Archive of Our Own

The moment honey brown eyes met his own, Kiyoomi knew he was done for.

From across the net, Atsumu Miya holds his gaze. 

It’s barely friendly, definitely both a challenge and a taunt if the fire in his eyes is anything to go by. It’s a declaration of war, a condescending challenge, and a reason why Kiyoomi’s heart jumps out of his throat and flops its way into Miya’s possession.

Motoya sidles up beside him, following his gaze. He then raises one eyebrow, dubious about Miya’s bold behavior, and waves hesitantly— to which Miya responds with a sharp, calculating grin, turning around without waving back.

Motoya is, unsurprisingly, unimpressed. “That was kind of rude.”

Kiyoomi faintly nods, barely registering his hum of acknowledgment, knowing full well that he’s already fallen far beyond rescue.

After that fateful match (which ended in Itachiyama’s favour), Kiyoomi spends the bus ride to their hotel on his phone revisiting Volleyball Monthly spreads that just so happen to depict a certain setter.

It’s not an obsession, Kiyoomi thinks to himself as he spends fifteen minutes staring at Miya’s crooked, taunting smirk that kind of makes him want to hold his hand forever.

I’m only scoping out the competition, Kiyoomi mutters out fifteen minutes later when Motoya rips his phone out of his grasp and proceeds to wiggle his stupid eyebrows.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you making googly eyes at him earlier—”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not, Kiyo, and it’s okay to admit you have a teeny tiny crush on—”

“I don’t.”

“You do!”

“It’s not a teeny tiny crush,” Kiyoomi grumbles as he elbows Motoya, grabbing his phone back. “Don’t be stupid.”

Motoya scoffs in response. “Denial isn’t a good look on you.”

“I’m not in denial. Like I said, it’s not a crush,” Kiyoomi states, matter-of-factly. Then, he’s right back in it, redirecting his gaze towards Miya’s most recent Volleyball Monthly interview. He reads that Miya is a self-declared cat lover and loves to wash the dishes, and Kiyoomi closes his eyes and accepts his fate. “It’s fate. The stars aligned.”

Beside him, Motoya stiffens. If Kiyoomi looked up, he’d see Motoya’s expression frozen in shock and confusion and maybe horror, but he keeps his eyes locked on magazine-Miya.

Motoya recovers after a few more beats. “Okay. Let’s start from the beginning. First of all— what?”

“It’s fate,” Kiyoomi repeats, deadpan but serious. “We’re meant to be.”

“What?” Motoya looks to be one word away from a mental breakdown. For some reason, it seems as though his perception of the world was upended and destabilized, though Kiyoomi doesn’t really know why. “Fate? What the— who are you?”

“It’s useless having this conversation when you’re clearly indisposed,” Kiyoomi declares, finally shutting his phone and turning towards the bus window. “But if you really must know, I’m going to marry him.”

“Going to marry—” A bewildered Motoya cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I must be dreaming. Someone pinch me.”

Iizuna peeks over from the seat in front of them in a similar state of shock and dismay, shooting Motoya a perturbed glance. “You’re not asleep. I’m hearing this too.”

“I don’t understand why you’re all finding this a difficult concept to grasp,” Kiyoomi interrupts, now annoyed at the mountain made out of a molehill. “The sun is a star, the sky is blue, and Miya Atsumu is the one.”

Motoya, still reeling and dealing with his bone-deep confusion, splutters. “You can’t just decide that! Are you crazy?”

Kiyoomi blinks at Motoya as if he was the crazy one in the exchange. “Sure I can.”

“You can't!” Motoya huffs, completely exasperated. “You haven’t even had a proper conversation. You don’t even have cute nicknames for each other! How can you just declare this?”

There’s a pause.

Kiyoomi blinks. Then, he shrugs, tucking his nose into his scarf. “Watch me.”

And thus it began: with an invitation to the All-Japan youth training camp and a whispered confirmation from a nearby conversation during practice that one Miya twin— his Miya twin— will also be in attendance.

With a grand total of zero (0) people skills and zero (0) relationship experience under his belt, he single mindedly aims to hold Miya’s heart in his palms akin to how his own heart lays in Miya’s hands.

