Archive of Our Own

He learns several lessons from Rihoko. He is twelve, when he learns one of the most formative ones. Rihoko is eighteen, and she has returned from college in the US. His parents were happy. She was majoring in business. He doesn't tell them she's also majoring in fashion. But Rihoko is eighteen and she's back. And she brings back a packet of multicoloured sweets called Sour Patch Kids.

Kiyoomi loves sour things. And he loves Sour Patch Kids the most. He tears open the packet and eats them all in one sitting, so when he wakes up the next day with a terrible, radiating pain in his jaw and his teeth, he cries. He cries and he cries and he cries until Rihoko comes to his room and she lets him rest his head in her lap as she massages his head and gently tugs at his curls. Her hair is like his except longer and softer. Everything about Rihoko is better, but he can't hate her. Not when she teaches him and cares for him in a way no one does. Not even their parents.

"The thing about sweets is that they're an indulgence, Kiyo. Can't have too much of a good thing."

But Sour Patch Kids are just so good. A good thing can't be bad for him. 

So Kiyoomi decides that he's the bad one. Some people just can't have good things. Can't be trusted with joy or relief or any sort of happiness. All he could do was ruin it for himself. This is what he learns when he is twelve.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is now sixteen and he is acutely reminded of the Sour Patch Kids. He's at the Youth Training Camp and he sees Miya Atsumu. He is loud, cocky and abrasive, and he shouldn't intrigue him. But you can't choose the people that catch your eye. He wishes he could. He would have chosen anyone else, probably a girl, just for the ease of it. Then, he could at least learn to love whichever woman his parents arrange for him to marry. But he's lucky, because Rihoko has agreed to marry Iori. He's rich like them, richer, actually. And although he's polite and Rihoko jokes with him, he knows she's doing it to uphold duty.

He wishes he had a duty to uphold. He wishes he had anything to hold him back from indulging in these fantasies. They're not sexual. They're not even really romantic. It's a weird form of curiosity, getting close to Miya with his kansai-ben and horrible personality.

But you can't choose who you're drawn to and it's unfortunate that he is so cliche. The loud boy. The boy with thick, muscled thighs and a raspy drawl. Kiyoomi finds himself staring. Motoya calls it glaring, but he can't really change how he looks. 

"You look like you want to set him on fire." Motoya says, worried. He takes him by the shoulders and pulls him away, out of sight of Miya.

He supposes it's true. He kind of does want to set him on fire but it's only fair. Atsumu himself is a wildfire. He's heat in its extreme. He's uncontainable. Kiyoomi thinks people are dumb for thinking otherwise, telling him to be more polite, be more soft-spoken. But in doing so feels like a sin. Miya cannot contain himself as the world cannot contain him either. Not tending towards infinity, but infinity. He's not just heat in its extreme, he is extreme in itself. It's difficult, being in his own brain. Verbalising any of this would possibly put him in places he'd rather not be. So instead, he says:

"No I don't." And turns the other way.

When the whistle blows, he has to force his eyes to pull themselves off Miya and his shitty dye job like he doesn't steal the air out of a room with his voice. Like he isn't everything Kiyoomi shouldn't have but wants. This all of course, goes to absolute shit when they're on the same team. Because Miya Atsumu is an invasive species, who takes his closed off, prickly exterior as a challenge to crack through. Kiyoomi is not interested in cracking.

He worms his way to Kiyoomi’s side with a glint in his eye that he doesn't trust and he shouldn’t entertain.

"Woah Sakusa-kun, yer wrists are freaky!"

Kiyoomi feels something weird in his stomach as he looks over at him in disgust. 

"Thanks." He replies sarcastically. Christ, he hates him. He doesn't. But liking someone doesn't mean tolerating them.

"No, I really meant it! Damn, ya must be able ta get some insane spin on that."

It's quite a simple deduction. It is. But he feels the sensation of his blood fizzing like it's carbonated when he thinks for a moment about how Miya is analysing him, noting him, figuring out how to use him. It's off-putting. It has to be. Because if it's anything else, this will end in flames. 

"I do." He says instead. 

Hitting his spikes is easy. Too easy. The ball is delivered to him exactly how he wants it and it feels like hand holding. It feels like Miya Atsumu has studied him and knows exactly what he wants when he doesn't. Miya can't know what Kiyoomi wants when he doesn't know it himself. 

On paper it's easy. He wants umeboshi onigiri. He wants to get good grades. He wants to win Nationals. But these are all short-term wants. Kiyoomi doesn't quite know what he wants in the long term. He knows he'll probably need to go to university. He needs to continue volleyball. But these are things that he won't shake on. They're needs. He doesn't know what he wants.

Miya is sticking to him. Kiyoomi wants to peel him off and shake him. He watches Kiyoomi as he picks off the skin from his salmon. 

“But the skin’s the best part!” Atsumu argues. 

Kiyoomi’s face scrunches up. “It’s weird. The texture.”

Miya hums as if he understands, except he knows he doesn’t. But then he carefully picks the skin off of Kiyoomi’s plate and eats it whole. Kiyoomi’s eyes trace the way the chopsticks retract from his mouth in a grotesque way. He stares and he stares, he studies the way Atsumu’s throat moves when he swallows and Kiyoomi’s face flushes because absolutely not. He can’t. He won’t.

“That’s disgusting.”

Miya sticks his tongue out in an embarrassingly petulant way. Kiyoomi looks away to hide a tiny smile. He’s half way through his lunch when he stands up to go get water and finds himself bringing back two glasses like it’s normal. Like it’s what he’s always done.

When he places one glass in front of Miya, he looks up at him wide-eyed and trusting. Kiyoomi feels like a bad person. He shouldn’t have his trust. 

“Thanks, Omi-omi.”

Kiyoomi’s brows furrow. 

“Omi? Are you referring to me?”

Miya laughs like it’s obvious. “Obviously? Who else?”

Anyone else. Miya Atsumu. Atsumu, should like anyone else. Anyone less fucked up. This makes Kiyoomi laugh, bark out a sharp noise of pure amusement, because of course Atsumu would look at someone so rough and full of hurt and reduce him to childish affection. It’s so pure. It isn’t him. He isn’t Omi.

 Atsumu cracks a toothy smile. “What, it’s a good nickname!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“How’d ya know my middle name?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head with a sigh, Atsumu grins victoriously, as though he’s won the jackpot. Kiyoomi knows that he’s doomed himself, and a mischievous faux-blond in tow.

Kiyoomi feels Motoya watching him with a keen eye. He’s one of the most reserved people Motoya knows, so he imagines that seeing him willingly (semi-willingly in all honesty) interact with someone, letting them touch him, letting him call him that ridiculous nickname; it’s akin to Halley's comet. Atsumu hurtles across the sky in a streak of blue and orange, painting Kiyoomi’s void unapologetically. And Kiyoomi feels this in a single gaze, underlined by the tilt of his cousin’s head when he asks; 

“You’re going to extra practice? With Miya-kun?”

Kiyoomi nods. It is a shameful admission. Motoya whistles in disbelief. 

“That’s really unexpected of you.”

“I agree.”

“Well, have fun?”

Motoya clearly doesn’t know how to feel about this. Kiyoomi does. Dread. With a hanging head and trudging legs, he ends up in the gymnasium. 

The boy is sweaty. He’s clearly been here for hours, and seems to be perfecting his serve. It’s wicked fast and powerful, but not as powerful as his own. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t call attention to himself, instead, sees this as an opportunity to let him stare. He watches as Atsumu exerts himself completely, pouring energy into his run-up and serve like it's his last chance. It’s exhausting to watch. He can’t take his eyes off him. He tosses, and everything looks fine until he hits and it’s weak, the angle his hand hits the ball is odd and it sends everything off kilter. He’s trying to masquerade a topspin as a jump floater and Kiyoomi has never seen anything like it, like it’s sorcery. Atsumu is frustrated. He groans painfully and kicks the ground, yelping at the pain of him hitting himself. Kiyoomi smiles to himself, knowing he’s being mean and sadistic. Atsumu goes back, and takes a deep breath, stilling the buzzing energy in himself before beginning the run up. 

It’s slower. The ball is higher. 

Slam!

In that moment, Kiyoomi wonders why Atsumu is trying to make something like that work. It’s unnecessary and nothing if not for show. Why does he strive to be hurt? Why does he hurt himself? Why does he try to take on the role of a mad scientist, trying to manipulate not only the players, but by extension, the game itself?

