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Chapter Text

It was in autumn;

Tokyo had always been a bustling city and that made it more suffocating, more depressing. A city that had millions of people in it and yet Kiyoomi felt like he was all alone, sitting in a dorm with fellow boys that were too brash, too loud, too— not like Kiyoomi.

It was lonely.

And yet it felt like he shouldn’t be. Lonely, that was. Why should he be lonely when he’d gotten anything that he’d ever wanted since he was born? A family that doted on him, money that was easily given to him, grades that rarely dropped, and a few trusted friends.

Kiyoomi had nothing to ask for; he had everything.

And yet it swallowed him; this darkness that was so encompassing, this abyss that was so deep he feared it might swallow him whole, this hollow feeling in his chest that always came and rarely went away, messing his emotions, his feelings.

A man that had everything and yet—

Yet loneliness was ever present. Like a shadow; a cloud that never left him alone.

A devil on his shoulders.

[ High School: Itachiyama Institute, #10 Jersey ]

It was in autumn;

Tokyo had always been a bustling city and that made it more hectic, more loud. Walking down the path to the gym, the brown leaves kept on falling from the trees lining the sidewalk and every time Kiyoomi stepped on them, they made this crunch sound that was so satisfying it made Kiyoomi’s chest feel lighter, just a tad bit happier.

Autumn in Tokyo had always been beautiful and every year it came, it had Kiyoomi hoping for something to happen; something that would shift his world, like gravity shifting the planets, like dark matter moving the universe, like fate finally giving him a reason to breathe.

Perhaps he should have stopped watching all those space videos on the internet. But it was something to do in the quiet of the house; something to focus on other than the loneliness wrapping around him. Something to keep him busy other than his homework.

That had been his routine. Until volleyball came to him.

Kiyoomi had started to play volleyball a few years ago, had come with Motoya to his after club activities out of curiosity. At first, it was only a hobby, something that would keep him out of the house and connect with kids his age, burn the rest of his free time like all the other children. But then it became serious because Kiyoomi was incapable of leaving anything unfinished; he must see it through the end to feel accomplished. Puzzles, video games, movies, studying, and then volleyball, the current hobby that had turned into something precious to him.

Itachiyama was a brilliant school institute that offered a lot of subjects and had a particularly good volleyball club. And that was why Motoya and him chose Itachiyama Institute when they had to pick a high school on the last year of middle school. Different schools had tried to recruit them but both have decided for Itachiyama, the reigning champion in Tokyo.

Kiyoomi was only a first year but he had already made a name for himself in middle school. Everyone said that he had the talent, the drive and the height and therefore put him on the starting lineup to gain experience. Motoya was the same, a tall libero always practicing with Kiyoomi who was an outside hitter. They were a team, of some sort.

It was good; Kiyoomi practiced a lot, felt himself breathe more easily as the days passed by. Their seniors were kind and were always there to help them, to nurture their talents, as the coach had said.

It was fun.

Mostly.

Until one autumn;

That Kiyoomi was set to play against Inarizaki from Hyōgo for the very first time. He’d heard of them; a solid team, a talented setter, a powerful ace. Kiyoomi had watched some of their games; had studied their mannerisms, their plays, the way they interact with each other.

Miya Atsumu was talented for a first year student who was already the starting setter for the team. Miya Osamu, his twin, was the same. Ojirou Aran was the team’s ace, a second year. And the rest were what Kiyoomi dubbed minor characters. Talented yes but they didn’t stand out to him.

Kiyoomi had entered the locker room that day and quietly changed into his jersey, a bright neon green and yellow that Kiyoomi tolerated only because it made him less gloomy. Colors could shift moods, right? Right.

The mood in the locker room was brimming with positive energy; it was cheery, hyped because they had been requesting to play against Inarizaki for a while now and only recently that Inarizaki had responded and driven to Tokyo for a practice match against them. An honour, was what their coach had called it. So of course, they had to beat them.

Kiyoomi had expected a lot from them.

And they gave him that and more.

It was in autumn;

That Sakusa Kiyoomi’s world shifted once again, but more intense, a punch in the gut. Like earth turning upside down, like planets falling from their axis, like skipping stones and have it skipped five times. Unexpected.

When Miya Atsumu served, it was to a definite silence. When Miya Atsumu served, it was straight to Kiyoomi’s hands. When Miya Atsumu served, it was followed by Kiyoomi falling on his ass, ball bouncing from his fists, heading out of bounds.

