twinkle *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kiyoomi knows a few things about love.

He knows that it happens naturally— like how, when he was 7 years old, he sat on the dining table with his parents and listened to the phone call his Mom had with his sister who was off at college, complaining about an annoying guy in the same class as she was. Two months later, the annoying guy was promoted to that one guy, and three months later, when his sister came home for the semestral break, she brought that one guy over and introduced him as her boyfriend.

He knows that sometimes it doesn’t last: when he was 10, he passed by the living room and witnessed his parents talk in whispers, sitting at opposite ends of the same couch. He understood that it was a conversation he shouldn’t be hearing, so he continued walking. That night, his Mom came into his room and told him about the divorce. He simply nodded and asked her to leave and close the door. When he was finally alone, he sat up on his bed and waited for the tears to come, but they never did. The tears came months later, at school, when he realized his Dad would pick him up and have him stay the night over at his place, in a new neighborhood. They used to go home right away. Now, he didn’t know if he had two homes, or if he simply had a broken one. 

He also knows that sometimes, things work out and the universe helps in the matters of the heart: when he was 15, his brother announced to their family over dinner that he was going to propose to his girlfriend soon. Said girlfriend was his brother’s first love from their teenage years, and though they had broken up to pursue different paths, they ended up meeting each other again in Seoul by chance. He thought it was some sort of miracle in itself– meeting your first love outside the country, where there was a slimmer chance of meeting them. Fate had to have a hand in that encounter.

Kiyoomi knows a few things about love now that he's 25; he’s learned from everywhere throughout the years.

But all these things seem pointless when he looks at the very subject of his affections.

“Omi-kun, how much d’ya wanna bet I can fit five hotdogs in my mouth?”

It’s a miracle Kiyoomi even manages to understand what Atsumu said while three hotdogs crowded in his mouth and he looks like he’s five minutes away from fully blocking his airway.

He pretends he doesn’t hear a thing and proceeds to stand up from the booth, heading to the cashier. Once he is done paying, he doesn’t bother looking back to see what Atsumu ended up doing. He doesn’t need to, though. The hurried footsteps behind him tell him all he needed to know.

“Man, fuck ya, Omi. Ya left me there without hesitation!” comes Atsumu’s whine as he finally catches up to him until they’re able to walk side by side.

It’s a Sunday afternoon and the street isn’t so busy. The light from the golden hour drapes onto everything— the buildings, the streets, the trees, even on them, and it paints a glow that Kiyoomi associates with fond memories.

He stops walking and turns to Atsumu, urged by the curiosity of what he would look like under this light. 

The setter still has a small scowl on his face, which is replaced by a look of confusion when they stop walking. Kiyoomi notes that Atsumu puts a halt in his steps just as he did.

Kiyoomi also realizes that Atsumu looks glorious in this light— like he belonged to the sun. 

“The corners of your mouth still have grease in them,” he points out and pretends to study Atsumu for flaws he would criticize him for (keyword: pretends). He has mastered this art of deception quite well: appearing as if he were repulsed by Atsumu, facial expression snapping into place with his furrowed brows and scrunched nose, mouth ready to spill an insult, but deep down, it’s his way of getting to stare at him upfront without being questioned for it.

Atsumu huffs and digs into the pocket of his pants for a handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

“There. Ya happy?” 

Kiyoomi’s eyes twinkle at the sight of the handkerchief, a memory from high school volleyball camp reigniting in his mind.

It had been one of the many times Kiyoomi opted to eat lunch alone, urging Motoya to do all the socializing and gossiping with the other players on his behalf. That’s how he always managed to rid himself of some company, which felt like a breath of fresh air in volleyball camps- especially in a place where so many rowdy teenage boys gathered. 

It also helped that Kiyoomi was the kind of person whose face displayed all the emotions he felt before his mouth could even open; that’s why no one bothered to ask if they could sit at the same table as him— his icy expression was enough to ward all of the other players off.

Well… all except one.

The sound of the metal tray clanking firmly on the table caught his attention. He raised his head and was greeted with the most annoying person in the camp.

“Omi-kun.” 

Kiyoomi took a deep breath out of resignation upon hearing the nickname.

“Miya.” He said, and then decided it was best to ignore him.

Miya Atsumu, a familiar face to Kiyoomi by now (much to his disappointment) since the two of them had played against each other before and had met last year for volleyball camp. And, well, the setter had this very special talent of grating on the spiker’s nerve, whether it was consciously done or not. Miya was annoying on and off the court, so he didn’t want to talk to him. But apparently that feeling isn’t mutual, given that the setter always seemed to gravitate towards Kiyoomi during breaks, especially this year. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Miya was the only player from Inarizaki to be invited to this camp, and the closest thing he’s got to a companion here was the spiker’s familiar face, too.

Here’s the thing, however: Kiyoomi had a little secret. One that had something to do about the Inarizaki setter. And it’s that: last year, when Inarizaki was invited to a practice match at Itachiyama institute, Kiyoomi was on his way to the gym when he spotted the players from the Hyogo prefecture filing out of their school bus, tired from the trip but alive and excited enough to play. He heard Miya before he even saw him. 

“Oi, Suna, where’d ya hide my fucking bag, ya ‘lil fucking shit?!”

The abundance of curse words in a single sentence astounded Kiyoomi to the point of curiosity. He lingered behind some plants and watched the situation unfold, thinking that a fight was brewing, making a mental note to tell Motoya about it, only for him to freeze at the sight of a yellow-haired guy running after one of his teammates like he was chasing down a fugitive. His eyes caught sight of the guy’s face and his breath hitched. “My god,” he thought, “He’s pretty.”

The small crush he had on the stranger was then crushed just as easily as he acquired it when they finally met and he turned out to be a dick who couldn’t stop taunting him during the practice match. 

“Yer pretty annoyin’,” were Miya’s first words to Kiyoomi after he managed to block one of Osamu's spikes. The setter licked his bottom lip in concentration, unaware of the gulp the opposing team’s spiker had to swallow upon seeing it. “Keep it comin’, curly,” he smirks.

  This made Kiyoomi so flustered that he ended up forgetting to run in time to approach the ball, causing a momentary chaos in the flow of their team’s play, and costing them a point to Inarizaki. He couldn’t believe the fox-like setter had that effect on him. He hated it. He was determined to get over it right away, so he did. Sure, Miya Atsumu had a pretty face that was almost sinful, but nothing could stir Kiyoomi’s heart more than winning a set in volleyball.

Upon hearing Kiyoomi acknowledge his presence, the setter snickered and sat down across from him, as if he were doing him a favor by eating lunch with him. He scowled but didn’t stop him anyway.

Miya didn’t waste any more time and immediately started talking.

“Ya know, I watched yer play yesterday with Yurisei…” 

And then came his flood of observation and commentary about the practice games he’d witnessed since the start of camp.

Ignoring Miya and the way his words brimmed with passion and excitement for the sport proved to be quite a challenge. So Kiyoomi relented.

He looked down at his food and continued eating as he listened to the setter. This was his contribution to their conversation. Sometimes he hummed in agreement or raised his head to catch Miya’s eyes, having learned from a young age that one of the proper things to do when having a conversation was maintaining eye contact with the other person, and despite this conversation being 90% Miya talk, Kiyoomi was civil enough to let him know he was following along his narrations. 

It was during one of Kiyoomi’s braved eye contacts that his eyes accidentally landed on the setter’s babbling mouth— where he saw crumbs of the fried chicken he was eating.

“… and he would've scored that point if their setter timed it right! D’ya get how infuriating that was ‘ta see?!” 

An expression of disgust morphed into Kiyoomi’s face before he could even stop it.

At the sight of this, the blonde immediately stopped talking and covered his mouth with his hand, eyes wide.

“Did I… Did food fly outta my mouth and land on ya or sum’n?” He sounded almost conscious, though Kiyoomi knew him better.

“First of all, that would be a nightmare. Second, you have… something at the side of your mouth.” Kiyoomi managed to tell him and watched as his shoulders relaxed and he waved him off.

“Thought I scared ya off for a sec.” He laughed with a hint of nervousness and casually wiped the crumb with his hand. Kiyoomi’s eyes followed the crumb as it moved from Miya’s mouth to his fingers. “Is it good now?” 

“Yes. But,” The spiker tried to fight off the cringe at the thought of that crumb as he dug into his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to him, which the latter stared at in silence for a bit before hesitantly taking it from him. “Next time, use a handkerchief or a tissue to wipe things off your face. Our hands are very dirty.” 

When Miya still seemed at a loss for words, Kiyoomi blinked slowly, trying to come up with something to fill the silence.

“I haven’t used that handkerchief, if that’s what you’re worried about.” And when Miya finally moved to wipe his mouth with his handkerchief, he couldn’t help the small rush of giddiness inside him. He had one less crumb to worry about now. The balance in his little world was restored. “What did you think about that setter dump from Kageyama Tobio earlier?”

That seemed to undo whatever spell was put on the blonde as he took in a deep breath and broke into a machine gun of rants about the goody-two-shoes from Karasuno.

Later on, when Motoya got back from eating outside the venue with some players, he saw his cousin and that arrogant setter from Inarizaki immersed in their conversation, unaware of the few stares they’d gotten from other people.

At present, the two pass by a park and it’s Atsumu who suggests they sit at the bench and enjoy the last bit of sunlight before evening comes.

Once they pick out the perfect bench— one that’s not too near the playground where kids are running around and playing with dirt, and one that’s not right next to a streetlight where Kiyoomi could feel the heat emanating from the light, absurd as it sounded— Atsumu holds up a hand to tell him to pause, which he does.