He packs five boxes of green tea pocky (in lieu of fatty tuna due to the fear of smelling like fish) and his best perfume and tolerates the endless amount of ribbing from Motoya throughout their trip to the training centre.

The difficult trek ends with the bewitching sight of Miya curiously turning his head towards them as they make an entrance into the building, standing in front of their dorm listings as he loosely grasps his bag on his shoulder.

Kiyoomi’s breath is knocked out of him, and he has a momentary fear that he might pass out.

Thankfully, Motoya covers for him with ease, sending a blinding grin that forces Miya to stare at him instead, returning a smile more friendly than the one during their last match.

“Heya, Toya-kun,” Miya greets, then turns to Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi sees a halo around his head. “Sakusa-kun. A mouthful, isn’t it?”

Hearing his name come out of Miya’s mouth is his heart’s fuel for at least a week and a half. Yet, he keeps his face rigid and neutral.

Miya hums, pondering, before he snaps his fingers and winks. “Ah-ha! Yer Omi-kun from now on!”

Kiyoomi feels a little faint.

Motoya positively preens as he very conspicuously nudges Kiyoomi, who has to play off the admittedly hard hit with a gritted grunt. “What an adorable nickname! You’re making more progress than I—”

“We’re in room 201. Feel free to find it yourself if you’re going to be fooling around.” Kiyoomi hisses at Motoya, turning away to hide the pink on his cheeks.

With a squawk, Motoya hauls his luggage back up, quickly trailing at Kiyoomi’s heels as they walk away from Miya.

Miya laughs his angelic and warm and divine laugh and tilts his head along with it. “See ya around, Omi-kun!”

And oh, will he see him around.

Kiyoomi is fresh out of the shower when Motoya frowns at his phone, giving the screen a few taps before flicking his gaze up to him.

Though he doesn’t ask in any way, shape, or form, Motoya tells him what troubles him anyway.

“Did you know that Osamu can’t sleep without taking nightly walks?” Motoya announces, shaking his head as if it was such a grave matter. “It’s tragic.”

“How do you even know that?” Motoya only smiles mysteriously, at which Kiyoomi scrunches his nose. “Nevermind. Why can’t he? Is it raining in Hyogo?”

“No. It’s just that he usually does it with Atsumu and it feels wrong to do it without him.” Motoya leans back in an attempt to look casual. “I’m sure it goes the other way, too. Atsumu-kun must be itching for a new walking partner.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, placing his folded towel on the bed. “I’m not taking the bait.”

That’s why he ends up in the lobby of the Ajinomoto training centre, hair still damp, busying himself with his phone and pretending as if he isn’t on the lookout for a specific shade of blonde hair.

Engrossed in a particularly hard level of Angry Birds, he completely misses the flash of blonde that steps down from the stairs, looking around the lobby and then at Kiyoomi.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu chirps from a few feet away, pleasantly surprised. Kiyoomi flinches ungracefully and snaps his head up, meeting those brown eyes that have his heart running marathons. “Can’t sleep either?”

Atsumu is stopped directly in front of Kiyoomi now, wearing an easy smile that does nothing to stop his palms from sweating.

“...No,” Kiyoomi replies truthfully. “The first nights are always the hardest.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Atsumu huffs out a laugh, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. He has this far-away look in his eyes, and Kiyoomi quietly observes his wilted posture. “Well, I gotta burn out the last of my energy for today. Care to join me?”

Kiyoomi pretends to hesitate. “Only since I have nothing better to do.”

Atsumu smiles at him. It’s almost fond, but Kiyoomi sees no reason for it to be fond, so he writes it off as nothing more than his hopeful imagination.

The air is cold when they step out and Kiyoomi pats himself on the back for wrapping himself up in his scarf. It nips beautifully at Atsumu’s skin, already reddening his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Kiyoomi swallows before ripping his gaze away to instead partake in a staring competition between himself and a street lamp.