It was in autumn;

That Sakusa Kiyoomi found the human incarnation of the sun; a bright smile that crinkled on the corners of hazel—almost golden—eyes. Hair dyed sloppy blonde sat atop his head.

It was in autumn when Miya Atsumu fucked up Sakusa Kiyoomi’s gravity.

And it was in autumn that Kiyoomi felt an intense emotion deep within his chest.

He swallowed that emotion back, set his world back to where it belonged, pulling ropes and threads of fate, like what Miya Atsumu had done hadn’t affected him.

Kiyoomi pretended he wasn’t moved.

*

Miya Atsumu was a storm.

That was the only definition Kiyoomi could come up with. Miya Atsumu wrecked havoc and left with no remorse. Kiyoomi had been one of the people who was left in the dust, staring at his back after shaking hands with him when Itachiyama had lost to Inarizaki as early as June his first year in Itachiyama.

An upset they had called it but Kiyoomi knew it wasn’t.

Miya was intelligent, always scheming. He threw Itachiyama for a loop and more, surprising them with sudden changed plays again and again. And every time, it felt like Kiyoomi was playing volleyball anew, an odd emotion tickling the pit of his stomach

Miya Atsumu was a reckless player who loved volleyball to an extent that when Kiyoomi gave back the serve that was given to him and Miya Atsumu missed on receiving it, he didn’t even frown like the other players whom Kiyoomi had stolen several points from. Instead, Miya Atsumu had looked at him with awe— childish awe like he’d just seen the best move of all time. He’d looked so— happy that Kiyoomi had felt jealous of him; of this happiness that was bred from the smallest of thing. It was infuriating, seeing someone love something so fully that even the chance of losing had nothing on it. Kiyoomi was baffled and yet it made him breathless; that intense love towards something, volleyball, that even him couldn’t muster to feel.

Because volleyball was just a sport. It was something fleeting.

And Kiyoomi might like volleyball but Miya Atsumu treated it like it was his life; like it was the air that he breathed, like his happiness depended on it, like he couldn’t live with it.

Kiyoomi was jealous of him.

And it had stayed like that for years.

[ Middle School: Okojo Middle School, #12 Jersey ]

But before Miya Atsumu, there was Ushijima Wakatoshi.

If Miya Atsumu moved Kiyoomi, Ushijima Wakatoshi made Kiyoomi want.

Want more of volleyball, of the court, of challenge.

He was the reason why Kiyoomi chose to continue playing volleyball, to enrol in Itachiyama to be better.

Ushijima Wakatoshi came before Miya Atsumu, like a tsunami. If Miya Atsumu was a storm, Ushijima Wakatoshi was the quiet tsunami that splashed over Kiyoomi’s life like he was meant to do it, like he was supposed to add to the raging emotions inside Kiyoomi’s little fragile being.

When Kiyoomi played against Ushijima Wakatoshi, he was just in middle school, playing for his the school team, Okojo, and volleyball was still a hobby that he was trying to scratch off him, like an unrelenting itch on the very core of his being. Kiyoomi hadn’t cared about his opponents, playing matches after matches, winning and losing and winning again like it was pre-determined for Kiyoomi to be a winner at the end.

He’d met Ushijima Wakatoshi by the bathroom, seen him wipe his wet hands with a handkerchief, watched him fold said handkerchief in the damp side after using it which had made Kiyoomi’s still growing neat freakness—as some of his teammates had called it—feel in awe. The thought that went through Kiyoomi’s mind that very second was ‘oh, someone who was the same as me’ and that made him feel less alone.

Ushijima Wakatoshi made Kiyoomi feel like the world wasn’t as grey as he thought it was. And that feeling only cemented deep within him when it was his turn to play against the other.

Kiyoomi had been amazed; Ushijima Wakatoshi had a mean spike, a south paw they called him, a left-handed volleyball player, one that was rare. Kiyoomi had felt himself swallow hard after hearing that and swallowed even harder when Ushijima’s serve met his soft clenched fists, the ball bouncing off his hands and out of bounds, his teammates unable to save it or keep it in play.

Right then and there, Kiyoomi felt his insides quiver in excitement, like volleyball to him had been given a meaning, like Ushijima Wakatoshi had thrown a bucket of ice cold water on his head, making him realise that volleyball had more to it than having bendy wrists and a strong spike.

It had made Kiyoomi burn.

And that burn that Ushijima Wakatoshi had alighted within him was lit even further by Miya Atsumu.