The setter is wearing a small crossbody bag and fiddles with it until he takes out a travel-sized pack of wet wipes and presents it in front of Kiyoomi with a gleam in his eyes.

“It’s the same brand as yers, Omi-kun.” He beams before whipping one out and wiping the bench and its backrest clean. Once that was done, he sprays an alcohol on the surface and finally dries it off with a swipe of tissues he conjured from who-knows-where and then, finally, turns to Kiyoomi with a big smile. “You can sit now.”

Kiyoomi clears his throat in an attempt to drown out his fluster as he takes a seat on the bench, looking at everything else but the guy next to him.

He doesn’t remember how and when Atsumu started to accommodate him and his needs outside of practice. He doesn’t remember how and when he started expecting these acts of service; only that, now, it feels natural.

The kind gestures started out little and few: Atsumu consciously swerving his hand when he goes to Kiyoomi for a high five out of habit with their teammates, Atsumu making eye contact with him during a gathering with their team and mouthing “You okay?”,  Atsumu sharing that he’d been reading about mysophobia to understand him better, Atsumu bringing an umeboshi for him every time he visited his twin’s restaurant just because “I know you like it”. These little things piled up and grew in quantity and depth and before Kiyoomi knew it, Atsumu had carved a space for himself in the spiker’s very reserved life.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi calls out softly, eyes unfocused on the ground before them.

He doesn’t remember when he’d stopped calling him Miya; only that, he’s Atsumu to him now.

“Omi?” Atsumu blinks, leaning forward to hear what he is going to say. There were faint sounds coming from the children screaming and laughing in the playground, a few chatters from people who walked around, the sound of cars passing by, and though they weren’t at all that distracting, the setter had half the mind to lean forward to show that he was listening.

Kiyoomi turns his head to look at him, a soft smile on his lips.

I love you, he wants to say.

“Thank you,” is what he settles with.

And, as if hearing the unspoken line underneath the spiker’s two words, Atsumu beams at him, a sight to behold, and Kiyoomi swears no golden hour could have made someone glow like that— it was Atsumu himself that shone brightly, his light coming from within.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈

Thursday is Kiyoomi’s favorite day of the week. 

“Why not Friday?” Atsumu had asked him once. 

“Because everyone is already looking forward to Fridays.” He answered, as if that was already obvious enough not to point out. “It’s twice the amount of people bustling everywhere. Meanwhile, on Thursdays, everyone is tired. They don’t make plans yet because they have work the next day. Plus, we only have morning practice on Thursdays and we get to go home after. It basically feels like a holiday.” 

The lazy smirk on the setter’s face tugged at his nerves. Kiyoomi wanted to snatch it from his face and keep it in his pocket, so he could take it out and look at it whenever he wanted to. 

What.

“Didn’t know ya’d get this passionate over a weekday, Omi-omi.” Atsumu laughed. “And here I thought ya liked Thursdays better ‘cause ya get ‘ta spend the rest of the day with me,” He teased, nudging him lightly.

Whether or not there was weight on his statement, Kiyoomi purposefully chose to just scoff at it. However, he pointedly did not deny it.  A part of him mourned when Atsumu didn’t get the implication of his response, or the lack of his words (Silence means yes, Atsumu!), moving to get his water bottle in his bag.

“I like Thursdays too.” The blonde said coolly and didn’t explain further.

For as long as he can remember, Kiyoomi has always loved Thursdays. The way he would explain it goes: it feels like the weekend in between the weekdays, if that even made sense. 

So, when he joined MSBY and found out that their Thursday practices always ended at noon, he was pretty happy about it.

His Thursdays used to run the same way: after practice, he would take a long shower and walk to this cozy restaurant he frequented that was conveniently just a few blocks down the gym. There, he orders lunch and eats alone. Then, when he feels like enough time has passed of him acting like any other person who had no aversion to almost everything, he stands up and heads home.

But all of it changed when he made the mistake of losing a bet to Atsumu. 

“I want ya ‘ta bring me wherever ya go fer the rest of the day.” The shit-eating grin on the setter’s face only made Kiyoomi feel hot all over his own skin, whether it was due to attraction or annoyance, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care to find out. 

“What?”

“Ya heard me, Omi-kun.” Atsumu scrambled to pick up his duffel bag and nodded to the spiker who, though taller than him, seemed to deflate into a smaller version of himself upon hearing his request. “I’ll be under yer wing for today. Oh, I can’t wait ‘ta spend the rest of the day with ya and get to know ya better, Omi!” He cracked his knuckles, as if readying himself to get into a fist fight.

“Careful, Sakusa-san, he might pounce on you,” Inunaki teased as he was leaving the locker room.

“Shut yer trap!” Atsumu yelled, not bothering to chase the libero out. He moved his attention back to his proclaimed favorite teammate, who was just finishing wiping down every surface on his locker.

His enthusiasm over such a small thing like getting to know Kiyoomi better by spending time with him— as if he hadn’t been doing that since high school— had the spiker’s bodily systems issuing warnings and emergencies, the smallest hint of a blush appearing on his cheeks, covered by his mask.

“Fine. But if I hear one complaint from you about how uneventful my day is- which is something I like very much, by the way- then you’re leaving.” He warned him. 

Fifteen minutes later, when the two sat across from each other at that cozy restaurant, Kiyoomi found that he didn’t mind Atsumu’s company (but he would rather die than admit it then) and Atsumu learned that the mighty Sakusa Kiyoomi’s phone wallpaper was a picture of a cat he’d saved from Pinterest.

“What? I can find cats cute without feeling the need to get one, right? You’re making a big deal out of this. It’s just a picture.” 

Kiyoomi had to endure five whole minutes of Atsumu breaking out into a series of “aww”s and “oooh”s. 

“Stop it, Miya. You’re embarrassing me,” He kicked him under the table, although the red on his cheeks could give one the impression that he was enjoying this. 

Atsumu did stop and faced him with the fondest look on his face. “So yer a softie underneath all that.” He raised a hand and gestured to Kiyoomi’s physique. “Glad ‘ta know I’d been right all along.”

At this, Kiyoomi raised a brow, to which Atsumu responded with a chuckle.

“I ain’t explaining myself, Omi-kun. Don’t give me that look.”

Kiyoomi scoffed. “I’m perfectly fine with not knowing, Miya.” 

Lunch went on and the conversation between them flowed smoothly— which wasn’t a surprise to Kiyoomi, to be honest. He’d spent many meals with Atsumu during high school training camps to know that the guy never had trouble racking up things to talk about. And when it wasn’t his turn to talk, he was a great listener. It was unfair how one could have such talents in the simple art of conversing. 

After lunch, they walked around the block to help with their digestion.

“What’s next?” Atsumu asked, eager. “Where do we go? What do we do?”

“Nothing.” 

“Huh?” The blonde turned to face him, at a loss for words.

“I usually just go home right after and read a book.” There was the tiniest hint of amusement in Kiyoomi’s answer at having to disappoint Atsumu with how he spent the rest of his day. He wasn’t kidding when he said his days were mostly uneventful. 

Surely Atsumu could find something better to do elsewhere than go home with him and read one of the books on his shelf, right? 

Wrong.

“Achilles—“ Atsumu said loudly, leaning back on Kiyoomi’s couch in Kiyoomi’s living room inside Kiyoomi’s apartment where the two of them ended up. He was holding a special edition of The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller in his hand. “Isn’t this the one related to the foot?” 

It really took a lot of effort for the spiker to discourage his setter from doing nothing at his apartment, but Atsumu was so enthusiastic about “lazing around with Omi”  that he had to follow through with the dare. What’s a few hours more to spend with this noisy guy, right?

Kiyoomi, who sat at the opposite end of the couch, didn't even spare him a glance. “Yes, Miya. The Achilles heel, if that’s what you mean.” He didn’t even bother explaining the actual story of the Greek warrior. Atsumu probably wasn’t interested.

“Yup, that’s the term, Omi-kun!” He replied, and the sound of pages rustling was heard.

Silence blanketed the room not long after, which felt like an error in the equation where Miya Atsumu was a variable. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable; just new. And he found that he didn’t mind it.

He looked up from his own book to check on why Atsumu had quieted down and it turned out that he, too, started reading the book he was holding, eyes glued to the pages.

“What a shock. You can read,” he commented.

There was a pause, then the sound of a page being turned. Atsumu made sure to finish the page first before answering. “Are ya kidding? I used ‘ta stay up ‘til morning readin’ light novels in highschool!” He exclaimed enthusiastically, as if a trove of memories had been opened by the topic. “Had a whole shelf filled with those back home.” He proceeded to list out the titles he’s read and the recommendations he had for Kiyoomi now that they found a common interest between them. He made Kiyoomi swear to read his favorite book.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll bump it up my list,” the spiker said, a small smile on his lips. He tore his gaze away from Atsumu who turned his head to face him that same time.

“Omi-kun, did’ja smile just now?”

His face fell. “I did not.” 

“Ya did! I saw it!” 

“Nope.”

They went on like that for a while before settling into another peaceful kind of quiet that laid witness to the first of many, many hangouts at Kiyoomi’s living room during Thursdays.

Today is Thursday.

Unlike the first time, Kiyoomi now sits in the middle of the couch while Atsumu sits half-up at one end of it, his back leaning on the armrest and his legs propped on top of the spiker’s lap. 