They begin to pad through the sidewalk in silence. Kiyoomi finds that he doesn’t mind it. It’s not awkward or stifling, and he wouldn’t go as far as to say it was comfortable, but it was peaceful. Beside him, if he strains his ears, he could hear Atsumu’s steady breathing and hopes he couldn’t hear Kiyoomi’s heartbeat from there.

“It’s always weird without ‘Samu,” Atsumu says in the quiet. Kiyoomi turns his head, blinking at Atsumu’s downcast gaze. “Guess that’s what happens when ya spend yer whole life plus nine months with someone, right?”

“I can’t say I know the feeling,” Kiyoomi hums.

“Ya got Toya-kun though,” Atsumu replies. “That must count for somethin’.”

"Don’t patronize me. It’s different and you know it."

Atsumu lets out a laugh. “Prickly as always.”

“You know you’re never truly without him, right?” Kiyoomi blurts out, to the surprise of both himself and Atsumu. They’re both so shocked that they still on the sidewalk, and Atsumu turns towards him with an unreadable expression. As the silence engulfs them, so does his need to explain— so, he does. “Whether it’s feet or five thousand kilometres, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s Osamu and you’re Atsumu. You always carry a part of him with you, and the same goes for him.”

Atsumu stays quiet, so he keeps going, just to kill the silence that continues to settle between them. “The skills you taught each other, the scars you’ve given, those will never go away. Parts of him make up parts of you.”

“Wherever you are, you carry him with you. You always will.” Kiyoomi concludes, dropping his gaze. He’s thoroughly embarrassed himself now, and Atsumu is still tight-lipped, so he buries his nose in his scarf to stifle his humiliation. “Sorry. I crossed a line.”

Atsumu takes a moment, and Kiyoomi looks up. Then, he shoots Kiyoomi a shaky smile. “Fuck. I wanna cry now, but that’s really uncool, and I can’t be uncool in front of ya.”

“Too late,” Kiyoomi deadpans.

The moon is hanging high in the sky now. Atsumu gives it a glance before nudging Kiyoomi’s hand with his own gloved hand. “We should prob’ly go back.”

Kiyoomi hums in agreement. “If we got caught sneaking out, just know I’m immediately throwing you under the bus.”

“Yer an evil bitch traitor,” Atsumu snaps back with no true snide. Kiyoomi smirks into his scarf and starts to head back.

They’re just outside the training centre— thankfully clear of any teachers waiting to lay a heavy punishment for breaking curfew— when Atsumu takes a larger stride and steps in front of Kiyoomi.

He freezes in place, wide eyes scanning Atsumu, who only offers him the warmest smile that immediately defrosts his cold hands.

“Thanks, Omi-kun.” He says, soft and quiet. “Ya don’t know how much that meant to me.”

Kiyoomi finds out a mere two months later, through the whispered gossip echoing in their gymnasium, that one of the Miya twins has been planning to quit volleyball immediately after high school.

“What a shame it’s not the obnoxious one,” a faceless third-string setter mutters, inappropriate venom evident in his too-loud voice. “He’s too full of himself.”

He grasps the volleyball in his hands a little tighter, thinking of the melancholy look in Atsumu’s eyes glistening under the moonlight two months prior, and longs to comfort and stand by him once more.

“He’s earned the right to be, seeing as every other set pales in comparison to his.” Kiyoomi says, voice booming in the suddenly quiet gymnasium, casting the now frightened player a disparaging glance. “Maybe if you spent less time spouting your crap, you’d become half the setter Miya is.”

──────────────────

That longing doesn’t stop, not even past high school and when he trades in sleepless collegiate nights for early-morning practices with the MSBY Jackals.

He’d spent sleepless nights in his college dormitory thinking about which offer he wanted to accept. 

The Adlers, of course, happily offered him a spot in their ranks after seeing him decimate the collegiate league. The Jackals, on the other hand, just falls short behind the Alders in the rankings.

But when he finds himself running his gaze over a black-and-gold logo on the last night of college, palms itching to hit the same sets that had upended his world when he was sixteen and seventeen, he finds that the decision was easy to make after all.

He moves into the Jackal’s apartment complex with little fanfare. He keeps it quiet, asks the coaches and Meian to do the same, and begins to make himself at home while his soon-to-be teammates are at practice.