It had made Kiyoomi feel.

[ High School: Itachiyama Institute, #10 Jersey ]

In High School, Kiyoomi had cemented himself as one of the best. After a lot of trial and error and spending days and weeks improving himself, playing volleyball more than he spent time with his family, Kiyoomi had learned to love volleyball, to an extent that it was all he could think about day in and day out. Through the years he’d learned to love how the ball would bounce on his knuckles, the rubber creating a pink indent on his skin. He’d learned to love the sound of squeaking shoes on the rubbered floor of the court, learned to like the bruises on his knees from diving for the ball.

He’d learned so much because he wanted to— to feel that joy in Miya Atsumu’s face, he wanted to see that on his own face too. He wanted to be the best spiker, better than Wakatoshi whom he’d become closer with after playing against each other a couple of times and attending the same volleyball camps together.

From first year of high school and up until he’d graduated, Kiyoomi had wondered why it was Miya Atsumu that had burned him hotter when Wakatoshi was there, beside him and taunting him to become an even better player.

But Kiyoomi had realised that as much as Wakatoshi loved volleyball, he showed it differently than how Miya Atsumu did. Wakatoshi showed it in his strength, the way his spikes were as powerful as the aura he emitted, the way he demanded attention without even seeking it. He was strong, overwhelming and ground-breaking.

Wakatoshi had been with Kiyoomi for so long that it should have been him but Kiyoomi was surrounded by strong people; he’d seen strength in a bunch of people but he’d rarely seen someone who was as bright as Miya Atsumu when he played volleyball.

Wakatoshi had Kiyoomi wanting to be better but Miya Atsumu made Kiyoomi want to enjoy volleyball even if he wasn’t the best at it. To enjoy something without finishing it first, an unfinished puzzle that will continue until Kiyoomi had lost for a million times and until his bones were weak and until he couldn’t play anymore.

Miya Atsumu made Kiyoomi want to enjoy the moment, even if it was a losing game, he’d wanted to enjoy it and smile at whatever the result was without feeling disappointed in himself. Because losing is inevitable but Kiyoomi hadn’t yet learned to not beat himself up over it.

Just like his first interhigh.

When the volleyball dropped and the score was counted, the game ending with Itachiyama’s loss, Kiyoomi had been left with regrets. He should have done this, he should have moved faster, he should have spiked harder, he shouldn’t have hesitated.

The hollow in his chest would then grow, a blackhole that was always waiting to swallow him whole.

But then he heard Miya Atsumu’s childish laugh from the next court and it had Kiyoomi gulping regrets. He’d turned his head, see Miya Atsumu crying and laughing at the same time because they, too, lost against an even better team. His face might be full of sadness but his eyes were full of content, like losing a game was okay, it was fine; it was only a matter of time.

Kiyoomi was jealous of him.

How did it feel, to love something so wholeheartedly that even losing was amazing? How, how, how?

Kiyoomi had been jealous and so he worked even harder.

Harder than Wakatoshi, harder than Miya Atsumu, harder than anyone he knew.

Because Kiyoomi had wanted to fill that loneliness living inside his chest and he’d succeeded. After years of feeling like he’d been walking with a grey cloud above his head, he’d finally succeeded filling that hole. In a way, he’d succeeded. In a way, he felt happy.

In a way.

Because it was hard to touch the ball sometimes; it was hard to dive on the floor where it felt like there was a big trap that would swallow him whole before he could even touch the ball. When he was a kid, Kiyoomi used to play the ‘the floor is a lava’ game with his siblings where he’d jump from pillow to pillow, from chair to chair, from his father to his mother’s lap. He used to play that silly game and looking back at it, he had fun. Those were the days.

But now everything was a trap; the ball was a trap, the net was a trap, his teammates were traps, he himself was a trap.

Kiyoomi didn’t know how it happened; or perhaps he’d just forgotten. Having a complicated childhood had made Kiyoomi try to forget a lot of things; he’d kept the happy ones— some of them, and he’d kept the normal ones— some of them, and he’d kept the sad ones— two or three of them.

Namely, when his parents divorced, when he’d moved back and forth houses—a weekend with his father, a week with his mother—that were barely cleaned because both were a mess and Kiyoomi was a casualty in the midst of their silent war. Kiyoomi could remember looking around, feel his mouth dry, look at his mess of a father, and felt his skin crawl.

