voice. “I want to do this with ya. Tomorrow, and the next day too, and the day after that. For the rest of my life— I want to fold the laundry with ya, I want to cook with ya, I want to wake up to ya.”

“You hate doing the laundry,” Kiyoomi says, and his voice cracks midway.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Atsumu laughs, hair glinting underneath the setting sun that filters through their blinds. “But everythin’s better with ya. Walking, talking, eating, fighting, living. I want to do it all with ya for the rest of my life.”

“Even if I can’t cook?”

“Especially because ya can’t cook.” Atsumu says. His smile softens, but the determination and warmth in his eyes do not waver. With his trembling hand, he takes Kiyoomi’s. “Will ya make me the happiest dumbass in the world, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi grins through his blurry vision. “You’re so fucking cheesy.”

And then he leans in, pulling Atsumu’s lips onto his.

The ring dangling from Kiyoomi’s neck glints under the early morning light. 

Atsumu left the apartment earlier than normal, citing reasons of wanting to be the first to greet the newcomers.

What he doesn’t know of is Kiyoomi, standing right outside the MSBY gymnasium door, ready to start his first practice with his new team.

He’d truly considered the Adlers. He knows that, whether he is on the same side of the court or across, Atsumu would like it all equally. But in the few weeks he had to think about all his offers, he thought of his early youth, of the two weeks spent hitting Atsumu’s sets during their training camp.

He thinks of the exhilaration, of his hunger that Atsumu has always matched— and it turned out to be an easy decision, after all.

So, he musters up a breath. Takes in the exterior of the gym he’ll call his second home.

And when he finally steps inside, he catches Atsumu’s eye immediately, as if he’d known exactly who entered, and grins widely. Atsumu’s jaw drops comically. It stays open as he crosses the gym, slow, like a wary animal.

Kiyoomi stifles a laugh as he schools his face into neutrality. “You look stupid.”

A flash of recognition flickers in Atsumu’s eyes, and his mouth quickly twists into a beam that never fails to make Kiyoomi’s heart jump. “Are ya tryin’ to pick a fight, Omi-kun?”

“No,” Kiyoomi whispers, gaze flickering down to Atsumu’s lips. “I’m just telling you things how I see it.”

Atsumu laughs, like the twinkling of wind chimes. When he speaks next, its low and quiet, just for the both of them to hear. “No handkerchief this time?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head in amusement. He catches a glimpse of gold beneath Atsumu’s shirt, so he reaches out a hand, pulling at the chain around Atsumu’s neck, letting the ring sparkle on full display.

“Not today,” Kiyoomi smiles, withdrawing his hand to tap at the matching ring dangling from his own neck. “I think we’ve got something better now."