Motoya takes the day off to be a ‘good cousin’ and help him move in, but Kiyoomi should’ve known that there was more to it.

He finds out in the worst way possible, when, as the elevator door opens on the ground floor, he sees Motoya gleefully chatting up with an older, albeit still as sweaty as he was when they were teenagers, Miya Atsumu.

The first thing Kiyoomi does is notice his hair. No longer the colour of undiluted piss, he looks more refined and handsome like never before. He’s seen in pictures, of course— billboards around Tokyo and the magazines on his coffee tables. But nothing beats seeing Miya in person, and Kiyoomi’s heartbeat skips circles around him like it did when he was sixteen, finding out what love was for the very first time.

The second thing he does is clamber his way across the lobby and all but launches himself between Motoya and Miya. The chatter grinds to a halt and Kiyoomi takes this chance to draw up his usual nonchalance, but not without sending a warning glance at Motoya who does not look the least bit threatened.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu greets with the warmest smile, breaking the silence. His eyes crinkle at the sides, and if Kiyoomi didn’t know better, he would even say that Miya is happy he’s here. “Did ya miss me and my sets that much?”

Yes.

“No,” Kiyoomi grunts, gritting his teeth. “They’re okay at most.”

Motoya scoffs and Miya laughs.

“Right,” Miya hums, hiking his duffel bag higher up his shoulder. “They’re so okay that ya chose us over the Alders, huh?”

“It’s awfully presumptuous to assume that I chose this team because of you.”

He did.

At that, Miya relents with another hearty laugh. “M’kay, Omi-kun. I’m takin’ your word for it.”

“You should.”

“I am,” Miya assures with a smirk, but the look on his face says he isn’t. He glances at the elevator for a beat before his gaze lands on Kiyoomi once more. Oddly enough, it feels a little private, as if at this moment, it was only the two of them, but Kiyoomi isn’t immune to the occasional lovesick delusion. “When you’re done movin’, and I’m done showerin’, and ya think ya need some company, just knock on my door, ‘kay? 301.”

Without waiting for Kiyoomi’s response, Miya retreats and disappears behind the elevator doors with a wink, giving him a small wave.

“Well that was sickening.” Motoya says with his nose scrunched, jolting Kiyoomi out of his trance. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, leaning down to carry the last box upstairs into his apartment. “What’s sickening is your melodrama.”

Motoya runs to catch up to him, a box nestled in his arms. “Yeah? He was practically making heart eyes at you—”

“There was nothing of the sort—”

“And I swear you both forgot I was standing right there ‘cause you were too busy ogling each other—”

“You’re exaggerating again—”

“And that whispered invitation to go to his apartment?” Motoya concludes, hissing out a disdainful huff, jamming his finger into the elevator button. “I hate you both.”

Kiyoomi steps out of the elevator, then whirls around to Motoya whose mouth is ready to keep talking, leveling him with a stern stare. “Less yapping, more carrying.”

Motoya ignores him, as per usual. With a kick to Kiyoomi’s brand new apartment’s door, Motoya files in and unceremoniously drops the box onto his couch before flopping down next to it, raising an eyebrow at Kiyoomi. “So I take it that you’re going to do the stupid thing and stay in tonight instead of having a rendezvous with Atsumu-kun?”

“Where did you get that?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, truly confused. “Of course not.”

Hearing this, Motoya perks up at the same time his jaw slackens. He blinks once, then twice, staring wide-eyed at Kiyoomi like he had just arrived on earth via an unidentified flying object. “I never know what to expect from you when it involves that weird heart of yours.”

Kiyoomi hums, carefully unpacking his things from the box next to Motoya.

“So?” Motoya inquires. “When are you going to knock on his door?”

Again, Kiyoomi levels him with a puzzled look. “Why would I do that?”

“Because he asked you?” Motoya says, exasperated. “Okay, Kiyo, you’re really confusing me now.”

“That’s too obvious,” Kiyoomi scoffs. Motoya gapes at him, as if he was being unreasonable. Anyone who ever romanced anyone in their life knows that being too desperate is an immediate turn off, and to Kiyoomi, knocking on someone’s door is on the same level as propositioning them. “You’re going to knock.”