Kiyoomi had kept a lot of memories but he’d also forgotten a lot of them.

It was okay.

Who needed memories? Not him.

Not him.

And yet, when the therapist had asked, “Since when?”

Kiyoomi had blanked out because he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know or remember. He’d looked at his gloved hands, then looked up at the woman, then down to his gloved hands again, breathing through the mask covering half of his face.

Hating dirt and thinking that everything was contaminated were different from each other. Hating dirt was easily fixed: wipe it clean and it was gone, out of sight, out of touch. Thinking everything was contaminated wasn’t easily fixed because Kiyoomi had tried to washed his hands once, twice, thrice when he touched an unfamiliar knob that he later found out was greasy— dirty, and it only made him want to claw his skin out or shower in the hottest water possible. That horrible feeling of touching that cold metal that other people had also touched had stayed on his mind for the whole day, like a ghost touch always stuck to his hands, and it felt horrible.

Mysophobia they called it.

Kiyoomi had never put a name to this thing, he feared that if he actually did that it would become worse, would come haunting him every second of the day. Now though, seeing a therapist after being unable to touch the balls that his team had touched, he thought it wasn’t that bad naming this— quirk of his.

It wasn’t a quirk. It was a mental illness.

Although he was distressed about it at first—feeling like something was wrong with him, thinking that he had to stop playing volleyball, feeling ashamed that he had it—his therapist and family had helped him come to terms that it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. He was still a normal person, nothing wrong with him.

But it did make Kiyoomi think about his future. What about volleyball? What about future lovers? What about friends? Did that mean he had to live with this forever, had to live his whole life rarely touching bare skin on his fingers?

That caused him to yearn even more for a future where he could freely touch something, even someone, without overthinking it; without intrusive thoughts nagging at him every second of the day.

And so Kiyoomi had to do something about it. He’d only learned how to love volleyball; only learned how amazing it was to score a service ace and how amazing it was to share that joy with his teammates.

He’d only learned how nice it was to receive high-fives and a ruffle to the hair for blocking someone from scoring.

Those times, the hole in his chest wasn’t so deep, wasn’t too painful because it felt like he had people with him.

And that was why Kiyoomi had to fix himself.

He started exposure therapy.

Exposure therapy was harder than Kiyoomi thought it would be. Sometimes, Kiyoomi had to stop because it was too much. Sometimes, it was okay, even freeing. But then he’d come home and the thought of what he’d touched the whole day would nag at him and—

Motoya would be there for him, a constant, whenever Kiyoomi needed someone to talk to. His cousin was understanding and Kiyoomi appreciated him for that and for more.

“Kiyo?” Motoya had answered the phone one evening, when Kiyoomi came home after a therapy session.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi had said, voice almost a whisper. “Can you distract me for a while? The therapy…”

“Of course, Kiyo,” Motoya had answered, willing to help his cousin. “So, today, we watched the Inarizaki versus Nekoma game and wow! Miya Atsumu used two types of serve! He did a spike serve on the first half and a jump serve on the second half. I can’t believe…”

And on Motoya went about Miya Atsumu. Kiyoomi would have been jealous that his cousin was so in awe of Miya Atsumu’s now dual wielder title but he didn’t mind at all. Because Miya Atsumu was also a constant to Kiyoomi, one that he would always think about; that bright grin on his face.

As Motoya continued gushing about the game, Kiyoomi started relaxing, imagining the feeling of volleyball on his bare hand, wanting to go back in time and fix this problem of his when it still wasn’t as serious as it was now. If he had then he wouldn’t had to miss practice twice a week and make up for it on the weekends.

But it was okay.

He was in second year now, he was one of the top aces in High School volleyball and he’d found that motivation to work harder. Both as himself and as Itachiyama’s ace.

He was going to be okay.

*

It was in December that Kiyoomi saw Miya Atsumu once again. Although they’d seen each other a couple of times in matches, Itachiyama and Inarizaki hadn’t played each other since their practice game. Inarizaki might be a strong team but there were even stronger team than them; namely, Fukurōdani. First year Interhigh, Inarizaki had lost to them and that was when Kiyoomi had seen Miya Atsumu’s half-laughing and half-crying face. That was the very first of many to come.

It was an honour to be invited to the Youth Training Camp. With Motoya beside him, Kiyoomi had headed to Ajinomoto National Training Centre and had met Kageyama Tobio for the first time.