A year ago today, he never would have conjured up a scene like this in his mind. Today, he basks in it. It’s one of the many changes he’d gone through the past year that he didn’t mind adjusting to when it happened because, well, it felt natural. Like how Atsumu came over frequently that Kiyoomi ended up buying slippers for him while he was in the supermarket one time, or how the blonde bought them matching mugs on a random day because he wanted the two of them to have a them-thing, which Kiyoomi contributed to with two pairs of matching fuzzy socks the week after, and now, like this, on his couch, each of them in a comfortable position with constant skin contact– yes, it felt natural. 

The clock on his wall points to 7PM; by 7:30, one of them will prompt the other for dinner. For now, though, they sit and relish in their individual activities.

Kiyoomi is reading a book, a Keroppi headband preventing his curls from draping in front of his eyes, while Atsumu is doom-scrolling through Tiktok, occasionally showing the ace some of the videos he found funny or interesting.

“Omi-kun.” 

“Hm?”

“It says here an asteroid might crash into Earth in the near future,” he starts, “The size of 50 football fields.” 

Kiyoomi snorts, and he supposes it was enough for a response. Eager to continue with his book, he keeps on reading.

“Got me thinkin’ and all,” the blonde continues, “Hypothetically, what would you do if an asteroid destroyed the world tomorrow?”

Upon hearing this, the spiker understands that his setter is in one of those moods where he wonders out loud and drags him into that world of wonder, forcing him to feel and think for answers. He closes his book and shifts a bit to his side so he could face Atsumu.

“Depends,” he says. “Hypothetically… am I in the city or traveling elsewhere?” 

The blonde grins. “Let’s say yer at home. Ya don’t go to practice because fuck it, the world’s ending tomorrow. Ya can’t drive and be somewhere else because everyone’s try’na get home ‘ta their loved ones and if ya got caught in traffic, maybe the asteroid might hit ya there in the highway.”

“Am I alone? Do I have someone with me? Family, friends, Motoya?”

A chuckle. “Now why’s there a special mention fer Motoya? Why couldn’t it be “Family, friends, Atsumu?””

Kiyoomi shrugs.

“Let’s say yer with someone. Like a lover or sum’n—“

“How long have we been together, my lover and I?”

“Omi, yer thinkin’ too much.” Atsumu pulls his legs up from where they were resting on Kiyoomi’s lap and crosses them as he sits up, as if this conversation was worth breaking such a comfortable position. “Like… just think about it. The first scene that comes ‘ta yer mind. What would ya do if the world ended tomorrow?”

Kiyoomi looks at him and thinks about a quote from Franz Kafka.

“I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.” Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.”

He clears his throat.

“Let me come up with an answer for a bit. Why don’t you tell me what you’d do first?” he ends up suggesting.

Atsumu grins as if he’d been waiting to be asked just that.

“I’d draw the curtains and lock the doors.” The blonde props up an elbow at the top part of the couch’s backrest and then rests his head there, eyes glued to Kiyoomi. “And I’ll play a good song and walk over ‘ta my lover who’s in the kitchen cooking us somethin’.”

The intensity in his stare and the rawness of his voice, devoid of the usual sarcasm and mockery, stirs Kiyoomi’s poor heart to mush.

“And I’ll hug him from the back and have him sway along to the music. We’d dance fer a bit and laugh about how I distracted him from cookin’, and then we would laugh again while we ate that burnt dish for dinner. We’ll probably have sex before we sleep— Oh, get that look off yer face, we’re dyin’ in the mornin’ anyway— and I’ll tell him good night and hold him close, and hope that if the asteroid did come, I hope it comes when we’re asleep.”

Their staredown ends when the better part of Kiyoomi rings alarm bells inside him, screaming: Eye contact has exceeded ten seconds. Look away or you will self-destruct. Counting down… 10… 9… 8…

Kiyoomi feels obliged to speak up first.

“Wow. And here I thought you would run around the city in search of loot to bring home.” Why is he saying this? “You’d probably break into supermarkets and do a haul of things you’ve stolen.”

Atsumu only laughs at this, and Kiyoomi is thankful to hear that unrestrained sound, having felt suffocated with the hypothetical situation he had been posed with. 

“So, Omi, what would ya do?” 

What would he do?

He wanted to cook in the kitchen while his lover locked the doors and drew the curtains on every window so they wouldn't have to see the chaos outside. He’d listen to the song being played, and then to the footsteps of his lover making their way to him. He’d smile to himself as he feels his lover’s hands hug him from behind, and together, they’d sway along to the music until Kiyoomi ends up forgetting about the food on the stove, which they’d eat for dinner, anyway.

He’d make love to his lover and hold him close once they’re finished. He’d trace the outline of Atsumu’s face and watch him sleep, committing the features to his memory so that he can find him in the next life, because in the morning, the world would end.

And that meant they would die, right?

“Atsumu, I think if we talk any longer about the end of the world, I might have a panic attack.” He blurts out.

Atsumu perks up, his serious demeanor broken, and he plops forward to grab both of Kiyoomi’s hands.

“Hey, hey. Omi, look at me,” Atsumu tries to catch his gaze, following where Kiyoomi tries to avoid his eyes. Both of his thumbs rubbed circles on the ace’s hands. “Okay, let’s close that hypothetical situation in yer mind. It’s gone now, okay?”

Kiyoomi allows himself to use the setter’s honey-brown eyes as his anchor. He breathes in.

“Tomorrow’s Friday, so practice ends at 7PM, and we’re eating out with Shoyou and Bokkun. Ya can’t say no; ya already said no twice this month. They’ll get upset.” Atsumu gives a small laugh, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “Tonight, though, it’s just us. Ya invited me to watch Big Hero 6, because ya miss Tadashi— as if ya knew the man in real life, Omi…”

Kiyoomi manages to let out an exhale that sounded like a beginning to a laugh he couldn’t quite form just yet, but he gets his point across to the setter: Keep talking. It’s helping.

Atsumu smiles at him, encouraged by the silent words.

Love, Kiyoomi learns, is never quiet, even in the absence of words. It screams through every intention that bleeds into actions, which are then translated by the recipient however they want. And love, he learns, makes you hope.

“I’m with ya right here, right now, Omi.” He takes hold of Kiyoomi’s hand and guides it to his chest where he presses it down with his hand to make the spiker feel his heartbeat. “Breathe with me, Omi. Inhale. Exhale.”

Kiyoomi thinks of practice tomorrow, of Big Hero 6, of the dinner they were having with Bokuto and Hinata after practice, or about the face Bokuto will make if he cancels out at the last minute (which he won’t do, by the way). He thinks about how he and Atsumu haven’t ordered yet, and he scans his brain for any particular craving he might want to have for dinner this evening. His thoughts lead him away from the hypothetical situation and back to his living room, where his hand can feel the rising and falling of Atsumu’s chest.

“Feelin’ better?” Atsumu whispers, eyes seeking his avoidant ones.

Kiyoomi nods. “Although..”

“Yeah?”

Kiyoomi’s stomach answers him with a loud grumble before he can even say anything. The spiker doesn’t even feel any embarrassment. He has long ago given up on keeping up appearances in front of Miya Atsumu.

The setter throws his head back and his laughter echoes around Kiyoomi’s apartment. “The things ya do to me, Omi,” he says and gives the spiker a pat on the head before reaching for his phone and opening the food delivery app.

Kiyoomi learns that love can be some sort of revelation to the other person, but mostly, to yourself. It’s trying to hide out of fear of being seen but yearning to be found anyway. It’s the relief that comes along with knowing someone knows you enough to know where you might hide, or notices your absence to know to seek you out. It’s both a plea and a challenge: “Find me. I’ll let you.”

The two of them linger by Kiyoomi’s doorway after they finished the movie that evening. He watches as Atsumu wedges his foot inside his shoe, too lazy to bend down and wear it properly. He crosses his arms as he leans his back on the wall.

“Ya sure yer gonna be okay?” Once the setter finally gets his foot to fit inside his shoe nicely, he straightens up and looks at Kiyoomi. “I’m havin’ second thoughts on leavin’ ya here, ya know.”

The spiker rolls his eyes. “You’re being dramatic. I’m fine now. You don’t have to baby me all the time.” He suddenly has the urge to hug Atsumu at the moment, which comes as a surprise even to himself. He shifts his body and moves his hands in his pockets, hiding them away before they could reach for the blonde. “You should go now. Text me when you get home.”

Atsumu stares at him; frowning, unmoving.

“Atsumu.”

“Okay, okay.” He puts both hands up, surrendering. He steps out of Kiyoomi’s apartment and gives him a smile. “See ya tomorrow, Omi-kun!” He turns his back on the spiker and starts walking away. 

He hasn’t even taken five steps away from Kiyoomi’s apartment when he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“Wha–” Atsumu turns around, confused, and is met by a loose hug from the spiker. 

It seems like the urge to hug the blonde overpowered his hesitation and insecurity. At the sight of Atsumu walking away, his senses blared one single message: Just hug him, you fucking coward!

“Yer still scared, ain’tcha?” The setter asks, voice muffled by Kiyoomi’s clothes. 

The taller man shakes his head, tightening his embrace on the setter awkwardly. He isn’t very familiar with the ways of hugging someone, but he is only human. And somewhere inside him, his instincts wanted to get closer, hug tighter. So he does.  “No, I’m not scared,” he mumbles, “I’m just really feeling grateful all of a sudden.”

Atsumu chuckles, bringing his hands to hug him back. “Damn, ya must really like me if yer bein’ all clingy like this, Omi.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Atsumu.”