He supposes that is just how Atsumu is. 

“Good serve. New one?”

Atsumu blinks and turns to him, startled. Kiyoomi awkwardly holds the forearm of his other hand because being watched makes him want to scrape his insides. 

“Yeah!” The smile is blinding, prideful. “Probably isn’t gonna be ready fer Nationals, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Hmm.” He nods. “So what kind of spike are we going to try out?”

Atsumu’s smile changes to a sly, sadistic one. “Ya know about zero tempo?”

Kiyoomi’s eyebrows firmly knit together. “Yes.” But zero tempo is common. It’s not the most intuitive or easy but it’s nothing new. 

“I wanna try it while swappin’ places. I want ya ta be my setter.”

And they do try. They don’t get it. Not once. It’s always Kiyoomi tossing just a little too early or Atsumu jumping too high or just a complete mess ending with Atsumu falling on his ass and Kiyoomi tangled in the net. It’s frustrating. They’re both working but it’s like they’re pushing on opposite ends of a heavy object, expecting it to move in  one direction. They’re tired, so tired, and it’s the second last day of the camp.  

“Fuck!” Kiyoomi exhales sharply.

Atsumu’s pulling at his hair. “Goddamn it. I really thought we had it then.”

Kiyoomi goes over to the side and gets his bottle of water. He digs into Atsumu’s bag and throws his bottle to him, landing in an outstretched hand.

“Thanks.”

Kiyoomi settles on the gymnasium floor and stares at the net, his newest enemy. Atsumu settles beside him. They’re shoulder to shoulder, Atsumu staring up at the gym lights. The silence is comfortable, and Kiyoomi hesitates for a moment, but leans against the boy beside him. 

Atsumu gasps ever so slightly. He looks at Kiyoomi with stars in his eyes and cheeks flushed ever so slightly against tan, freckled skin. He leans back, gently. Carefully. 

“I thought ya didn’t like people touchin’ ya.”

Kiyoomi grits his teeth. He tries for a snarky tone. He fails. It’s tender.

“Don’t think.”

Atsumu smiles softly. His eyes have this lazy ease to them and the weight against him is the best thing he’s felt in years.

“Thank you for joining us for the Youth camp. We’ll be reaching out to you throughout the year, so keep an eye on your inboxes. We’ll have one last practice before we leave tonight at six. You’re dismissed.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes linger on Atsumu, how he rests his hands on his knees, standing at an angle, tired from their practice match. A towel drapes over his shoulders and dangles off his neck. 

“Sure you want to set him on fire Kiyo? ‘Cause it’s looking like he’s got you in flames already.”

Kiyoomi’s head whips around to Motoya and he freezes. 

Because fuck . 

He’d been too careless. 

“I don’t know what you’re implying.” He folds in on himself. “But I- I’m not-”

Motoya laughs. “Come on, the way you look at him? Don’t lie to yourself.” he walks off. 

Kiyoomi stands in place. He’s aware of every hair on his arms and movement in his body. The world is very, very quiet for a moment. He needs to run away, to figure this out because he wasn’t supposed to like him. He wasn’t supposed to-

Shit. Atsumu was coming towards him. He approaches him like Kiyoomi’s his prey, stalking him. He speaks easily. This is not easy.

"So... camp is nearly done."

"An astute observation." Kiyoomi says with shoulders tensed.

"What do ya say we go hang out? Get ramen?"

Kiyoomi looks at him as though he suggested he cut off his own head. "And why would I agree to that?"

"Because ya like me."

Time doesn't freeze but it doesn't exactly flow either. It's an amorphous solid, like glass. Slowing down so much so that the average person wouldn't realise it's moving. It is though, because Kiyoomi's heartbeat speeds and he can hear it and feel it against his chest. He feels naked. Atsumu's peeled back a layer of him that has hardened to protect himself, one that most people don't bother themselves with trying to understand and that's really the issue. People have to try to understand him, but Atsumu reads him easily, like a bedtime story. Like Kiyoomi isn't a person written in incomprehensible, thesaurus-origin words. 

Kiyoomi realises just how long it takes for him to respond. He doesn't want to. He wants to pick out the words with the tips of his fingers from an infinite stream. He wants to give Atsumu an answer but he doesn't know what to do. There's fight, flight and freeze. 

Kiyoomi has taught himself to fight.

"What? No." He steps back and feels his face harden.

Atsumu steps closer, invading his space. "Come on, Omi-kun. I know ya like me. Ya keep starin' all the time. You aren't exactly what they call subtle."

"God, you think everyone's obsessed with you Miya. I said no. Leave me alone, I'm not like you. I'm straight and this? Is fucking weird. Creep." Kiyoomi takes a step back and everything is acidic and burning him all over. It spills over onto Atsumu whose face falls. It's a poor excuse for indifference. He tries to look stone-faced and unfeeling but he isn't like Kiyoomi who's had the practice of portraying it. No, Miya Atsumu's hurt expression is clear from the way his lips part in disbelief, in the way his eyes are wide and brows furrow slightly in disbelief, crestfallen. It's bad, to see him. It's worse to know he caused it. It's the worst however, to know he's turned him into this based on a lie because he does like him. But he can't.

For both of their sakes, he pushes past Atsumu to get to his room where it's just Komori and himself. Where he's safe from lazy smiles and hooded eyes. Where he’s safe from a boy whose sole purpose is tearing down cinder block walls. 

Kiyoomi is seven when he hears Rihoko humming to herself as she walks down the corridor. She emerges from her room for a drink of water, she doesn’t like asking the maids. “I have hands,” she says. “I can use them too.” She brings warmth into the living room. He’s sitting at the piano and struggling to get his arpeggios to staccato.

She walks up to him and wordlessly ruffles his hair. This is common. He doesn't fight it. Mother is reading on the sofa. Father is in Hong Kong.

"How was school?" She asks. 

Kiyoomi shrugs. He lifts his wrist elegantly, like his piano teacher taught him to.

"Nakamura-kun and Takamaki-kun are boyfriends now so he doesn't play volleyball with me anymore."

Rihoko opens her mouth, but mother is quicker.

“Don’t say things like that, Kiyoomi. They aren’t gay.”

Kiyoomi looks up at her, confused. He wants to ask why that’s a bad thing. He’s heard the word before, a couple times on the TV he watches with Rihoko, the American one with the singing.

“Mom, you don’t know that.” Rihoko crosses her arms.

“Don’t encourage this delusion, child. It’s a disease. It’s not natural.”

“Mom!” Rihoko’s eyes are wide and she looks upset.

A disease? Kiyoomi doesn’t want to be sick. He hates being sick. He hates germs and contamination. He wears his mask when he goes out, and he always uses hand sanitiser. No, he refuses to be sick.

“Don’t tell me you’re encouraging this, Rihoko. Just watch. Give it a few days, they’ll realise they’re just confused.”

Kiyoomi tries not to think about it but when Nakamura comes up to him later, Kiyoomi turns away. Because Nakamura is sick and Kiyoomi can’t be sick too. Gay people  are really sick. And if they’re not sick, they’re confused. Kiyoomi doesn’t want to be confused. He doesn’t want to be gay. It’s not natural. So Kiyoomi learns that he doesn’t want to be gay.

Time passes like how glass moves. Slowly and in invisible motions until you look at it and realise everything has changed. Kiyoomi tries not to think about a boy with brown eyes that shine honey-gold in the sun, of how he talked to him like he wasn't a difficult person until he made it so. Of how, out of most people who interacted with Kiyoomi he did so without thinking he's a prickly bastard. Though he might just be right. He does his best to avoid him and he's lucky they don't have any matches by virtue of being several hundreds of kilometres apart. A part of him misses the kansai-ben, its rough edges that used to brush up against him in familiar friction despite harbouring words he's never heard and understands through context alone.

Third year is difficult. Kiyoomi spends a lot of time in his room, alone. He delves deep into research about himself, googling embarrassing thoughts he’d prefer to gatekeep, and resolutions that leave him feeling heavy and numb at the same time. His secret hurts, scraping the insides of his throat with iron claws, and pulling his lungs into his stomach. But his secret is one that is echoed and bounces, even though it is unspoken, off of an immovable object he never expected.

“I like boys. I’ve known for a while.”

Kiyoomi just stares. 

“What?”

Motoya is scared. Kiyoomi is shocked. 

“I’m gay, Kiyoomi.”