Motoya’s jaw shuts with a click. He looks left, then he looks right, then he looks straight at Kiyoomi with the most bewildered look. “Me?”

Kiyoomi nods. “If you told him you’re worried about me and would like him to give me a tour, he’d do it.”

Motoya opens his mouth, presumably to protest. However, he closes it after a second, and a feat beats pass as he thinks, before he ultimately shrugs his shoulders, curling his lips up in a mischievous smirk. “I think you’re a little insane for this, but— and no offense— you’ve been boring all your life, so I’ve been praying for this moment.”

Atsumu opens the door. Or, that’s what Kiyoomi assumes he hears through his phone’s speakers.

Motoya had called him before he set off so he could listen in, and from the comfort of his own couch, he hears Motoya finally make use of his 3 years of attending theatre summer camp.

“—know it’s a lot to ask, but Kiyo-chan will forever be my little baby cousin and I just can’t stand the thought of him lost and alone in a big city!”

A vein pops in Kiyoomi’s forehead.

One that quickly goes away when Atsumu hums with understanding. “‘Course, Toya-kun. I’ll keep our Omi company.”

Our Omi. Kiyoomi wants this man badly.

“Thank you! And I’m sorry in advance if Kiyo seems a little prickly,” Motoya laughs, and Kiyoomi already knows the next thing that comes out of his mouth will embarrass him to no end. “But he truly does respect you as a setter. In our second year of high school, someone said you were full of yourself t practice and whew, let me tell you, he snapped! I mean, if that were me, I would’ve burst into tears right there. The poor kid almost quit the club the next day—”

Kiyoomi’s door slams open, from which Kiyoomi emerges holding Motoya’s backpack. Atsumu and Motoya turn their heads, one more gleeful than the other, as he holds Motoya’s stuff up. “Sorry. I was just about to throw out the trash.”

Motoya frowns a little before clearing his throat and nervously smiling at Atsumu. 

“Anyway, thanks again, Atsumu-kun. So sorry to cut this short,” Motoya says, side-eyeing Kiyoomi, “but I have to go catch the last train. I’m sure I’ll see you when we play against each other!”

Atsumu follows Motoya’s gaze towards Kiyoomi, smiling at him. “Can’t wait for it.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t think Atsumu was talking to Motoya anymore. In an attempt to hide his reddening cheeks, Kiyoomi clears his throat and raises his eyebrow to assert dominance once more. “Right. If you don’t mind, Miya, I have to send my cousin off now.”

Atsumu holds both his hands up with an easy smile, already stepping backwards into his apartment. “Alright, alright. I’ll letcha both go now. Have a good night, both of ya.”

“Bye, Atsumu-kun!” Motoya cheerily responds. 

Once the door shuts, Kiyoomi stalks over to Motoya and shoves his bag into his chest. “What was that.”

“The platinum tier of my wingman services,” Motoya says seriously, as if his made up words meant anything to Kiyoomi. “Be grateful. You got a free upgrade.”

“Does this platinum tier include embarrassing me in front of Atsumu?”

“Yep!”

“I hate you.”

──────────────────

The knock comes the moment Kiyoomi arrives home from the train station.

He shoots up from the couch, clambering towards the mirror in his doorway and trying to tame the frizz in his curls last-minute, before casually opening the door.

There stood Miya, looking warm and content with a boyish smile on his lips, ones that Kiyoomi just wants to stare at for the rest of his life.

“Your tour guide has arrived,” Miya says dramatically. “Ya need some time to get ready?”

Kiyoomi pauses before he shakes his head, lest he seem too excited. He pretends to look at his watch. “It’s a little too late for a city tour, Miya.”

“C’mon. Everyone knows the city thrives at night,” Miya reasons. “You of all people should’a known that, mister Tokyo college boy.”

“Right. So when we get mugged, I can blame it all on you?”

Miya laughs, lifting his hand to flex his bicep. His muscles tighten visibly, his shirt sleeve rolling up from the tension. Kiyoomi gulps. “Yer funny, Omi-kun. D’ya really think these guns of mine would ever let that happen?”