That night, before he could fall asleep, he lets himself think back on Atsumu’s question.

“Hypothetically, what would you do if an asteroid destroyed the world tomorrow?”

He stares at his ceiling.

His answer is simple.

He’ll abandon everything and tell Atsumu the words that've been plaguing him for a long time now: I love you.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈

They lost.

Years of playing volleyball has taught Kiyoomi the grace of accepting defeat, but in the moment where he hears the sound of the ball hitting the floor and in the flurry of victorious shouts and cheers from the team at the opposite court in succession, there is always a deep sense of emptiness that forms within him. 

This emptiness extends to him and his teammates even in their encouragement and affirmations, all of them aware it was mostly said to placate each other’s feelings: “You did well!” “We’ll get them next time!” “Welp, we can’t always win.” It’s an emptiness that switches him into autopilot while he goes through the motions of every post-game protocol: a meeting with Coach Foster, photo op with the team, giving a few statements to reporters. It’s an emptiness that stings despite its lack of form or feeling; and maybe it stings a bit more because Kiyoomi is a professional volleyball player, and losing meant that he sucked at his job. It was his fault. He had felt like he was straining his wrist during that fifth set but he refused to acknowledge it. Maybe if someone subbed him, they could’ve won. He was so, so stupi–

“Omi-san?” Hinata breaks through his darkening cloud of thoughts like the sunshine he is. “Do you wanna come get dinner with us?” He blinks his eyes in an attempt to come off as cute, and Kiyoomi makes a mental note to get his head checked for actually seeing the vision. 

But no amount of cuteness could really pull Kiyoomi away from his post-game loss ritual he had cultivated over the years. He shakes his head. “No thanks. I’m good.”

He turns around and is about to head out when a camera flash blinds him for a second, and suddenly a reporter has thrusted a mic that’s too near his face for his liking before he could even process the question she posed. His eyes land on the microphone’s foam cover and thinks about how many people have spoken into that mic and have their saliva get spittled on it. He makes a list of diseases that are passed through air or saliva: whooping cough, tuberculosis, influenza, chickenpox, mumps. Those things could be lingering on the mic’s foam, which is only a few inches away from his mouth right now. He suddenly feels light-headed. His right foot takes a step back on instinct when he feels someone sling their arm over his shoulders from the back. 

Like a hero that always comes to his rescue, Atsumu appears beside him and grounds him in the present situation with the hold he had over his shoulder.

“Whoa whoa whoa, yer gettin’ too close 'ta my favorite spiker!” Atsumu extends his free hand to gesture for the reporter to move back, which she does, along with her cameraman. “Yer first day on the job or what?” He asks her with little to no regard over the red dot blinking on the camera recording him, his tone sharp.

“Y-Yes.. Atsumu-san,” the reporter’s composure breaks a bit at the question. “We wanted to interview Sakusa-san about the game–”

Atsumu runs a hand through his hair, his face looking a bit annoyed. “Look. I’m no expert on journalism and all, but I do know one thing ‘bout it. Ya read and learn ‘bout yer subjects first ‘fore ya ambush ‘em with yer presence and questions.” He clicks his tongue to convey his disappointment. “Ya don’t know that rule, do ya? ‘Cause if ya did, you’d know Omi-kun has mysophobia— heck, it’s one of his Top 5 Google searches even, right, Omi? Remember that interview we did?” He nudges the stiff man beside him.

Kiyoomi is trying his best to regulate his feelings right now, so he can’t really speak, afraid to break his concentration and end up having a panic attack in the middle of a very crowded gymnasium with people moving in different directions. So he gives a curt nod.

“He nodded, see? Anyway, he talks about it all the time and he’s actually breakin’ stigmas surrounding the condition ‘cause of it. One Google search or any askin’ around could’a let ya know not ‘ta shove a mic in front of him.” Atsumu shakes his head in disapproval. He turns to Kiyoomi, effectively ending the interaction. “Let’s go, Omi-kun.”

The two of them inform their teammates that they’ll be heading back to the hotel while the rest of the team wrap up their greetings and small talk with friends and acquaintances present at the game.

Kiyoomi had secretly requested Meian and Coach Foster months ago to assign Atsumu as his roommate during away-games since he was most comfortable with the setter– with his standards being met, and the emotional aspect of comfort, too. If Atsumu knew about the arrangement, he showed no signs of it, always letting out a dramatic gasp whenever he saw their names paired together in room assignments.

“Yer stayin’ in tonight, right, Omi?” Atsumu asks once they reach their beds. He sits down on his bed, facing the direction where Kiyoomi is, not caring that his outside clothes were touching his bed sheets. It’s fine. Kiyoomi never goes near his bed, anyway. Whenever they wanted to watch something together, it was Kiyoomi’s bed they stayed on. 

Kiyoomi nods and heads to the bathroom without another word or even a glance to the setter who looked like he had something else to say. 

He wants to take a hot shower, to wash away the feeling of loss from the game and the interaction with the reporter from earlier. Viruses thrive in the cold, so he makes sure to set the shower temp to the hottest notch, ignoring the scalding pain as he rubs his skin to a bright red. He wants to be and feel clean. And he wants to see the evidence of it.

By the time he gets out of the shower bathroom, all dressed in pajamas and donning his beloved Keroppi headband, his skin is undeniably red and irritated. But his mind is at peace.

Atsumu throws something in his direction and he manages to catch it just as he plops down on his bed. A moisturizing cream.

He looks at the setter.

“Thank you,” he manages to say, twisting the lid open. He takes out a dollop of the cream with three fingers and applies them on his forearms first. 

Silence falls inside their room, so he looks up to see what Atsumu was doing, only to find the setter watching him.

“What?” He asks, feeling conscious that the blonde’s full attention is on him.

“Ya gotta help me, Omi,” Atsumu starts, sitting cross-legged on his own bed.  “I need ya ‘ta tell Shouyou and the others that yer claimin’ me fer the night–”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t care what excuse ya tell ‘em, I just really don’t feel like goin’ out tonight, but I promised ‘em yesterday I would–”

“Before we lost the game?”

“Before we lost the game,” Atsumu repeats weakly, sighing. “Plus, whatever little resolve I had left ‘ta push through and give ‘em what they wanted went down the drain when I saw ya walkin’ out the shower lookin’ like that–” he gestures to Kiyoomi’s appearance, “And I wanted to just pig out like yer plannin’ ‘ta do every time we lose a game,  ya know? In my ragged shirt and boxers, eatin’ fast food and watchin’ movies..”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and pretends to think about Atsumu’s plea. In the time he stalls his response to the setter, he celebrates a single thing in his mind: Atsumu wants to spend the night with him! Sure, they lost the game earlier and it sucked, but this was probably the most ideal consolation he’ll need to cope with it.

He grins at the awaiting guy on the opposite bed across from him. “What are you waiting for, then? Go take a shower and make sure you’re thoroughly clean before you get in my bed.” 

Atsumu beams. “Yer the best, Omi-omi!” He sends him a flying kiss before scrambling to go to the bathroom to take a shower, determined to start their evening plans as soon as possible.

Kiyoomi takes his phone and opens their team’s group chat which he keeps muted and archived occasionally. His fingers hover above the keyboard as he tries to come up with a message to send to the team. His eyes scan the new messages popping up, hearing the voices of Bokuto and Hinata through their messages.

Chat Group: MSBY (Teammates only)

Hinata: GUYS WHERE ARE YOU IM ALREADY AT THE LOBBY 

Hinata: :D 

Meian: Calm down, kiddo

Barnes: I see you

Bokuto: LAST ONE WHO GETS TO THE LOBBY BUYS A DRINK FOR EVERYONE L8R

Meain: No

Inunaki: @everyone ARE WE ALL READY 

Inunaki: @Atsumu ure too quiet 

Inunaki: or did he go ahead alr :/

Inunaki: i see u reading the chat @Sakusa

Hinata: OMI-SAN’S NOT GOING

Inunaki: look he’s typing

Kiyoomi feels like he’s being watched now that the typing bubble from the other members disappeared. He can almost see them waiting for him to say something; an occurrence that happens far too many times that he’s gotten all too familiar with it. He types the first sentence that comes out of his mind and hits send.

Sakusa: I’m keeping Atsumu with me tonight

It takes a second for the messages to come flooding in.

Inunaki: ?!?!?!?!????!?!!!!

Bokuto: IS IT FINALLY HAPPENING

Hinata: omg omi-san!!!! it’s about time it happened!!11

Hinata: i’m typing in lowercase because i’m just so happy :’)

Inunaki: @Atsumu what did u do to sakusa that u got to make him sound like a possessive alpha LMAOOOO

Meian: For the love of god

Inunaki: it’s gotta be the roommate system that got those two to finally bone

Meian: Jesus

Barnes: I honestly don’t think Sakusa-san meant it like that

Inunaki: yeah and i think we should have won the game earlier too but we got a different outcome didnt we

Meian: What even is your point

“Idiots,” Kiyoomi mutters, face flushed with embarrassment, “They’re all  idiots,” he scrolls back up to read his message and thinks about how it could be misinterpreted the way his teammates did and he sinks into his bed. 

Mortifying as it is, he did sound like a possessive alpha.

Sakusa: Please stop putting me and Atsumu in such scenarios in your heads

Sakusa: I need his help on something, so I asked him to accompany me for the night

Sakusa: He feels bad that he’s not coming with you guys so I’m going to make him buy you guys a drink next time

Sakusa: Have a great evening

He doesn’t wait for any responses and exits his messaging app right away. He clicks on the food delivery app and orders a bunch of food he knows can’t be good for him but this is part of his post-game loss ritual: to indulge on things he normally doesn’t let himself enjoy. If he’s gonna feel bad about himself, he might as well do it all in one night.