He doesn’t say anything, because how is he supposed to react to something like this? That someone else he loves is the one thing he’s been taught is nothing but hurt. Motoya isn’t confused, he’s sure. He is so sure that he repeats it over and over until the word ‘gay’ loses its meaning. Until it is nothing but a foreign sounding syllable. Motoya is shaking, and Kiyoomi wants to hold him so badly it hurts. He walks away instead. 

He sits on his bed, replaying Motoya’s words, his shaking hands, his scared face and eyes full of uncertainty. And he realises that no one, no one should feel that. And so an hour later he runs to Motoya’s house. It’s not far. When he rings the doorbell, the help answers and Motoya is at the door with brown eyes unable to mask the fear thrumming beneath. 

Kiyoomi hugs him and cries. Because Motoya isn’t contaminated or sick or anything but family. He grips his t-shirt tightly, because he’s afraid he'll slip away. Motoya is still, shocked. They don’t do hugs, they never have. 

“Wha- Kiyo?”

“I’m sorry.” He chokes out through sobs and hiccups, “I love you so much. Thank you for telling me.”

Motoya hugs him back with even more fervour. He feels him shake, and the tell-tale feeling of tears on his shoulder as his cousin, his sweet, caring cousin buries his head in the crook of his neck. This moment is warm, and Kiyoomi hopes that someday when he tells someone, it’ll be warm like this too.

And soon enough it's Nationals. 

Kiyoomi knows this from the way the air smells of salonpas and sweat, from the way his skin thrums intensely, from the way he sticks to the corner of the crowded room, Komori firmly by his side. Third year already. It scares him. This is his last shot to win finals and he's determined to win it all. As the top spiker in the country, the way people look at him, depending on him, it's a weight he's never figured out how to carry gracefully. Kiyoomi is not a graceful creature.

He lives by a series of rules. Rules are easy, he likes them. It's why he likes maths and physics. It's why he hates art and literature. He needs limits or he'll shut down.

He also knows saying any of this would be bad. He used to say them aloud, but people got worried. They didn't need to. It's just how he is.

And now they're at game point in the semi-finals. It's the worst feeling in the world.

Inarizaki is a well-oiled machine, throwing new things at them the second they have a window. They stole two sets from them and they're down to the fifth, neck and neck. Kiyoomi's been in good condition but he's tired, he can't help it. His muscles start to feel weakened from use. It's not that Itachiyama isn't strong on their own, it's that bulk of  their strategy is reliant on him and it's isn't working out after two back-to-back games of five sets each. It burns in a familiar way all over. He steals a glance at the scoreboard. 28-29.

His spike ricochet's off their libero's forearms, and Kiyoomi curses himself for thinking the opening wasn't a trap because the ball is bumped high into the air. He glances at the players. The tall brunette is on the court, he's probably who they want him to look at, but the shorter number six’s run up looks convincing. Almost convincing enough to make him disregard Osamu who's got the perfect timing for a minus tempo quick.

This all, of course, is meaningless, as when he jumps to block Osamu, the other twin sends the briefest narrowed-eyed look as the setter dumps the ball just out of reach. Kiyoomi tilts his body the other way, stretching his toes in hopes that they grow just enough to get the ball in the air but the deed is done and the match is over. He doesn't even hear the whistle, he's lost in Atsumu's stare that's painted in disdain and triumph and Kiyoomi sees the hurt clear across his face. He looks up at him, an angle he isn't used to. It's personal. That win was Atsumu's alone. 

He stands, as the Inarizaki team cheer and grab each other in joy. Atsumu keeps his eyes trained on him as he rises. He feels shame. It floods into his veins and synapses, crashing against the tide of his skin sending vibrations. Kiyoomi thinks of something to say, but he can't even look at him. Atsumu's gaze lingers for a moment before turning to join his team. 

When they shake hands beneath the net, it's barely for a moment, but Kiyoomi feels the rough, calloused hands of a setter's and wonders how the touch manages to still be so gentle. His eyes are firmly planted on Atsumu's shoes that are a little more worn out than he'd expected. He quickly moves to shake the next person's hand, still looking down when the grip tightens and he looks up.

Miya Osamu is Atsumu's identical twin, but they aren't really identical. Because Osamu's eyes are a cold grey. 

"Fix yer shit with my brother."

His jaw clenches. It's really too much for him today. Too many people, too much touching, too much noise. In an empty hallway he squeezes hand sanitiser between his palms, rubbing furiously. He moves his hand to rub his eye and gets a bit in, causing a painful sting. It hurts so much. He can't even touch his eye now, blinking furiously as tears streak down his cheeks. He clutches his chest and tilts his head back, hyperventilating in quiet panic.

"The fuck are ya doin'?"

This is the last person he needs to see.

"Leave me alone."

"Yeah I got that and whatever. But ya look like shit and it's kind of pathetic."

Kiyoomi looks through the eye that isn't burning through his cornea. Atsumu has his hands in his jacket pockets and awkwardly kicks his leg.

"Sanitiser in my eye."

"Don't ya gotta rinse that out?"

Kiyoomi nods vaguely, eyes screwed shut. He hears a brief sigh and feels calloused hands tug at his forearm down the hall. He follows obediently. A part of him is convinced that Miya is going to murder him, but the rational majority of his brain allows himself to be led down the granite flooring to the clinical, chlorinated smell of the bathroom. 

“I’m gonna tilt yer head because I need to put it under the sink.”

He nods and setter hands gently grip the sides of his face. Setter hands are nice, They’re nimble yet strong. Setter fingertips could heal or ruin someone. They’re ruining Kiyoomi. Atsumu could be a very good pianist.

 His head is led down to the sink and he pries his eye open. It burns. It burns as water meets it at this weird angle. Atsumu holds his head with a firm grip now and after a few seconds, leads him back up. Kiyoomi can’t see all that well, but he tries to avoid the spout as he manoeuvres himself. Vaguely he hears Atsumu tear a few sheets of paper towels and hand it to him. Kiyoomi dabs at his eye and tries so desperately to still his heart, slow his breathing.

He feels words pull themselves out of his throat. He tries to fight it. But he’s had a lot of self discovery, and a lot of influences that aren’t his parents. He owes it to him.

"I'm not straight." He says, tears running down his eyes, mostly from the sanitiser.

"I don't care."

Kiyoomi swallows. "You're the first person I'm telling."

Atsumu's jaw clenches, he takes the paper towel and dabs at the corner of his reddened eyes. "Okay. Happy for you. Don't care."

And that seems about right.

One lesson he learns is when he's eight. Kiyoomi hears screaming from the living room and has the self preservation to stay inside his bedroom and study. Or pretend to study so if his parents come in, they won't get even more angry. But what tells him this time is different is when he hears Rihoko. When she's getting yelled at, she's usually quiet. She takes it. And then she moves on. He hears sobbing, loud wails pulled from her throat and so when he hears running and her bedroom door shut, he knocks on the door so she knows it's him. Their parents never knock.

She doesn't respond. 

Eight year old Kiyoomi peels the door open. She looks bad. Her face is all puffy with tear tracks running down. One cheek is redder than the other, with a faint imprint of a palm. 

"Hoko?" He sounds small. He sounds horrified. He sounds worried. He puts his hand against her cheek and he wants to absorb this. All of this. He wants to take her hurt even if he has to feel it too. “What happened?”

"Don’t worry Kiyo." She doesn’t look at him, but she’s cried a lot. 

“Please don’t fight with them.” He begs. Kiyoomi can’t see her like this. “Father gets mad, and then I can’t come out of my room because he’ll yell at me.”

She cracks the faintest smile. “You can stay here, it’s fine.”

He likes hiding with Rihoko. Even if they don’t leave, she’ll tell him all about high school and her friends and it’s like their parents don’t exist. Rihoko looks at him sadly, like Kiyoomi’s about to die. She puts her hand in his hair and massages his curls. She swallows.

 "If you're gay, or trans or anything else. Please. Just don't let them find out."

Years pass in a montage of motion blur. In his last year of university, Kiyoomi realises he’s been focusing so much on his business major requirements that he still has general education classes left. So yes, he’s in American Fiction for some god forsaken reason. He doesn’t want to be here, and the book they’re doing doesn’t interest him at all. ‘Winesburg, Ohio’ is the last thing Kiyoomi wants to be doing while running from classes to volleyball practices every day. He’s half asleep at 8 AM on a Wednesday when Dr. Sabatelli says something that he doesn’t understand, but makes him feel weightless, and like the threads in his brain were untangled and played like a harp.