Before he registers his movements, he’s already grabbing his scarf and stepping out of his apartment. “Go get your coat and lead the way before I change my mind.”

“Coat?” Miya frowns. “It’s a lil’ too warm for that, Omi.”

“It’s Autumn.”

“Well, I’m hot.”

He sure is.

A beat passes before Kiyoomi shoulders past Atsumu, making his way towards the elevator doors. Behind him, Atsumu scurries to follow, barely making it into the elevator before it shuts.

“Wow,” Atsumu huffs, a teasing smile on his face. “Glad to see that yer so excited ‘bout spendin’ time with me,”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Ya really think that? ‘Cause I seem to recall a lil’ birdie tellin’ me that ya defended my honour when someone said the same—”

Kiyoomi sharply holds up a hand, twisting his head away to hide the burning tips of his ears. “Must you bring that up?”

Smugly, Atsumu leans back. “Ya won’t ever live it down, Omi-kun.”

The elevator doors slide open and Kiyoomi wastes no time stepping out into the deserted lobby, powering his way out of the apartment building. Atsumu, as he does in every way, matches his steps perfectly.

His spine trickles at the cold breeze that hits him the moment he’s outside. Kiyoomi chances a glance at Atsumu, who truly does seem unfazed about the chilly weather, even in a t-shirt.

Atsumu turns to him, face sculpted by the gentle light emanating from the lobby. Kiyoomi swallows, lest his heart attempts to jump out of his throat and beg to be held by Atsumu’s even gentler hands.

Wearing a small smile, he nudges Kiyoomi’s arm with his own. “Ya hungry?”

──────────────────

They ended up strolling down the riverside walkways of Dotonbori. While Kiyoomi was busy trying not to get too distracted by the sheer amount of people milling about, Atsumu pointed at the food stalls that he recommended.

“Me and ‘Samu ate at that one the night I moved in with the Jackals,” Atsumu recalled, as they looked toward the glistening waters of the river, already bursting out in uncontained laughter. “God, with the amount that scrub ate, ya would’a thought we never fed ‘im at all!”

Kiyoomi was entranced by his melodical laughter, but finds his wits just in time to conjure a response. “I’m guessing that explains the onigiri business?”

“Yep. Always been a foodie, that one. It’s a surprise he didn’t eat me in the womb.”

“Damn,” Kiyoomi deadpanned. “I could’ve lived a peaceful life.”

Atsumu raised an amused eyebrow, sending unease running down Kiyoomi’s spine. “Ya love to bluff, don’cha?”

Before Kiyoomi could ask what he meant by that, Atsumu turned away and exaggeratedly gestured towards an inconspicuous stall tucked between two other bustling shops.

It was a great night. So great, in fact, that the moment he bid Atsumu goodbye with as much nonchalance as his body would permit, he burst out into a face-splitting smile.

“It’s as I expected,” Kiyoomi cuts off Motoya’s greeting when he picks up the phone for their nightly debriefs. “Miya is the one.”

Motoya’s side is silent for a while, with only the sound of passing cars to stifle the quiet. It’s deafening, so much so that Kiyoomi feels inclined to end it himself, which he never does. But as he opens his mouth to pry a response out of his cousin, he’s abruptly stopped by a sharp intake of breath on the other line.

“Well,” Motoya starts, slowly. “Like I was about to say, you’re on speaker. This is really quite awkward now.”

Silence again.

Then, a horrifyingly familiar voice. 

“Hello to you too, Sakusa-kun,” Suna Rintarou says, his voice sounding way too delighted to be completely innocent. 

Kiyoomi’s brain grinds to a halt. “Ah.”

“Don’t worry! Rin won’t tell!” Motoya reassures. “Probably.”

“Right.” Kiyoomi pauses. “You’ll have to excuse me both. It’s time for me to curse my existence and scream into my pillow.”

“Wait, Kiyo! We’re not done!”

He hangs up.

──────────────────

Suna, to his credit, really doesn’t tell.