“Omi-kun~” Atsumu sings his name as he gets out of the shower topless, his towel wrapped around his waist and only covering his lower half. Droplets from the shower still run down his skin, from his collar bones, to his pecs, all the way down his torso. He turns his back to Kiyoomi to rummage through the wardrobe for his clothes, giving the spiker a full view of his back that’s still wet.

Kiyoomi watches a particular droplet fall from the tip of Atsumu’s hair and onto his nape. It glides down the line of his spine smoothly and only disappears when it reaches the towel. He gulps.

Love, Kiyoomi admits to himself, makes you want to consume someone in all forms. Physically, mentally, emotionally. It’s this animalistic desire to want to become one with the person you love, because no word or gesture can ever come close to the ultimate expression of love which is the merging of two souls. 

He tears his gaze away from Atsumu’s back.

“Ya wanna talk about the game earlier?” Atsumu asks, having finally put a shirt on, unaware of his effect on Kiyoomi. He heads to Kiyoomi’s bed and doesn’t even ask anymore– he just goes in and makes himself comfortable next to the spiker. “Ya hesitated on yer block durin’ the second half of the last set, Omi.” He holds out his hand and rests it on the space between him and Kiyoomi, and the spiker places his open hand on top of his, palm up.

For the most part in Kiyoomi’s life, he has always been averse to touch. His family gets a pass for hugs and pats, but it’s limited to shoulder pats only. Motoya gets a pass for holding him by the wrist– the result of many, many times he’s dragged Kiyoomi around to try and get him to enjoy and try new things. Ushijima, his respected senior and friend, is allowed to exchange a firm handshake with him, and a firm hug, as well. His MSBY teammates are allowed to pat him on the shoulder, only on top of his jersey. And it has to be a very quick pat. On rare occasions, it was Kiyoomi who initiated these touches.

When other people touched Kiyoomi, it always ended up in a game of “Who got to hug Kiyoomi longer” or “Did you see that? He just high-fived me!”.  It made him feel more alienated and different.

With Atsumu, it was never an accomplishment. Only a smile– an acknowledgment and an expression of his gratitude. Thank you for letting me. And so, it was never hard for Kiyoomi to feel comfortable with touch when it came to the setter.

Only Atsumu gets to touch Kiyoomi like this– freely and quietly. 

“Ya gotta tell Rei-chan about these things, ya know?” Atsumu whispers as he traces Kiyoomi’s fingers. His touch is ghostlike. It sends goosebumps to the latter’s spine. “And I know yer gonna say ‘sum shit like “It wasn’t that bad” or “I can manage” and I ain’t hearin’ any o’ that. What’s the point of winnin’ a game when ya end up fracturin’ yer precious fingers?”

Kiyoomi chuckles, eyes on their hands. “We lost the game today, though.” 

Atsumu only huffs in response.

“Yeah, yeah.” Kiyoomi smiles at him in reassurance. “I’ll tell Rei-chan about it tomorrow.”

This seems to satisfy the setter. “Okay. But tonight, we’re gonna pretend we ain’t professional athletes who just lost a game, yeah?” He grins.

“We’re just two people hanging out after our 9 to 5 corporate job.” Kiyoomi adds to the bit.

“And let’s say it’s a Friday night, and ya invited me over for beer and unhealthy food, but we’re thrivin’ ‘cause tomorrow’s a Saturday, and we’re finally gettin’ some rest after a week of overtime in our office.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t hide his smile as he adds more to their play. “Only for us to wake up the next morning to our phones ringing nonstop, and we still have a killer hangover, but we manage to answer the call, and it’s our boss–”

“Sayin’ they both need us at the office as soon as possible!” Atsumu finishes, and they both groan at the imaginary scenario that frustrated them just thinking about it.

“Come to think of it, that could be someone’s reality.” He whispers, sinking back on his bed, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“Ours for the night, Omi-omi.” Atsumu extends an arm to him and ruffles his hair.

And that’s how Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi, officemates from one of the city’s top accounting firms, end up spending their night– just eating burgers, fries, pizza, and fried chicken while watching Past Lives by Celine Song, psychoanalyzing the characters, and coming up with hypothetical questions for each other.

The movie is nearing its end when Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s head lean heavily on his shoulder. The setter has fallen asleep, which is no wonder to Kiyoomi at all. He has played the same game earlier with Atsumu today, but the mental gymnastics the setter had to go through each play is very exhausting in itself. 

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi nudges him gently. 

No response. 

He could tell him right now. I love you. It won’t matter that Atsumu won’t be able to hear him. At least he can say he did say it to him. 

The words sit on his tongue, firm and ready since for the two years he’s been made aware of their truth. He takes a deep breath, practices mouthing the words, considers whispering them because volume doesn’t diminish the weight, anyway. He sighs. He shakes his head. He gulps down the words.

He stares at Atsumu beside him, eyelashes resting beautifully as he draws even breaths.

“I love you,” he says the words in his mind, because he cannot speak them out yet. 

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈

The thing is, Kiyoomi knows he has a high degree of importance to Atsumu. He knows this because, aside from the thoughtful gestures Atsumu shows him, people in Atsumu’s life express it.

“Where d’ya think yer goin’ while it’s pourin’ out?” Osamu once shouted to him over the counter at Onigiri Miya when he saw him slowly get out of the booth he had reserved for him and Atsumu for the twins’ bi-monthly meeting that he was somehow roped into joining in every now and then.

“I forgot to unplug my heater.” Kiyoomi replied with a bow, an answer and a goodbye.

“Ya idiot! Bring an umbrella with ya! Tsumu’ll kill me if anythin’ happened to ya!” 

Kiyoomi ignored the term Osamu used on him. He figured that it was the price of getting to know the twins more and having earned their trust. Such a thing was important in maintaining good relations, especially when he was planning to pursue Atsumu.

He knows that Atsumu’s parents take extra measures in cleaning the guest room whenever he gets invited over to stay during off-seasons because the setter made them sit through a powerpoint presentation about his condition. He knows that Atsumu’s highschool friends refer to him as The Omi because of how often his name was brought up in conversations, and now they can’t wait to meet him too (Atsumu makes him read their group chat and sends him screenshots). He knows that their current team always leaves a space next to him reserved for Atsumu because they knew that the two preferred it that way. And he knows that despite having and knowing a lot of people in his life, he’s more special than everyone else because he’s Atsumu’s best friend, next to Osamu.

“Do you say “I love you” to your friends?” Kiyoomi asked Motoya during one of their facetime sessions, this particular one being 10AM on a Sunday.

“Only when I’ve downed four shots of tequila,” His cousin chuckled at his own answer before the suddenness of such a question coming from Kiyoomi dawned on him. “Wait, why?”

“Is it normal to shout “love you” to your friends, but never to your best friend?” He frowned.

“What kinda ques–”

He hung up on him before he could even finish his line. That didn’t make him feel very validated.

It’s such a trivial thing. The blond practically spends more time in Kiyoomi’s apartment than his own; recently, he has started sleeping more often in the guest room, too. There is a noticeable lift in his spirits whenever Kiyoomi reacts to his jokes or when he compliments him, he never fails to send him good morning and good night messages, and he’s always saying how lucky he is to know Kiyoomi the way he does.

Kiyoomi knows that these things mean someone loves you. Even platonically, at the very least.

So why…

“I’m off! See you guys next year!” Bokuto shouts from across the locker room, already halfway out the door, a bounce in his step as he makes his way outside where his husband is already waiting for him.

“See ya soon, Bokkun! Love ya!” Atsumu shouts back, sending a number of flying kisses to the guy.

There it is again. 

He feels something twist in his stomach, an unnamed but unpleasant feeling. It makes him uncomfortable. It makes him want to retreat somewhere and reconsider his life choices.

“Omi? Ya done?” The root of his current dilemma approaches him, unbothered and happy.

Kiyoomi turns to face him, shooting daggers with his eyes. Atsumu halts, taken aback.

“Ex-fuckin’-cuse me, what’s with the attitude? Weren’t ya just laughin’ over my joke earlier?” He continues making his way to him as the spiker turns his attention back to his locker, depriving him of what he wanted most next to winning games: attention. “Omiiiiii.” 

By now, Atsumu is right behind him, so close to his back that he can feel the heat of the setter’s body and smell the cologne he’s come to associate with the wearer’s comforting presence. He hates that his own body recognizes these things and eases itself, the tension in his shoulder gone, the still air from the locker room decorated with a scent that reminds him of movie nights and walks in the park.

“Hey, Omi. Hey. You. Yes, you.” Atsumu pokes him nonstop, unabashedly begging for his attention. Poke, poke, poke.

“What?”

“Ya upset with me or sum’n?” This time, Atsumu manages to sneak his hand up to the side of Kiyoomi’s face and pokes his cheek. It stays there for a few seconds, testing the spiker. 

Eventually, Kiyoomi slowly raises his hand to Atsumu’s index finger and closes them on it as he slowly turns around. He is greeted by a cheeky smile from the blond who makes no effort to pull back his finger, even as Kiyoomi brings his hand down, and with it Atsumu’s, the index finger still locked inside his hold.