“The idea is that there are truths in the world. People should like you. Think before you speak. And these are truths, but when you take a truth, and claim it for yourself, it turns into a lie. It’s the reason why we hate people pleasers, why those who claim to be god-fearing people cause wars and violence in the name of the divine. When you claim a truth for yourself, you become a liar and that makes you a grotesque.”

All of a sudden Kiyoomi’s insides churn and he wants to throw up. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know why he feels this way. He doesn’t know what his truth is. But he knows that he’s a liar and he’s most certainly a grotesque.

There’s a lesson he teaches himself when he’s five. He tries to go on the swing even though mother tells him not to. He goes so high up, and the way his body leaps out when he reaches the very top and the speed it gives him makes him feel superhuman.

But the harsh smack that meets his cheek hurts.

“Kiyoomi, you will listen to me. Or your life is going to be very difficult.”

Rihoko did not learn this. which is why when she tries to tell their parents that she doesn’t want to go to university when he’s ten and she is given a thick SAT prep book and a three hour long “counselling” session, she receives the same reminder. When she leaves for America, she’s sullen. 

But when she returns, she’s changed. Her hair has so many layers, the volume astounds him. Her clothes are different too. He’s never seen her in tank tops that hug her body like that, or big baggy pants that the cool guys from the city wear.

“I’m also majoring in fashion design. Yeah I have to listen to them, but as long as I have that business degree, I can do whatever I want.”

And he remembers this as he breaks the news to his parents that he wants to pursue volleyball professionally, softening the blow by assuring them that he’ll do it while majoring in business. He still leaves the room with a red cheek, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it once did. Maybe because they’re happy with his decision to go to university. Maybe because he’s stronger.

Karma comes to him in the form of two offers from two teams and a decision that should be a no-brainer. 

The Adlers have Wakatoshi. Wakatoshi who is reasonable and strong. They have Kageyama and Hoshiumi. Everyone there is incredible. They’ve won three years in a row. All he has to do is sign. 

His gut twists. 

He doesn’t know why he signs with the Jackals. But he does it anyway.

“This is Sakusa Kiyoomi. As most of you may know, he was the MVP of the university division volleyball nationals. He’ll be an outside hitter.”

He bows. Mainly to be polite. Partially to avoid eye contact with honey brown eyes that stare from arms crossed and jaws clenched. 

He’s instantly gripped by firm hands and an overwhelming amount of energy. 

“Woah! I can’t believe you joined us.” Bokuto lifts him up. It takes everything in Kiyoomi’s body not to instantly writhe out of the grip. He forces himself to be civil.

“Thank you for having me.”

Bokuto puts him down and he begins learning the names of the team one by one. Coach Foster is warm but firm, and from his discussions regarding his contract, he learns that he’s the most reasonable coach he’s had. Bokuto, of course, is a familiar face. He’s definitely intense, and like an overexcited dog, but he’s matured since his days in high school where he’d have waves of demotivation. Barnes is reliable and consistent in everything he does, giving Kiyoomi his space to set his boundaries. Tomas is enthusiastic. Not as much as Bokuto, which is a relief, but seems to be a beam of energy, contrasted by Meian, who is subdued but clearly a pillar of strength. Inunaki seems to be friendly but also has an air of mischief about him that Kiyoomi instinctively wants to stay clear of. 

And then there’s the elephant in the room. His eyes haven’t left Kiyoomi, staring at him, glaring at him. Kiyoomi wants to shrink under it, fold himself into half a thousand times so that Atsumu couldn’t see him. They don’t practise much, instead opting to let everyone socialise and go over strategy for the upcoming season. The Jackals don’t play it safe, and instead of focusing on consistency, they value innovation. Kiyoomi wonders just how he’s going to settle in here. 

They’re dismissed after two hours and He watches the retreating figure of a twenty two year old Miya Atsumu.

He looks good. 

God, he looks delicious. Finally the piss-coloured dye job seems to be rectified into a soft, pale blonde that’s wavy and textured. It frames his face and sharper features. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Kiyoomi wants to be slaughtered. His back is wide and strong but those thighs? Fuck. Those thighs. He’s certainly quite the looker, and Kiyoomi can’t take his eyes off him. He follows the man, trailing behind like in a trance. The words tumble out of his lips clumsily.

"Atsumu." He says uncertainly. Atsumu looks back. "You look well." 

He scoffs. "Yeah yeah, fuck you." 

"I'm serious. You've grown up well."

Atsumu looks at him, distrusting. "I don't doubt that. Thanks, Sakusa."

The "Sakusa" hits him like a truck. He was shutting him out. Atsumu slipped his headphones on and turned away to leave the gym. Kiyoomi stepped towards him. 

"Wait!"

His hair was more of a blonde than a yellow now, toned and even. He styled it well. He watches as his hair falls naturally, headphones descending around his neck. "What?"

"Would you... like to get dinner sometime?" Kiyoomi stares at him with wide eyes, hopeful. Such a look was not returned. 

"Yer asking me ta dinner? As yer teammate?"

Kiyoomi swallows. "No. As a date."

Time stops. It doesn't, but it turns to glass, always flowing even if you can't see it. He sees it, disbelief painted in Atsumu's eyes in shades of gold and brown. Flying out of his irises in ribbons and constricting him. His mouth is parted and he changes expressions several times, lashes fluttering as he blinks rapidly. The words pulled from his throat sound like sandpaper.

"Sakusa. You fuckin' broke my heart as a kid. Ya... ya ruined me for months. Ya stared at me, brought me water, laughed at my jokes and convinced me I could be the kinda person that people liked only ta rip it from me. I opened up ta ya, only for you to make me feel like shit for ever liking a boy. So no, I'm not goin' out with you."

He grits his teeth. "I'm not the person I was years ago."

Atsumu's expression hardens. "And how am I supposed to believe that?"

Kiyoomi looks at him with a desperate pleading expression that had never graced his face before. He moves forward. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t apologise earlier, but I’m doing it now. And I have changed. Don’t go on a date with me yet. But let me prove it to you.”

Atsumu tears his gaze away and it looks like it hurts. It probably does. Kiyoomi probably looks pathetic, but Atsumu looks back and swallows like he’s aware he’s about to make a bad decision. 

“Ya better prove me wrong, Omi.”

It feels like meeting in the middle.

Things are going well. 

They aren’t, but they’re better than how they were. Kiyoomi will take it. 

He lets Atsumu initiate any conversation. He lets Atsumu be the one to invite him to work out, to spot him in the gym. Kiyoomi is no stranger to boundaries. It’s so slow. It’s like Tantalus with his legs stuck in the river, fruit hanging above him. Always hungry, always out of reach. But Kiyoomi remains constantly reaching, hoping that one day he will be able to touch him. No matter how long it’ll be.

It gets bad though. He doesn’t call for tosses. He wants to be one with the gymnasium floor. He waits, he waits and he waits for Atsumu to call out “Omi!” or even “Sakusa!” but every time the ball reaches the setter’s fingertips, it goes flying to someone else. This doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Miya, I need to see you toss to Sakusa.” Foster calls out.

“Sure.” Atsumu says. 

They begin the next rally, and Kiyoomi is half-expecting a lacklustre, easy slow toss. Then, very quickly, he learns to never expect anything from Atsumu, because the look in his eyes spells danger. It spells paragraphs of dancing over the edge of a cliff, spinning Kiyoomi as his legs dangle precariously over a massive drop. It paints pictures of standing beneath an anvil and waiting for the drop, knowing it’s coming for you. 

And so when Atsumu sets at minus tempo, it makes every muscle in Kiyoomi’s body tense up like never before. He’s in awe, honestly. He feels like he should have expected it, but then again, Atsumu is beyond expectation. 

“What kind of toss was that?” Foster berrates Atsumu. 

Their eyes meet in a challenge, but Atsumu’s aren’t human. They’re lidded yet sharp, not a glint of light as he sees through Kiyoomi’s eyes and straight into his soul.

“He knows.” They’re fox’s eyes.

 This lesson is new. 

The words taste… metallic. He’s rehearsed them over and over. He remembers being eight and how they reacted when Rihoko told them. But he is not eight anymore. He is twenty one, but he’s still scared. Scared that though he’s grown, his mother hasn’t. 

He hasn’t seen Father in a long time. They barely have a connection, really, besides blood. So he calls mother as usual, once a week. She makes small talk, asks about how the job search is going, muttering that he should be looking in the finance field, not sports. But that topic is strained. They both know they’ll get nowhere with it. 