Which leaves Kiyoomi to continue setting the groundwork for what he insists is fate, along with his growing desire to know Atsumu.

Motoya continues to treat him like he’s grown another head, but with joy and an unsolicited eagerness to help out. Now that Suna’s there to feed some intel as a very close and trusted source, it gets easier to fabricate casual run-ins that would otherwise come scarcely.

It isn’t stalking if Kiyoomi just so happens to need a new bottle of tomato sauce at the same time that Atsumu makes a trip to the grocery store and they end up hauling their groceries back home together.

It isn’t stalking if Kiyoomi just so happens to step out of his apartment at the same time Atsumu leaves for his morning runs and they end up walking to practice in tandem.

But really, this time wasn’t Kiyoomi stalking at all when, by pure chance (and not orchestrated chance), he bumps into Atsumu at the 7-11 just a few blocks away from their building.

In all his glory, Atsumu stands in front of the freezers as he stares wide-eyed at Kiyoomi, who carries an assortment of cleaning products in his hold.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, breaking out into exasperated laughter. “You’re here too.”

“It seems so.” Kiyoomi blinks, then inspects Atsumu’s purchases nestled carefully in the basket that hangs on his arm. “Two tubs of ice cream.”

Atsumu smiles at Kiyoomi. It’s soft and fond and Kiyoomi almost shortcuts his brain trying to figure out why. “Yep. I was g’nna invite ya over for a move night. Couldn’t do that without havin’ somethin’ to snack on.”

“How did you know I liked mint chocolate chip?”

“I didn’t,” Atsumu smiles even wider. “Just thought you would’a liked something that tasted like toothpaste.”

With a scoff, Kiyoomi turns to walk towards the counter. He carefully places his items for the overworked college student behind the register, attempting to ignore Atsumu as he crams himself beside Kiyoomi.

“So is that a yes to comin’ over?” Atsumu asks, balancing the basket over the counter.

Kiyoomi hums in thought just to be annoying before shrugging dismissively. “I’ll think about it.”

“C’mon, Omi, ya love bein’ with me, just admit it.” Atsumu gets a little closer. From there, he could see a scar on Atsumu’s forehead, and his heart jumps in his chest. He so desperately wants to know how Atsumu got the scar. He so desperately wants to know Atsumu, to hold him, to love him.

Apart from volleyball, he doesn’t think he’s wanted anything more.

It all spills over in the dead of night on a random Thursday at the small 7-11 they pass by every morning. He feels it drip down his soaring, aching heart, down to the tips of his fingers that feel the touch of Atsumu’s tosses daily. He feels it on his lips, the ones that Atsumu draws secret smiles out of.

It tips, it overflows, and it forces Kiyoomi to strengthen his trembling limbs and hastily slam all the cash he has in his wallet before scooping his purchases up in order to stalk out of the store.

Behind him, Atsumu follows. Like he always does.

“Omi— fuck, hey, Omi!” Atsumu calls after him. He’s a little frenzied when he runs in front of Kiyoomi, blocking his escape. “What? I— what was that?”

“I planned it all.” Kiyoomi blurts out and immediately regrets it. But he’s said it, it’s out there, and Atsumu looks so confused that Kiyoomi believes he owes it to him to be honest in completion. “Our random meetings. I planned them.”

Atsumu furrows his brows. “Right.”

“My first night, I got Motoya to talk to you. It wasn’t—” Kiyoomi pauses, dropping his gaze. “We have a vacation home in Osaka.”

And then— silence.

He could practically hear his heart crack as it races, so fast it seems it’s trying to break out of his chest. But a weight lifts off his shoulders as he tells the truth, and he thinks that maybe, even if Atsumu writes him off as a weirdo and never talks to him again, it would be beneficial anyway—

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, tone unreadable and slow, breaking Kiyoomi out of his thoughts. He holds his breath. “I know.”

Pause.

“What.”

Atsumu breaks out into a smile. “I know.”

Kiyoomi is befuddled, to say the least. His brain can’t seem to keep up.

“I mean, it was kind of obvious. Toya-kun really isn’t as good of an actor as ya think he is. And it did get a lil’ suspicious when I saw ya everywhere.” Atsumu shrugs. “Plus, I ain’t dumb. I know when someone’s into me.”