He stares at Atsumu’s face. Here are features that form to be the most beautiful face he’s ever laid his eyes on. There’s the scar that cuts through Atsumu’s right eyebrow from when he fell off a tree when he was six. There’s the mouth that produces the most vulgar string of curses he’s ever heard from someone; and here are the lips that shape it. There are the roots of his hair showing, overdue for a touch-up. There’s the pair of eyes that are glazed with confusion.

“Omi?”

The thing with love is, it’s unstable and unpredictable. One minute, Kiyoomi’s upset that the person he loves can easily say “love ya!” to other people, but never to him, even when it is too damn evident that he does love him (as a friend), and in the next, he’s holding on to his finger, anchoring himself to Atsumu, thinking that if he doesn’t say the words himself right now, he might never be brave enough to say them again.

“Actually, Atsumu, I–”

Yes, love is unpredictable. But so is Hinata bursting inside the room.

“GUYS I FINALLY FOUND MY SOCK— Oh. Where is everyone?”

Kiyoomi pulls his hand back, more shocked at the gravity of what he was just about to do than at Hinata’s arrival. He pretends to give his locker one last check before closing it.

“They left, Shoyo-kun. Just me an’ Omi here.” Atsumu points out the obvious. His eyes flit over to the spiker before he turns to Hinata.  “So where’d ya find yer sock?” He entertains the younger one, walking over to him.

“I’ll go ahead,” Kiyoomi announces, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Wait, Omi-kun, let’s go together! It’ll be the last time we’ll get ‘ta walk together for this year!” Atsumu tries to follow after him, but he is immediately stopped by the spiker.

“You’re saying that as if there aren’t ten days left until the new year.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “I’ll see you after the holidays.” He tries to muster a smile and only when he is able to form one does he realize he has his mask on. “I’m off.” He says and starts heading toward the door.

“Bye, Omi-san!” Hinata waves.

“Stay warm, Omi! And text me when ya get home!” Atsumu’s voice is noticeably weaker despite his exclamation. “Happy holidays.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t wait for his “love ya!”. It doesn’t come.

Apparently, the whole thing affected him more than he cared to admit. Because even as he goes Christmas shopping with Motoya, it’s all he can talk about.

“Seriously. When he’s drunk and feels like he’s falling off the earth, he manages to say it to Meian-san. ‘Man, I love ya, Meian-san, yer like the older cousin or like a distant family member I would rather have.’” He does a terrible imitation of the setter’s mannerisms and accent as he complains to Motoya.

“Why are you getting so worked up, anyway?”

“Because it’s like he’s doing it to everyone but me,” he frowns, aware of how petty he sounds. “He already gets on my nerves and annoys me to death, so why draw the line at “I love you”?”

Back in high school , Kiyoomi used to hang out with people aside from Motoya. Yes, other classmates. He found that they were quite enjoyable company and decided to hang out with them every now and then. But he had always felt like they kept him at an arm’s length. They had inside jokes about every other member in their clique except for Kiyoomi.

When they were sending stolen pictures of each other in the group chat and editing them into memes, Kiyoomi never had his picture sent there. When they made fun of each other for the mispronunciations and clumsy mistakes they made, Kiyoomi was never joked about or laughed at. He knew that they were wary of his reactions; looking out for him and avoiding to offend him. Instead, he felt left out.

And for someone like Atsumu, who he spends almost every day with and takes note of even the favorite color of his favorite character, to not have noticed he was doing it to Kiyoomi— it makes him feel hopeless. 

“Don’t you think the guy’s just feeling it out for now, though?” Motoya suggests.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, you haven’t really told him you love him yourself, have you?” His cousin points out. “Words like “I love you” don’t exactly weigh the same to everyone, Kiyoomi. Under the guise of friendship, it’s easy to roll off the tongue. But maybe with you, it’s not so easy to say, since it would be in a different context.” 

Kiyoomi stares at his cousin, a gear shifting in his head, but it isn’t enough to have the whole machinery of his mind in the emotions department to work. So he waits for him to continue.

Motoya sighs, albeit fondly. “I know you know your feelings aren’t so one-sided, Kiyo, and yes, you think Atsumu-kun is easy-going to everyone and everything in his life and that sunshine comes out of his ass, but have you ever stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, he’s in love with you the way you are with him? Hopeful, but scared? That maybe, he can’t bring himself to say it so casually because it means more to him than a simple filler to his sentences?”

Kiyoomi frowns. 

“I know that he loves me,” he confesses, looking down. It’s the first time he says it out loud despite dancing with the thought for the past few months. “He doesn’t have to say it for me to know. He could just sit and smile and I’d understand that he’s having the best day ever with the way his mouth is curved up; he stopped being a mystery to me for a long while now. That’s why I know that he’s just waiting for me to say it first.” And here I am, whining about how he can’t say it so casually to me, because I want a verbal confirmation; I want to be able to confess to him knowing I have some safety net of his words. So I can hold him accountable if he ends up breaking my heart.

“But every time I’m close to saying it to him, I hold myself back at the last second. Those three words could change our entire dynamic. I’m scared it won’t be the same.” He has never been so honest with himself the way he is now, saying these words he’s bottled up alone for so long. He looks at Motoya, desperate to be understood.

 Kiyoomi has learned a lot about love from different points of his life. And he knows enough about it to be gentle in handing it to another person, or to be merciful enough in keeping it to himself so as to spare himself or Atsumu the hurt that came with loving.

His cousin gives him an understanding smile. “Nothing in life is going to remain the same, Kiyo, and you know that. You don’t love someone because you think they’re going to be the antidote that gives you a never-ending supply of happiness. You love them simply because you ended up feeling that way; may it be accidentally or gradually, or having known from the start that this is where it all leads, anyway: with you loving them.”

That night, back in his childhood room in Tokyo for the holidays, in the midst of wrapping his Christmas presents to his nieces and nephews, Kiyoomi finally sets a deadline for himself: he's going to confess to Atsumu before the year ends. Or on the first day of the New Year. He's not sure. His stomach twists at the though of it. It is always easier said than done.

So, he practices. He familiarizes the way the words fall on his tongue. I love you. I love you. I love you.

December 31

11:20PM

Kiyoomi is alone in his apartment in Osaka, having gotten back from spending Christmas and a few days at his childhood home in Tokyo with his whole family. His Mom was so excited to welcome them back, his siblings commented on how much he’s grown (they do that every few months), and even his Dad visited to celebrate with them. He’s somewhat glad that over the years, his family has warmed up to the idea of celebrating the holidays. Back then, Christmas and New Year were just ordinary days, only with added presents. Now, he gets to catch up with his siblings, visit his Mom, talk to his Dad, and bond with his nephews and nieces, and siblings-in-law. And Atsumu even greeted him Merry Christmas, Omi at 12AM on the dot, though he only saw the message in the morning.

But even with all this time for family and loved ones, he still insisted on going back to Osaka before the New Year to avoid major traffic jams and busy streets filled with people returning to their normal lives. He has several invites to go out for New Year’s Eve but he declined them all in favor of spending his evening alone and in peace, spared from the noise and company of people. 

He sits comfortably on his bed, reading a book. It’s quiet. He likes quiet. He figures that if he’s going to welcome the new year, he might as well do it by reading. But something doesn’t feel right. He reasons it must be the whirring of the heater or the distant honking of cars, but they’re great for white noise. He rethinks his decision about declining invites, but he’s also sure missing the party scene isn’t something he’s going to regret. And so, he is left with two things to blame for this sudden stillness in the air: the heavy snow outside, or missing a certain blond.

As if sensing his yearning, Kiyoomi’s phone pings with a message from Atsumu.

From: Atsumu

u awake, omi?

He types in a reply, only to be cut by his screen flashing an incoming video call from the receiver of his longing himself. He immediately answers it.

A mop of platinum blond hair greets his screen once the call connects, this time absent from the usual hair gel and styling put up to it. He wants to run his fingers through them. The video shakes a little and he finally sees Atsumu on his screen, holding his phone at a better angle to show his face to the camera. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, props his phone to show only his eyes and forehead. He remembers that he's spent the last few days practicing on saying three simple words. He wonders if he can say it tonight.

“What do you want?” Kiyoomi asks, trying to ignore the warmth spreading all over his body. That seriously can’t be because of Atsumu, right? What physiological explanation is there to it? And how come the stillness of the night seems to have found a light swaying to it, like a lull that eases the air?

Atsumu looks comfortable in his position, laid on his side. He is bundled in thick blankets, battling the cold with it. “Geez, Omi, with how yer actin’, I might take ya fer the source of all the coldness this winter,” he playfully rolls his eyes. “Why are ya still up anyway?”

Thinking of you. I love you.

“None of your business,” he answers, acutely aware of the miles between them. He wonders what skies Atsumu is seeing in Hyogo. He changes slides into his duvet, book long forgotten and set side, and he lays down on his side, copying Atsumu, as if that would help the yearning he feels at the moment. “Why did you call? Your brother left you alone to go to his boyfriend again, didn’t he?”

Atsumu’s eyes widened in shock. “How’d ya know, Omi?!”

“Because you usually wear your earphones when you call me while you’re back home and he’s in the room with you,” He says in a matter-of-factly tone while his thumb hovers over Atsumu’s face on the screen, as close to caressing him as he can go for now. His heart aches with longing. “You’re lucky I was bored.”

The blond doesn’t say anything at that; only gives him a knowing smile. As if he had been let in on a secret.

“Omi.”

“What.”

“I got sumthin’ ‘ta say.”

“What.”

“Is that an automated answer or what?”

“What?”

“What?”

“Atsumu,” he warns.

“Kiyoomi,” the setter mimics him, mischief in his tone. He is clearly enjoying this.