“You’re of age now, Kiyoomi. It’s time you start thinking about the future.” She says coldly. She always was so cold. “The Makoto girl, she’s only two years younger than you.”

“Mother, I haven't even met her.” Kiyoomi tries to gently coax her. 

“She’s very polite. She’s in Claremont McKenna and their family just opened a factory in the South and-”

Kiyoomi feels like he’s underwater. His mothers words are dampened by his heartbeat. The words fight against his teeth, and he says it before he can second-guess himself. Or a hundredth-guess.

“I’m not interested in women.”

They leave his mouth and he can’t taste them anymore. There’s silence. Then a laugh.

“You can’t be serious, Kiyoomi.”

“I am. I’ve known for a while now.” 

There’s a second where he has hope in the quiet. Where he hopes she will take a deep sigh and at least arrange a marriage with a successful rich bachelor. But a second is just that, a second.

“You ungrateful child!” Mother hisses back into the phone. “So many years, taking you to volleyball, to cram school, paying for your college! Your father and I poured our hard-earned money into making sure you had the best and you’re going to throw it all away? On this nonsense?”

“You didn’t pay for university, I went on a full athletic scholarship.” He fights the lump in his throat. 

“Are you talking back to me? Your own mother? I can’t believe you’ve gone and become a homosexual.”

“I haven’t become anything, I’m not different. I’m still Kiyoomi. I’m still your son.” He pleads. 

“No son of mine would ever do this to me.”

He feels eight years old again as the phone cuts out. He’s scared and unsure and all he wants to do is run and be held. He isn’t sure by who. Kiyoomi shrinks into himself.

The phone clicks off. The lump swells. A single drop falls before the dam breaks and he sobs, loud and awful into his own hands. He clutches his sides, wrapping around himself as he learns, or rather confirms, that love is conditional.

“This again?” is what Atsumu asks. 

A shrug is how Kiyoomi responds. Atsumu takes the glass of water with a scoff as Kiyoomi settles with his lunch tray beside him. 

“Yer a real piece of work, ya know that?”

“I’m well aware.” Kiyoomi admits. 

Atsumu isn’t getting food from the gymnasium cafe, no he’s brought a small bento with three small onigiri. As Atsumu takes a bite, the filling is ample, and it seems like spicy tuna. Atsumu always looks happy while eating, his cheeks filling out like a chipmunk and unable to hide the crinkle of his eyes and smile as he swallows. 

“Fuck, I miss Samu.”

Kiyoomi nods. He gets it. He and Rihoko aren’t the type of siblings who call all that often, but they do text, mostly him sending her various links and articles related to volleyball and her responding with bad memes. Occasionally they send pictures to each other, but he hadn’t seen her since she came back to Japan, announcing that she’d broken off her marriage agreement with Iori. Their parents had been in a rage, mother crying and sobbing as father told her about the shame she’d brought to the family. That was two years ago, Kiyoomi reached out to her, but she wasn’t the most in touch at the beginning. He didn’t blame her. 

“I miss my sister too.” He says, a voice sounding too small to be his own escaping from his lips. Rihoko always tried to understand him, defend him from father when he was in a mood, which was more often than not when he returned from business trips.

This makes Atsumu intrigued.

"You have a sister?"

Kiyoomi nods. Atsumu looks instead, as though Kiyoomi told him he'd given birth to cats. 

"Yer not an only child? But yer so..."

"Don't think about completing that sentence." He glares at him. 

"No way. Older or younger?"

"Older. By six years."

Atsumu's eyes widen. "Damn. Can I see?"

Kiyoomi glares at him. This is ridiculous. Still, he takes out his phone and opens up her Instagram. Rihoko, unlike him, actually has a social media presence. Her feed is curated, each picture pristine whether it's of her, the food she eats or whatever scenery she's captured. He taps the most recent one.

"She's hot." He says, eyes wide. Kiyoomi is disgusted. Sure, he knows that at face value, his sister is traditionally considered attractive, but it's weird. That's his sister.

"I repeat, that is my sister ." He bites back. Atsumu raises his hands in mock surrender.

"Hey, just 'cause she's hot doesn't mean I wanna do anythin'. Just an observation. 'Sides, I picked which sibling I'd tap a long time ago."

"Gross." He says. Still? After all I’ve done? He thinks.

“Not ‘creep’?” Atsumu looks at him, eyes half lidded. Taunting. Kiyoomi wilts and sets his phone down. He looks down at his hands that settle in his lap.

“I’m… I’m so sorry for what I said when we were sixteen. My family, it was never really an option to be gay. When my sister got outed, my mother-” Kiyoomi swallows. “It was bad. When I told them, they almost took me to our pastor to change me, but I’d already left for MSBY. We don’t talk.”

 Atsumu just listens. His brows are slightly furrowed. Kiyoomi looks up at the man beside him.

“I was so scared, Atsumu. And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, but all I associated with being gay was hurt.”

Atsumu holds onto him, strong arms wrapped around him warm and tight. Kiyoomi lets himself be held, be accepted, be-

“I accept yer stupid apology. Dumbass. Ya don’t have to hurt anymore.”

It’s less of a lesson and more of a reminder he has when he’s twenty. It’s about a year before he comes out to his parents. Rihoko is back, and unlike most times, she comes with a severity that she doesn’t usually carry. 

“Iori-san and I have decided that it isn’t going to work out.”

Father blinks. “What?”

Rihoko stands taller. “He’s having an affair, and it’s not like I was all that interested in him anyways.”

“No wonder he started seeing other women with your poor attitude.” Father always had an acidic way with words. “Go and request him to forgive you, I’m sure you know what this will do to our deal with the Hayashis, this was settled over a decade ago. Iori-kun has already started the takeover process, any issues with this arrangement need to be settled internally.”

Rihoko steps forward, she’s never stepped forward. “He doesn’t allow me to work, he doesn’t allow me to go meet friends or go anywhere on my own. I’m miserable. I’ve sacrificed the best of my years getting my Masters, only for him to lock me up!”

“You know nothing of sacrifice!” Fathers booms.

“And you know nothing of parenting!”

He stares at her. Rihoko is taller than him in her heels. One of the maids descends from the staircase with a suitcase. Life drains from Kiyoomi’s face as it dawns on him. 

“If you leave-” Father pushes his index finger against her chest, seething, “I will not take you back. You will lose any privileges the Sakusa name gives you.”

And Rihoko smiles. “Good.”

And Kiyoomi watches her as she walks out in awe. And the reminder he receives is a  possibility that he’s always toyed with but never fully materialised. Because now, he’s certain. Leaving is an option.

Atsumu isn’t budging with his wicked fast tosses. It drives everyone insane. Everyone except Kiyoomi.

“Come on, Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto pleads, “We’re gonna lose the game if you don’t set to him.”

“I am settin’ ta him.”

Bokuto looks like he’s about to pull his hair out. Coach Foster is at his wit’s end. He pinches the space between his brows and inhales deeply.

 “Okay. Miya, bench.”

Miya grits his teeth. “I’m settin’ ta him!”

Foster’s steely gaze strikes Atsumu straight in the chest. “If a setter can’t send a toss a spiker can hit, there’s no reason for him to be on the court.”

“And I’ll set properly when we’re playin’ a real match.”

There’s a fierce, unspoken battle takes place in the particles between two sets of eyes. Firm black meets honey brown. Atsumu is known for picking battles he can’t win, and he knows he’s losing the moment Foster blinks, bored. 

“Fine. But I’m not sending any quicks.”

Coach nods as though it’s what he’s expecting. Atsumu turns to Kiyoomi and Kiyoomi kind of wants to walk into a fireplace just under his gaze. 

“Still like ‘em high? Far from the net?”

Kiyoomi is shocked he remembered, he nods enthusiastically. They get into position and god, it’s ecstasy. It’s just a simple set, but Kiyoomi knows when a setter is pampering him. Setting just as he likes, just as he needs. Atsumu sets like he knows what’s best for him, like he knows every motion and process of Kiyoomi’s body, how he breathes and stretches with just an easy glance. It’s addictive. 

“Now was that so hard?”

“Easy as ever coach.” Atsumu comments, his drawl layered on thick. 