Kiyoomi grits his teeth, embarrassed all the way to hell. He shakes his head, taking a step back.

Atsumu steps forward. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Kiyoomi says, glancing away. He attempts to shuffle back, but Atsumu continues to step towards him, matching his every move.

“Ya can’t walk away.”

“And why can’t I?”

“‘Cause you’re an idiot.” Atsumu responds flatly, holding a hand up at Kiyoomi’s offended glare. “And possibly blind too.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “I’ll have you know that I have 20/10 vision—”

“Then why can’t ya see that I’m so fuckin’ into ya too?” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi hears his reality shatter and his brain shut down.

All rationality and sense evacuates him as he freezes completely, staring at Atsumu before him standing illuminated under a streetlight.

He might throw up. He might start punching the air. He might do both at the same time.

But, alas:

“Wuh?” He intelligently says instead.

“I thought ya’d be happier that yer plan worked,” Atsumu teases. “I knew about it and still fell for it anyway, right at the beginning. Hook, line, and sinker. And ya know what I think?”

Kiyoomi gulps, attempting to grapple with everything laying out in front of him. With the last of his wits: “What do you think, Atsumu?”

“I think…” Atsumu steps forward, finally closing the remaining distance between them. “All ya had to do was ask me out.”

Kiyoomi stares into Atsumu’s eyes and remembers the very first time. A lifetime ago, a younger version of him meets Atsumu, separated by nothing by a volleyball net, and defines love as honey brown eyes and a challenging smirk.

“It’s been a long time since it started,” Kiyoomi says in the space between them. “You wouldn't have known me if I did.”

Atsumu, oddly, bursts out into soft laughter. “Yeah?”

Kiyoomi frowns at this. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“That’s ‘cause ya are,” Atsumu says through his fading laughter. “I’ve been into ya for much longer than ya’ve been chasin’ after me.”

“You haven't.” Kiyoomi declares. Then, he presses his lips into a thin line. “Have you?”

“Yep. Watched one of yer matches in middle school after we lost our match. Ya spiked through a three-person block with those nasty wrists of yers, I almost jumped the railing to get yer house number and had to be held back by my collar, and the rest is history.”

Kiyoomi huffs out a bewildered laugh. “No way.”

“Ya can believe it or not,” Atsumu says, raising his hand to skirt his fingertips over Kiyoomi’s jaw. “But if ya don’t kiss me right now, I think I might die.”

Kiyoomi laughs even harder, smiling until his cheeks hurt from joy and the warmth of Atsumu in his arms.

And of course, he obliges.

──────────────────

“That was kind of rude,” Komori Motoya mutters on the other side of the net, but not silent enough to avoid being heard by the subject itself.

Osamu guffaws like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Ya oughta be nicer to our opponents. That’s why ya ain’t got no friends.”

Atsumu doesn’t grace him with a response. He’s too busy trying to stifle the blush that climbs up into his face at the intense stares from the boy he’s been obsessed with since before he knew what a crush was.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, a killer hitter with an even killer face and wonderful eyes. He thinks he might be a little nauseous.

“Hey. What the fuck is wrong with ya?” Osamu says, now concerned instead of amused, snapping his fingers in Atsumu’s face.

“‘Samu,” Atsumu says, straightening up with a newfound determination. “I’m gonna fuckin’ marry him.”

Osamu pauses. Turns his head to face to Kiyoomi. Then, scrunches his face up in pure disgust. “Here ya go again. I swear to shit, it’s always the same thing with ya— Sakusa this, Sakusa that! Ya haven’t even talked to each other!”

“Just watch, then,” Atsumu insists as the whistle blows, signaling them to get into position. “Watch.”

“I will,” Osamu scoffs, shooting out a hand to drag Atsumu onto the court.

Atsumu stares at the mop of curly hair before him. Kiyoomi is stretching his wrists with a slight pout, and even though his uniform is a ghastly colour, he’s the most beautiful thing Atsumu has ever seen. 

And, under his breath, he mutters:

“He’s the one.”