“I’m going to end the call,” he threatens.

“Then ya won’t know the reason why I called ya.” Atsumu baits him.

I only care that you called. I love you.

It should be annoying him, this back and forth exchange of useless chatter, but Kiyoomi finds comfort in it, settles in it like it’s a blanket he favors over his actual one.

“You just called because you don’t have someone else to annoy,” he rolls his eyes.

“I guess so,” Atsumu affirms with a nod. Then he looks away from the camera for a moment before looking at Kiyoomi on the screen, the glow reflected on his eyes. “Also because I missed ya, Omi.” He says simply, and has the audacity to flash the spiker a shy smile.

Kiyoomi gulps, tightening the hold he has on his phone. Atsumu is going to be the death of him. He can picture it clearly– Breaking News: Volleyball Player, 24, found dead inside his apartment. Cause of death: Heart attack over an “I miss you” statement by his teammate. He inhales a shaky breath and closes his eyes. He opens them again just as he lets out an exhale. 

He stares at the man on the screen. Oh, how he wants to be beside him right now. He envies the blanket that gets to wrap itself around Atsumu on such a cold night. Oh, how he loves him so.

“Careful, Atsumu, or I might think you’re the clingy type,” he manages to find his voice, careful not to sound too flustered.

Atsumu laughs, and it echoes throughout his room. He’s thankful he doesn’t have earphones on. At least now, his room would have the soundwaves that contained Atsumu’s bright laughter. 

“As if ya dun’ like me clingin’ ‘ta ya,” the setter retorts.

“My word against yours,” he doesn’t try to hide the smile creeping in on his face. “Atsumu.”

“Hmm?”

I love you.

He grins and turns off his camera for a moment, afraid to be seen by the setter whose lighting has also dimmed in effect. It’s fine. He can still make out his features in this light. He just doesn’t want Atsumu to see him right now.

“Oi, why’d ya turn off the damn camera–”

“I miss you, as well.” Kiyoomi drops his phone for a moment to cover his face with both hands, trying to contain his feelings. 

It’s silent for a moment.

“Omi, ya really…” Atsumu starts, but doesn’t continue. Instead, he laughs heartily.

It’s at this moment that Kiyoomi picks up his phone again and turns his camera back on, the light from the screen bouncing on Atsumu’s end, illuminating his face once more, which has turned a bit red. Kiyoomi thinks it’s the cold, but he also knows he played a part in it. He smiles to himself.

“Ya sure are smilin’ a whole lot tonight, Omi.” The setter points out. “Guess ya really do miss ol’ Tsumu.”

“Of course. You know I never say things I don’t mean,” he replies in affirmation, giving him the softest smile he could muster.

Atsumu’s smile in response to this is blinding. Suddenly, Kiyoomi feels there’s no need to confess— not when they can exchange smiles that speak for whatever their mouths can’t, not when they have invented a coded language that exists behind the words they actually speak. He thinks back to a few days ago when he complained about Atsumu not telling him “love ya” the way he did to others. It turns out, Atsumu has been saying it to him all the time, hidden behind concerned questions and soft reminders. He’s always felt Atsumu’s feelings– now he understands it.

“Have ya eaten breakfast yet, Omi? Wanna grab a bite with me?” 

Ya have a bad habit of skippin’ breakfast, so I’m gonna make sure ya eat this time, ‘cause I love ya.

“Ya dun’ hafta pretend ‘ta be okay when yer not, Omi.”

I know ya hate post-game rituals where we hafta shake hands with the other team, so stop tryin’ ‘ta hide from me when ya wash yer hands, ‘cause I worry. I love ya a lot.

“Ya hear ‘bout that new restaurant that opened downtown, Omi?”

I want ‘ta go with ya and try new things with ya, ‘cause I love ya. It’s that simple.

“I like Thursdays, too.”

‘Cause I get ‘ta spend ‘em with ya. I love ya.”

“Also because I missed ya, Omi.”

Can you tell how much I really love ya?

And then, Motoya’s voice from a few days ago rings in his mind.

“--but have you ever stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, he’s in love with you the way you are with him? Hopeful, but scared?”

“Hello? Earth to Omi?” Atsumu’s voice breaks him out of his epiphany.

Kiyoomi sits up, dazed. “Yeah, here. Me. I am. Here, that is,” he blinks rapidly, trying to be present in the conversation once more.

Atsumu laughs at him, all while gazing at him with the fondest look on his face. “Ya wanna go ahead and sleep, Omi? Yer mouth ain’t catchin’ up with yer brain anymore.”  

He shakes his head. “I’m not sleepy.”

“S’that another way of sayin’ ya want ‘ta talk more?” The setter teases, only to fall silent when his spiker nods his head without hesitation. “Man, yer really sumthin’ tonight, ain’tcha?”

At this point, Kiyoomi gives up on hiding his face, so he repositions his phone so that his whole face is seen on the screen. Atsumu evidently beams at this. The setter fiddles with something on his phone, and then a flash from the screen shows on his end. He’s taken a screenshot of their videochat. Kiyoomi wants to frown, but he physically cannot pretend to be upset about it. In fact, he’s quite endeared by it.

“One more thing, Omi,” Atsumu says, and it’s only when Kiyoomi looks at him that he continues, “Happy New Year. I wanted ‘ta be the first to greet ya.” (Kiyoomi swipes his screen up for the time and it really is 00:00 Jan 1.) “I hope this year is kinder ‘ta ya than the last. I hope ya still keep me ‘round this year, too.” The last part is said so softly that Kiyoomi only gets to understand it through the setter’s body language.

And oh, how Kiyoomi loves him so, so much.

“Happy New Year, Atsumu,” he starts, slowly dragging his body to sit up, to give his hammering heart some space to go off, “I…” he tries to find the words. He gulps.

Atsumu looks at him expectantly.

“I signed into the team in August two years ago,” he recalls, avoiding the screen where he knows Atsumu is listening to him, “I wasn’t particularly kind to you back then. I think we might have even had a big fight every week. I was new. It wasn’t an excuse to be a prick, but you know how difficult and overwhelming it was for me. And you– you loved getting me riled up, for some reason, and sometimes, you went too far. You were kind of a dick to me, too, so I guess I was kind of valid that time for imagining a dart board with your face on it and hitting bull’s eye every time.” What was he even saying?

The setter laughs. 

“But one day, I lost my favorite hand sanitizer. I think it fell off my bag because I forgot to fully close the zipper in a rare moment of carelessness. And you–” He glances at the screen to see if Atsumu is still listening, only to see the setter with a serious expression, one that indicated he was hanging on to every word Kiyoomi was saying. “You happened to see it on the sidewalk on your way to the gym. You tried to give it back to me, but I didn’t want it anymore; it had been exposed to the ground for a good half hour, and I didn’t like the idea of taking it back. I was internally preparing to hear you complain about it, but you only nodded and reached into your bag to give me your sanitizer, which was the same brand as mine. 

You said you’ve been observing me since high school, that you know how meticulous and I can get when dealing with my surroundings, because I don’t like germs, or being sick, so you looked it up online and read about mysophobia long before I could tell you I had it. You then admitted you saw me with a distinct routine for maintaining hygiene and set me as a standard for cleanliness, and once you were out of your usual sanitizer, you ended up buying the brand you saw me use, because you trust my choices. I don’t think you understand, even now, just how much of a significant moment that was to me, as someone who’s always been lectured for the thoughts and actions I have and resort to because of my condition. I…” He can feel his eyes getting misty, the gesture from two years ago still warm in his heart. “I still have the empty bottle of that sanitizer somewhere around here. I couldn’t throw it away; not when it was one of the first things I got from a gesture of consideration from someone who I thought would only make fun of me.” 

“Omi-kun...” Atsumu says his name softly, unsure about where Kiyoomi is steering his speech, but he patiently listens.

“After that, I felt like I owed you kindness, because of the kindness you’d shown me. So I agreed to walk home together when you asked offhandedly one time. But then, that became our thing too,” he chuckles at the memories of him and the setter walking home, during good days and bad days. It’s been one of the most consistent things in his life since joining the team. “And then, I found myself actually enjoying your company– which was funny because I had this little wager with Motoya that if I still felt like an outsider in the team before the year ended, I’d terminate my contract and join EJP Raijin.”

“Ya did?! Why am I knowing about this just now?” Atsumu interjects, earning a laugh from Kiyoomi. “We could’a lost ya, Omi!”

“You wouldn’t have,” He reassures him, “You think I don’t know you assigned the team in pairs to wipe down our volleyballs after practice, just so I don’t spend a few minutes inspecting them longer than I usually do?” He inhales softly, letting all his unspoken feelings flow out of him. “I’d be an idiot if I left MSBY–where I had really accommodating teammates who never questioned my behavior, and a setter that has been way too eager to stick with me since high school and has been acting like my guardian ever since I joined the team,” he smirks.

“S’not like ya went through great efforts in pushin’ me away, anyway, Omi. Ya kept lettin’ me.” Atsumu protests. He sits up, sensing that the conversation called for it. 

“That’s right,” Kiyoomi nods. “Against my better judgment, I always ended up letting you.” He closes his eyes as he inhales deeply. The exhale comes with the opening of his eyes. “And, before I knew it, I ended that year with newfound hope for myself and for the people around me. I learned to not take it as an insult when people treat me gently– it wasn’t because they pitied me or they think I’m too frail to function– they simply want to get their care across to me. I wouldn’t have realized that if you weren’t there to show me such acts. I learned to allow myself to be cared for.”