The tosses that come his way are sparse, they’re slow too. But Kiyoomi hits each one with the intensity of a final spike, the one that sways a stalemate in their favour. Miya’s picking up now. He taunts him with the slightest increase in velocity and each increment makes Kiyoomi feverish. They’re getting somewhere. It’s clumsy, and they’re fucking up at every step along the way, but they’re moving forward, together.

It’s Friday when Kiyoomi notices that something’s completely off with Atsumu. He sets to him, and it's perfect each time, but every single toss looks like it pains him. They don’t sit together at lunch because Atsumu goes completely missing, and he can’t find him at dinner either. Kiyoomi’s used to letting the blond come to him but he instinctively searches for him. 

It’s funny that he finds Atsumu in the bathroom.

“Samu- no. God, no. I’m old enough ta make my own decisions, ya know!” 

Atsumu’s frustrated, holding the phone to his ear as he paces by the sinks. Kiyoomi ducks in the corridor to avoid being seen. Atsumu crumples, face softens. He sighs. 

“I know. But ya don’t need ta be worried about me. I’ll be okay.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear and pinches the space between his brow. His exhale is long and heavy. Atsumu turns, hunches over the sink, and stares into the mirror. Kiyoomi tries to be smooth, but he just can’t be. He’s startled when Kiyoomi enters, tensing at the sound and sight of him. 

“God. Ya really scared me there.”

Despite his attempt at mirth, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, Atsumu is not a very good liar. 

“What happened today?”

He scoffs, crossing his arms. “I’m alright.”

Kiyoomi is starting to get frustrated. He doesn’t have the capacity to dissect or mind read so he steps closer, enunciating his words slowly and with intention. He picks them ever so carefully, drawing from shallow flowing water.

“You were playing as though your body and brain were detached.”

Atsumu shuts off, trying to slip past Kiyoomi to the hallway but Kiyoomi moves with him, eyes wide and hands out in front of him.

“Tell me what’s wrong, please. I’m worried about you.” He pleads.

“Fucking hell, Sakusa- leave me alone!”

“I want to help-”

“You’re, you’re just- Fuck!”

Atsumu groans like he’s been shot and Kiyoomi takes a step back because he looks like he’s about to explode. Atsumu’s hands tangle in his hair out of frustration. 

“Stop bein’ nice! Stop bein’ all caring and normal when I’m treatin’ ya like shit, yer makin’ it so hard, it’s so hard.”

“What? What am I making it hard to do? If it’s practice, I can’t help it, Foster’s-”

“Yer making it so fucking hard to hate you, asshole!”

Kiyoomi blinks at him, unsure of what to say or how to process this or what to do. Atsumu looks at the words that spilled out of his mouth unwittingly, and realises their shape and colour. He examines each word in its entirety, biting his bottom lip  before taking a step back. His hands go through several strange positions, the gestures looking like an attempt to explain in lieu of words. Kiyoomi does not understand.

“When ya got here, I tried so hard ta hate you, ya know? God, Samu and Sunarin would tear me apart if they found out I’m talkin’ to you at all. But yer tryin’ so hard and I’m startin’ ta feel like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.” He laughs humourlessly at the pitiful situation they’ve made for themselves. “I know, logically, what ya did still fuckin’ stings. Aren’tcha supposed to hate people who hurt you? I can’t. I look at you and all I wanna do is…”

Atsumu trails off and his eyes soften. They glow lighter under the harsh tube lights. Kiyoomi’s head tilts.

“What?”

“Kiss you.”

His hands shake. It’s only a little but they do. Kiyoomi gapes at Atsumu because it’s too early. He hasn’t proved anything. He hasn’t become better. He doesn’t deserve someone so forgiving, so good. He shouldn’t start something that’s programmed to end. The love Atsumu has for him will fade, slowly or all at once on a random evening in August or September when all the warmth runs out and there’s nothing left for him to stay for. 

“You shouldn't,” Kiyoomi admits softly. “You should listen to your brother. I’m no good.”

Atsumu looks confused. This wasn’t what he expected. With him, Kiyoomi has never been all that consistent.

And so Kiyoomi keeps his distance for the most part. When Atsumu looks at him off the court, he has this sad look in his eyes that combines worry and softness. Kiyoomi feels guilty. 

But on the court, they’re unbeatable. 

All of life disappears when they’re on the court. As soon as he steps out onto the PVC flooring, Atsumu is a mastermind, he’s wicked smart and pushes his spikers to the extreme, even in practice. They’re performing well as a team. Their chemistry is undeniable. But it’s only on the court. It comes to a boiling point in their first official game against the EJP Raijins. 

Kiyoomi waits outside the gym for the bus, watching it pull up on the side of the road. The team descends and Kiyoomi keeps an eye out. He finally sees Motoya, side by side with one of Inarizaki’s finest alumni, Suna Rintarou. The difference between the way the two of them look at him is night and day. Motoya lights up, perking up instantly and giving him an open mouthed smile and a wave. Suna Rintarou zeroes in on him like he’s secured his prey, narrow eyes narrowing further still and chin raised ever so slightly to establish what he thinks of him. 

“Kiyo!” Motoya shouts and Kiyoomi lets himself smile. He tries to avoid looking at Suna for his own peace of mind.

“Toya.”

Motoya opens his arms, waiting for Kiyoomi to respond. He likes this about Motoya, even though they’re close and he doesn’t mind his touch more often than not, he always gives him the option to refuse it. He nods, and lets himself be held by the libero. Motoya always runs warm, which is nice because Kiyoomi is perpetually cold. Atsumu runs immensely hot, and has admitted (read: openly announced ) to the team that he sleeps either completely naked or in just his boxers. Kiyoomi chooses not to envision it because he’s already indulging himself by just being in Atsumu’s presence. 

“We’re gonna kick your ass today.” Motoya says, teasingly. Kiyoomi’s chin can reach the top of his head if he tilts it just so. 

“I assure you, we will do the same.”

“Yeah?” Suna asks, easily. “How are you planning to do that when you don’t get any tosses?”

Kiyoomi steps back, Motoya is confused. His head tilts in a very Motoya way. 

“What do you mean you don’t get tosses?”

“I’m getting tosses.”

“Suna’s face sours. “That bastard. He doesn’t fucking listen.”

“What? Why wouldn’t he be-” Motoya interjects.

“Sunarin!”

Three heads turn towards the entrance, Atsumu runs out of the gymnasium towards them, grinning wildly. His hand is up as he waves, speeding up to tackle Suna. Suna side steps, causing Atsumu to stumble over himself on the pavement. He steadies himself with a huff. 

“Rude.” He whines. 

“You’re tossing to him.” Suna accuses. 

Motoya looks to Kiyoomi for some explanation. He shrugs.

“Come on, I told ya and Samu-”

“Nuh-uh Tsumu. None of this bullshit. We had to deal with the pieces”

“Suna.” Atsumu says severely. “Please. Trust me.”

Suna looks torn. “I want to trust you. I do. But it’s him I don’t trust. I’m not trusting someone who left you having fucking panic attacks and depressive episodes, Atsumu. You can’t ask that of me.”

Something inside Kiyoomi crumbles. Bit by bit, and then all at once. He wants to disintegrate and rot from the inside out, but he’s being pulled aside by Atsumu, and yanked back into the gymnasium as the sound of everything falling apart echoes inside his ears. Atsumu grumbles to himself, thick brows forming wrinkles over his forehead. Kiyoomi trudges along. They stop right outside the main court and Atsumu peeks through the gap in the doors. He looks back and his jaw is square, serious. He holds Kiyoomi by the shoulders and looks up at him severely.

“Don’t ya dare listen ta him, alright? We are gonna beat ‘em. And we’re gonna prove 'em all wrong.”

Whether Atsumu’s talking about the MSBY naysayers who think they’re shit now, or Suna who’s certain that Kiyoomi’s going to be Atsumu’s doom, he’s not quite sure. But he nods back.

The fifth set is gruelling. MSBY took the first two but the Raijins recovered quickly, taking the next two. They’re neck and neck, 24-23, with Suna shutting down Kiyoomi’s every attempt at a spike. He managed to squeeze in a service ace, but it wasn’t enough. Motoya’s been receiving his serves since they were gangly knees and acne ridden faces. The frustration is getting to them.

Kiyoomi’s calves are on fire, the Raijin spikers are ‘nasty’ in Atsumu’s words, as stated during their timeout. Kiyoomi is inclined to agree. After a last minute save from Inunaki, the spike is bumped in the air. It’s too low. It’s too weak. It’s reaching the ground too fast. 

“Kiyoomi!”

And he looks at Atsumu. 

And he has that glint in his eye. 

And he knows all at once what that means, it’s instinctive. They start in their positions and in the briefest of flashes, they both move, swapping places in an adrenaline fueled haze. He falls down to his knees, stretching his back up as he descends. His hands raise to backset, and Atsumu’s there. He’s always been.

Toss-Slam!

It whizzes past the Raijins. They’re caught completely off-guard. In a dissection of a second, the ball is bumped, tossed, spiked and slammed into the floor at speeds that rival Formula 1. 

And it’s poetic.  Time is no longer glass, time is a firework, where you miss the initial spark, but you see the aftermath of the burst spread and illuminate the void. Kiyoomi feels a shiver start in his chest and spread down his back and arms as he turns his head to Atsumu in disbelief. His mouth parts and they inhale and exhale in perfect unison, chests heaving because against all odds, they and they alone managed to pull it off.

“An insane surprise swap from Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi! A beautiful execution of synchrony and chemistry on the court. With that, the Jackals have taken the fifth set and their first win of the season!”

Atsumu moves towards him at the speed of light, tackling him in a hug. It’s sweaty and too tight and all Kiyoomi wants to do is melt into the embrace. Bokuto’s body slams into them too, and they collapse, all three of them in a medley of laughter. 

“We did it, Omi.”

And he’s Omi again. He wants to cry so badly. The team and the crowd and even Motoya from the other end of the net are all smiles, grinning cheek to cheek in a way that must hurt. Kiyoomi knows this because he can feel it too. But hurt has never felt so good.

He looks up at Atsumu, and the flush of his cheeks and eyes that used to look at him in narrow disdain are wide and doelike. The gaze falling on him is so soft, Kiyoomi melts under the feeling of it.

“Kiyo!” 

Kiyoomi’s head whips around, and Rihoko is standing in the bleachers, waving her hands and donning a “Sakusa” MSBY jersey. Her hair is shorter, curly hair falling in layers just past her shoulder, parted at the side creating volume. 

“Just a minute,” He murmurs to the team, while Atsumu is being yanked onto Bokuto’s shoulders to be presented to the public. Rihoko climbs down the stairs of the bleachers to reach the lowest level. He weaves through the crowd, gently pushing aside people, until he reaches the divider. 

“Hoko,” he stares, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know you were in Japan.”

“That kind of defeats the purpose of surprising you, you know.”

She smiles at him cheekily. Kiyoomi reaches out and pulls her in. He hadn’t realised how much he missed her, her soft touch and kind eyes. She took everything hard and sharp from their house, burnt it, and became something bigger, warmer. Kiyoomi always remembered looking up to her in awe, even as he physically outgrew her. She ruffles his hair in a way he’s learnt to give in to.

“Have you gone to see them?”

Her smile dulls. “They’re not going to want to see me after I tell them why I’m back.”

Kiyoomi’s worried. His brow furrows and head tilts. Rihoko tries to gather the words in her head, pick them from a sea, but the wrong ones wash up on the shore as she bites her lower lip. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a brown-skinned woman with long waves and caramel coloured eyes climb up the bleachers. She’s the slightest bit shorter than Rihoko, and she’s wearing a large green button up over a white undershirt and wide legged jeans.

“Is this our celebrity?” Her voice has a strange twang, an accent that he can’t exactly place. “Congratulations by the way. She always talks about you.”

Kiyoomi isn’t sure what to make of this, mostly confused, but as Rihoko’s hand slips around the other woman’s waist and they lean into each other, he gets it. Ah.

“Kiyo, this is Navya, my fiance.”

The cafe is nice. It has warm lighting and plants. Rihoko insists on paying and in the interest of not wanting to start a physical fight in the sweet old lady’s cafe, Kiyoomi obliges. She orders a tiramisu flavoured crepe cake for Kiyoomi and a pain au chocolat for herself along with two cups of hot chocolate.

“You know I drink coffee now.”

“Absolutely not, I remember how twitchy you used to get.”

“When I was thirteen .”

This bickering is normal. Kiyoomi huffs and crosses his arms. Rihoko’s persistence in infantilising him knows no bounds. She smiles cheekily and he regretfully feels the corners of his mouth tug upward. He’s reminded of days when she’d use up her pocket money buying ice cream for him and parading him around, taking him to the music store to get sheet music for piano. Kiyoomi doesn’t play anymore, but he knows the Dance of the Little Swans from muscle memory. This, being with Rihoko, is a lot like muscle memory.

“How’d you meet her?”

Rihoko stirs her mug idly. “I was in the fashion building this one day, doing my sketches and stopped by the digital lab to get them scanned. Navya was working on an edit for a short film and asked me to watch. It was beautiful and you know how I like people who are passionate. We kept in touch but Iori, well. You know what happened.” 

He has no idea how his fiercely independent sister had her spirit crushed and life controlled by this man. This man, who saw a bird and itched to cage it. It feels like an oxymoron, because to him, she is untameable. Rihoko stirs her hot chocolate, a soft look settling on her face.

“We started meeting up again after we ended things and it happened… so naturally. Teasing turned into flirting, one thing led to another and now we’re here.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t believe her. The very girl who told her relationships were fundamentally fucked, who decided to close herself off from love decided to become its willing victim. After seeing their parents’ disaster of a marriage, a product of nothing but duty and obligation, he didn’t understand how she could look at marriage as an institution and decide that it was for her. 

Perhaps because this was not out of duty or obligation. The way Rihoko and Navya looked at each other was so soft. It looked-

It looked like how Atsumu looked at him. 

The realisation vibrates across his cheeks in warmth. He takes a bite out of his cake, smiling as he chews. Sweet, but not too sweet. Nutty, complex. He reminisces about how Rihoko always knew what kind of food he would like. 

He swallows. “Are you going to hyphenate?”

“Nah. I’d rather shed the surname as fast as possible. Sorry.”

Kiyoomi nods. He does get it. As a kid, he’d sounded out how Miya Kiyoomi would feel, and it sends warmth all across his body in an embarrassing manner. He doesn’t do that anymore. 

(He’s lying to himself)

“Kohli.” She says, absentmindedly. “Kohli Rihoko. Koh-li.”

She tastes each syllable until it barely sounds like a name anymore. She rolls it around on her tongue, trying to discern its flavour. The surname sounds good on her, but it doesn’t sound right. At least not yet. Perhaps she needs to say it over and over in different sentences and contexts. Maybe have it called out by a barista, or be used to scold her until it fuses with her first name.

She hums to herself, and then her eyes catch his. 

“So. Blondie.”

Kiyoomi groans. “No, please. Not this again.”

She laughs, loud and annoying. “Come on, Kiyo. You can’t deny it, his eyes never leave you! Did you know he stares at your waist all the time? Your waist ? That’s so gay, please put us all out of our misery and get together with him.”

He stiffens. “I know you’re going back on your word, but I know that a relationship with him is going to fail, just like yours with Iori.”

Rihoko looks at him incredulously. “Our relationship failed because I was a closeted lesbian and he was a cheating scum.”

“What if we turn out like that?” His eyes are wide and brows furrowed in latent anxiety. “What if he wakes up one day and decides that I’m not enough? That all we do is hurt each other and it won’t work because we’re too naive to see it?”

Her outstretched hand stills his shaking ones. “Then we deal. But you can’t shut yourself out of giving yourself something amazing out of fear.”

"But you told me, you said, you said I should never have too much of a good thing."

Her brows furrow. “What?”

Kiyoomi clenches his fist, crescent indents forming on his palm. “When you came back from America.”

She blinks, looks away from him and attempts to recall what Kiyoomi is talking about. She takes a moment to search for the moment he’s referring to. He’s getting more frustrated by the minute. 

“With the Sour Patch Kids.” He supplies.

Rihoko looks at him, dumbfounded. "That was about candy . This is a boy."

"You told me relationships are temporary, that they'd only break my heart."

"I was like thirteen, I didn't know shit back then." She's casual about it and it makes Kiyoomi seethe. 

"You were supposed to teach me these things, you lied to me!"

"I wasn't supposed to do anything! I was a kid!"

Kiyoomi leans back, uncertain of what to say. Rihoko smooths out her forehead, trying to calm herself down.

"God Kiyo, I never signed up to be a role model. I didn't even sign up to be born. I was just... I was growing up. I was doing stupid things and making horrible mistakes and I was- and still am a mess. I know mom and dad have this version of me built up but I can never be her."