“Kinda wanna give ya a hug right now, Omi,” Atsumu whispers, and when the spiker looks at the screen, he sees that the setter’s eyes are glassy with unshed tears. The man has always been a crier. “I’m so proud of ya.” 

“Mhm,” Kiyoomi acknowledges the statement and lets it hang in the air for a moment. 

“What do you think the New Year holds for ya, Omi?”

Kiyoomi thinks about the past year; how his life has fallen into whatever he’s wanted it to be growing up. He gets to live comfortably and plays volleyball for a living. He gets calls from his family every now and then, and he may not be able to admit it out loud yet, but he actually looks forward to it, even when half the time it’s just his nephews and nieces shoving their faces in the camera, screaming “Uncle Kiyo, when are you visiting?!”. He manages to go out without having a full blown panic attack before or after the event– thanks to his therapists. He has more than one friend now (but Motoya will always remain as his number 1), and it’s quite convenient that his friends happen to be his colleagues. 

Through it all, there has been one person who’s always by his side. In Kiyoomi’s quiet, this person is his voice. In Kiyoomi’s chaos, this person is his calm. In Kiyoomi’s hesitation, this person is the one who’s always ready to take the first step and hold his hand through it all. Kiyoomi thinks it’s his turn to take that step for them.

“Atsumu,” he mutters.

“Yeah?”

I love you, he thinks.

“I love you,” he says with the confidence of a man being lined up in a death row. And what does a man, in the face of death, have anything else to lose? 

“You ask me what I think the New Year holds for me, but I can’t think of anything else; only that I want to hold you. Closer than I ever have. I want to be the kind of person to you the way you are to me– brave, gentle, honest. I want so, so selfishly to have you, to call you mine. Mine to love, mine to share midnight laughs with, mine to figure things out with,” he doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear rolls down his cheek. There is desperation in his words. He doesn’t care to hide it. “Atsumu, I really love you. I’m not crying because I think it’s unfortunate that I do,” he hears the setter snicker at this, but he refuses to look at his screen. “I’m crying because it’s been so long since I’ve wanted to say it out loud. And now I don’t know how to stop. I love you, Atsumu.”

He’s laid himself bare, if only through words; only Atsumu’s response can absolve him of the punishment he’s set for himself.

Atsumu is quiet. So quiet that Kiyoomi assumes he’s ended the call already. He musters enough courage to look at the screen, only for him to see that his setter has already propped his phone somewhere in his bed as his hands were too busy wiping tears from his face to be able to hold the phone. 

“Atsumu…”

“Omi, ya really… fuckin’ confessed…” In between sobs, Atsumu manages to extend an arm and hold his phone again. “ON CALL?!” He brings his phone close to his face and gives him a pretend-furious expression. 

Kiyoomi, who has his breath held and his entire body tense, is thrown off by this response. He blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“Ha..” He chuckles, then all of a sudden he’s letting out a laugh. He throws his head back with closed eyes and thinks: Of course.

Of course Atsumu loves him back– loves him just as much, yearned for him for probably just as long. Of course Atsumu’s feelings for him is already an established fact, so much so that his first response to Kiyoomi’s confession is a complaint. A very valid complaint, at that. 

“Look at ya laughin’ while ‘am still wrappin’ my head around the fact that ya just declared ya love me, and I’m supposed ‘ta go sleep alone tonight in Hyogo while yer in Osaka, lovin’ me, missin’ me? Christ, Omi,” His phone is dropped once more, his ceiling filled with glow-in-the-dark star stickers filling Kiyoomi’s screen. 

Kiyoomi waits for him, slowly coming down from the high of expressing himself and his feelings. He frowns when a few minutes pass with the setter still absent from his screen.

“Atsumu?” He calls out. No response.

The little relief he’s gotten slowly washes away, the tides of anxiety creeping in. 

“Are you still there?” His voice is feeble when he asks. 

Suddenly, Atsumu takes hold of his phone, appearing on Kiyoomi’s screen once more. He’s no longer in his bed, now dressed in thick layers of coat and walking outside of his room. Kiyoomi furrows his brows. 

“What are you–”

“Ya can’t expect me ‘ta sit still and wait ‘til mornin’ ‘ta get ‘ta ya, Omi.” Atsumu’s voice is now serious, but it doesn’t lack the gentle tone he’s reserved for his spiker. 

“What do you mean?” Kiyoomi asks, but he already knows the answer. His heart hammers in his chest. Suddenly, every nerve in his body is alive. 

“I’m comin’ over. Wait for me, okay, Omi?” Atsumu smiles at him through the screen.

And who was Kiyoomi to refuse the pleasure of waiting for his lover to come home to him?

“Okay,” he smiles for the umpteenth time that evening. “Drive safe.”

“Ya bet my ass I will,” Atsumu grins. “The man I love is waitin’ fer me in Osaka.”

Kiyoomi giggles– actually giggles – at the statement. “Then you better get here as fast as you can.”

There is a pause where the two of them just stare at each other through the phone, smiling at each other and to themselves. The New Year has just been welcomed into the calendar and it’s already brought a great deal of happiness to Kiyoomi. He’s suddenly grateful to be alive; to experience such bliss.

“I’ll see ya in a bit, Omi.” Atsumu tells him, to which he nodded. “And do I have permission ‘ta spend the night there?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, then laughs. “Can we stop pretending we don’t want to sleep holding each other? Atsumu, I’m actually going to die if I don’t kiss you and sleep without you next to me tonight.” He blurts out. He figured he’s going to throw all his feelings in if it meant having a higher chance at getting what he wants. High stakes, high reward.

Atsumu squawks at this. “Okay, I’m goin’ now. I can’t handle this anymore, ‘cause I also feel like dyin’ right now bein’ so far from ya, Omi!” 

“Jesus Christ, we sound like high schoolers.” 

“I mean, I’ve been crushin’ on ya since high school, so let me live this one out.” Atsumu grins and then rushes out his goodbye before ending the call.

Kiyoomi doesn’t realize Atsumu hasn’t said “I love you” back until the silence of his room welcomes him again after the call disconnects.

The wait is excruciating for someone who’s spent the past two years yearning in secret. Kiyoomi stands up and tidies up his room. He heads to his kitchen and makes coffee. Then he goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth. And then he goes to his living room and lays down on the couch. The knock will come soon. He ends up falling asleep on the couch waiting for the sound.

The knock comes as a breaker of Kiyoomi’s slumber. He sits up, and in his sleep-addled brain, he automatically goes to the door to open it, his head blank from thoughts. He doesn’t remember the video call yet from earlier; that memory is still swimming in his brain as he reorients himself with waking up– only for it to be yanked down when he opens the door and sees Miya Atsumu in front of his apartment, bundled in warm clothing and beaming at him like it’s not a 2:30AM.

He stiffens, a hand still on his doorknob.

“It would’a made me a hypocrite ‘ta tell ya my feelings over the phone when I whined about it ‘ta ya.” The blond grins, taking a step closer. He doesn’t need to ask to know that Kiyoomi’s brain is still lagging, so, like always, Atsumu does what he does best– anchoring his Kiyoomi to a calmer sea. “I love ya, Omi. Always have.”

And the weight behind those words is what pulls Kiyoomi back into the present, face to face with the love he’s always longed for. He doesn’t waste another second. He pulls Atsumu inside and closes his door. He throws his arms around the setter’s neck and leans forward to welcome him with an open-mouthed kiss. He wants it; wants him. 

Atsumu is quick to respond, swirling his tongue along Kiyoomi’s, feeling the latter’s eagerness in that muscle, lapping into his as if challenging him, and he rises up to the bait. He pulls Kiyoomi closer, hands slipping beneath the taller man’s wooly jacket, searching for a place to settle on, but since they’re exploring each other’s mouths, he lets his hands roam around the expanse of Kiyoomi’s back, unable to keep still. Their breaths mingled in their exhales. The warmth between their connected mouths is barely enough to let off the heat pooling in their bodies. Picture a kettle boiling. The whistle comes as the moan Kiyoomi lets out when Atsumu moves to kiss his neck. Atsumu pulls away and stares at him, eyes half-lidded with wanton. His lips are red and swollen from kissing.

“Shit, Omi. Wanna take this to the bedroom?” He asks, taking his hands off Kiyoomi to take off his coat, all while kicking off his shoes. He doesn’t take his eyes away from the spiker’s face as he attempts to hang the coat on the rack. He misses and it falls. He’s about to grab it but Kiyoomi is already pulling him toward the bedroom.

“Atsumu, I’d be damned if you manage to think about anything other than having sex with me right now,” Kiyoomi rasps.

Atsumu perks up, his coat lying on the floor immediately abandoned. He lets Kiyoomi whisk him away. He thinks about a conversation he had with Osamu a month ago.

“How hard is it ‘ta tell him ya love him, ya dimwit?! All ya gotta do is say those words; s’not like everyone’ll be surprised,” Osamu lectures him over the phone. “Ya know the man is crazy about ya!”

“He sure is,” Atsumu smiles to himself, satisfied to hear another person’s point of view. “But I’m givin’ ‘im ‘til the end of the year, Samu. If he doesn’t, then I’ll confess ‘ta ‘im on the New Year.” 

Love, Atsumu thinks, is meeting someone halfway; even without directions, even without plans. He trusts they’ll always meet, anyway. And oh, what a beautiful meeting it is that ends with them in Kiyoomi’s bed, limbs tangled with one another. 

Love, love, love, Atsumu thinks.