Rihoko looks down and sighs. Kiyoomi stills. He watches as she raises her head and makes deliberate, careful eye contact.

"I made mistakes, enough for both of us. I didn't want you to get hurt the way I did so I told you whatever I thought could protect you then. And I know you've seen me get hurt, but you can't be scared of what bad things could happen. By not allowing yourself to make and learn from things that could possibly be mistakes, you're shutting out all the possible good things that could happen instead"

Kiyoomi sets his fork down. Rihoko’s hand extends and holds his, gently.

"Do you like him?"

He swallows.

"Yes."

"Do you love him?"

A beat. "Yes."

She squeezes his hand tighter and leans forward."Here's your last lesson then: Listen to yourself. Love and let yourself be loved. You can't keep it in, Kiyo. It'll kill you. Go."

 Kiyoomi nods, but Rihoko just stares. 

“What?” He asks, “Like, now?”

“Yes, like now!”

“Okay, okay!” 

He stumbles out of the chair like an uncoordinated baby giraffe, almost knocking over the cutlery in the process. Still in uniform, and not bothering to put on a mask, Kiyoomi runs.

Kiyoomi flings the door to Atsumu’s room open, out of breath from the sprint across the suburb. He heaves and his body is running on pure adrenaline. It feels good, it burns. Atsumu’s laying on his bed scrolling through his phone, or at least he was. He stares, wide eyed and confused. Kiyoomi realises he should probably say something.

"Rihoko is getting married."

This does not clarify anything. Atsumu’s thick brows furrow in mirth and confusion.

"Oh? Congratulations."

"Come with me."

Atsumu gapes at him, dumbfounded. 

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I mean yeah but-"

"But what?"

Atsumu catches his breath, and it’s an impossible thing to explain. “Omi, we’re finally friends. Yer the one that freaked out, twice. If we go, there’s no going back and I’m going to be in yer family pictures and if this gets fucked up-”

“I want to fuck up.” Kiyoomi wants to pull his hair out. “My entire life, I’ve been following rules. Drawing lines. Passing myself through formulas I write only for it to give me wrong answer after wrong answer.”

Atsumu looks at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. Kiyoomi is quite sure he doesn’t know that language either. 

“Every rule I’ve followed has hurt me. And it’s my fault. I’m a grotesque of the highest degree because everything I have claimed is a truth I’ve turned into a lie. Why can’t I stop lying? Why can’t I stop hurting myself? And hurting you in the process?”

Two lovers stare over the edge of the cauldron of hell.

He takes a step back. 

He’s said too much.  

“You’re right.” he says softly, walls building themselves hastily. Cinder block pieces scramble together. “You shouldn’t come with me, Atsumu. This is going to end and it’s going to be my fault again.”

 Do they both wish for death?

 But Atsumu looks concerned. Soft. His eyes have this mix of worry and reassurance as he steps forward, taking Kiyoomi’s face in his hands. In this moment, Kiyoomi thinks of eyes full of sanitiser, and words he wishes he could take back from childhood. Atsumu’s thumb smooths over his cheek.

“Kiyoomi, listen ta me. I really don’t care.” Atsumu is not afraid. “I want yer lies as long as ya share ‘em with me.”

That means their love will end in hell.

Kissing Atsumu... feels like tasting Sour Patch Kids for the first time.

It's not sour. And it's not sweet. But it's the same sense of indulgence that should be limited. Should be restricted, because how is he supposed to live a life without this? The heat is unbearable. He can smell his stupid green tea shampoo. They share truths, lies, and a single breath.

Atsumu is hot all over. Kiyoomi’s skin burns under his touch. It lights up every nerve as warm fingertips snake over to find a home to settle in. One settles at the slight curve of his waist while the setter’s other hand clenches his curls tightly, and Kiyoomi’s lips part in a gasp. Atsumu takes full advantage. Kiyoomi knows he plays chess with his spikers, manipulating them to his strategy. He feels like a chess piece. He is okay with that.

And so Kiyoomi gives up control. He lets Atsumu take over him, push him over to the bed where he is  trapped between a tanned, chiselled frame and soft fabric. Kiyoomi stares up at him, a god in his own right.

He lets divinity overcome him, invade his body and spread a flush across the expanse of his face, neck and chest. Kiyoomi is pale, and red blossoms beneath his skin at every meeting point of Atsumu’s hands. It’s extreme. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Kiyoomi lets pure instinct take over and open up, sighing and desperately copying every motion of mouths and hands tracing the outline of his body. Every touch feels like ecstasy, too much and yet not enough. Atsumu presses against him and Kiyoomi feels everything .

The friction makes pleasure radiate from the bottom of his stomach. They sigh in tandem, rocking against each other like repressed schoolboys. They are, in a way. Atsumu shrinks him, sends him back to Tokyo, back to the training camp, back to innocence and naive touches. This isn’t innocent though, every atom in his body sings with want, with this thirst to fuse into one with the boy above him, to become one with his bones, muscles and skin. It’s uncoordinated and messy as Atsumu’s hands tangle in Kiyoomi’s curls, lips parting in a whine at the slightest tug. It’s embarrassing how reactive he is. He can’t help it though. Atsumu explores him the same way he explores with him on court, he tests every possible nerve of his body in an attempt to dismantle him, just so he can be the one who puts him back together. 

He’s on a mission to destroy any semblance of level-headedness that he has. Open mouthed kisses trail down his lips and reach the highest parts of his throat. He’s never been touched there. Atsumu uncovers new pieces of his body he didn’t know existed. He moves further and further down.

“Wanna mark ya up.”

Kiyoomi nods feverishly. He wants to say I’m ruined for anyone else since I became aware of your existence or announce to the world that we are more than our flaws or even I’d let you walk me to my death as long as you walk beside me . 

Instead,  he says “Please.”

“I can’t believe yer parents actually fuckin’ came.” 

“You’re telling me.”

They found out through a relative who heard from a neighbor who heard from a friend of a friend. That family meeting was nothing short of dramatic. Nothing like ‘Your daughter is getting married to a female foreigner and your son who’s an athlete is dating a middle-class Kansai boy’ to spice up the family Whatsapp. But such is life, Kiyoomi supposes. An endless stream of curveballs until you eventually get hit too hard by one.

Kiyoomi looks through the gaps of the doors like a kid. He sees them, his mother’s tall, imposing frame and father’s bald spot at one of the tables in the crowd. They didn’t fully understand it, or support it really. But they were trying. And that’s more than they’ve ever done. 

“Can’t wait ta meet them. Reckon they’ll like my tie?”

He looks at the bow tie that sits high on Atsumu’s neck. Kiyoomi laughs and it escapes like a windchime. He comes closer, loosening the tie slowly so he can stay close to him for as long as possible, addicted to the way Atsumu’s breath catches at the barely-there touch. The distance is minimal, mere millimetres away from each other. Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s breath on his neck as he exhales shakily. He meets his beautiful honey eyes and wants to give in so badly. Instead he pinches his cheek. 

“Omi-” Atsumu whines. “C’mon. Just one?”

“After the ceremony.” Because Kiyoomi is more than aware of how one chaste kiss inevitably turns into heated open mouthed kisses that turn into unbuckled pants that bunch at their ankles.

He peeps through the gap again and checks his pocket for the thousandth time. And again, for the thousandth time, he finds his speech folded neatly. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. He hates crowds, and public speaking (or speaking in general) was never his forte. 

“Hey. You got this.” Setter hands meet his shoulders and rub them gently, reassuringly. “And if ya get awkward I’ll faint and distract everyone.”

Kiyoomi grins and leans his forehead on his boyfriend’s shoulder. Warm, strong arms wrap around him in an embrace.

Kiyoomi has learnt many lessons in his life. He’s learnt about Sour Patch Kids and love that is conditional. He learnt that being gay will get him hurt. He learnt that relationships are doomed from the start. He learnt that he doesn’t deserve nice things. 

But he also learnt that all of this is wrong. Learning lessons is easy, knowing when to unlearn them is harder. Sometimes, a lesson serves for a moment, you hold onto it but let it go after you breathe the moment out. He learns to trust himself, he learns that sisters can be wrong sometimes, that love is something infinite, and your birthright to give and to receive. He learns that opening yourself up to it is one of the most fundamental acts of humanity.

And it’s the only truth he claims. 

And he isn’t a grotesque for it.

“Together?” Atsumu asks.

Kiyoomi reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Together.”