Kageyama Tobio had been the talk since middle school, only a year younger than Kiyoomi. He was a genius setter, the king of the court. Kiyoomi thought Iizuna-san was better.

Youth Camp went like this;

A brief introduction followed by warming up and drills to heat their bodies which was then followed by two versus two practice matches to get them used to each other. After that, they were divided into two groups for a practice match against each other.

Kiyoomi was teamed up with Kageyama Tobio as the setter. Miya Atsumu was across from him, looking smug and cocky, as always. It was just a bit infuriating to Kiyoomi, that Miya Atsumu had the audacity to fuck up his axis when he looked like this cocky brained asshole whose only redeeming quality was being High School’s best setter.

( Kiyoomi ignored the huge fact that Miya Atsumu wasn’t only cocky, he was talented, and he made Kiyoomi yearn to play more. )

Admittedly, after losing to Inarizaki, Kiyoomi had researched Miya Atsumu. How couldn’t he? He was someone who’d put a footprint on Kiyoomi’s being without even knowing it. And through reading and watching interviews, even watching more matches than necessary, Kiyoomi had deducted that Miya Atsumu was a complicated player and an even more complicated human being. He’d glare at the audience, he’d smirk at his opponent, he’d laugh at a missed serve, he’d fight with his twin, he’d cry when he lost, he’d smile while crying—

He was a dichotomy of everything that Kiyoomi found troublesome.

And yet, even over a year from when he’d officially met him, Kiyoomi was still stuck on the joy on Miya Atsumu’s face when he’d ruined Itachiyama with his service aces and effortless setting form.

Now, here, playing against him for the very first time after a long time, Kiyoomi looked at Miya Atsumu’s face, trying to decipher his emotions. But Kiyoomi could only see a calculative expression on his face.

Miya Atsumu was always planning, Kiyoomi had thought.

It was as suspicious as it was griping.

How infuriating.

And because Kiyoomi couldn’t stand Miya Atsumu’s face, he’d spiked towards him, smirking at the setter’s stunned expression.

Good, feel the same as I felt when you’d done it to me, Kiyoomi thought, tilting his head, smirk taunting.

Miya Atsumu had retaliated, the ball whooshing past his head, just a few centimetres from his right ear. Kiyoomi had turned to the ball quickly, wanting to keep it in play but Miya had spiked close to the line, a risk not everyone was willing to take.

“Miya-san, good serve!”

“Miya-san, that jump serve was amazing!”

“Miya-san…”

“Miya-san…”

Kiyoomi had turned to Miya, glared at the setter and clicked his tongue. What a troublesome person.

Not for the first time, Kiyoomi had asked himself if he was just swept by the moment when he’d played against Inarizaki in his first year. Because Miya Atsumu was different now, more confident than before, less a joyful player, more an annoying opponent.

That same day, after practice finished and he’d confronted Kageyama Tobio about Wakatoshi losing to his team, Kiyoomi had resolved himself to forget that image of Miya Atsumu’s bright grin that had always been embedded in his mind.

Because he shouldn’t cling to people; to memories, to dreams.

He should continue working harder to his goal. Winning brought joy and joy brought happiness. If Kiyoomi couldn’t achieve what Miya Atsumu had, then he will make his own.

It was only a matter of time.

That was what he intended to do.

But the next day of training camp, Miya Atsumu had thrown him a perfect set that had Kiyoomi wishing for more. The ball sat perfectly on his hand when he spiked; it was light and heavy at the same time as it connected with his palm. It felt like strings were attached to it, to him, moving him and making him spike a mean score. The ball bounded on the rubbered floor loudly and when Kiyoomi turned to Miya Atsumu, it was to a familiar bright grin and an exclaim of,

“Sakusa-san! Nice kill!”

Once again, Kiyoomi felt himself burn; hotter than the summer, colder than the winter.

For a moment, Kiyoomi had forgotten that human beings could be multifaceted. Miya Atsumu was one of them; one part an asshole, one part a childish brat, another part a cunning player.

Kiyoomi swallowed and looked at Miya Atsumu for a short beat before rolling his eyes, scoffing a,

“What do you expect.”

Miya Atsumu had laughed then, throwing his head back like what Kiyoomi had said was funny. What was so funny about it?

“I expect nothing less from one of Japan’s top three aces!” Miya Atsumu had exclaimed as he settled on his place on the court.

Kiyoomi frowned at him, ignored his last jab—was it sarcastic? was it genuine?—and focused on the practice game.

Youth Camp ended quickly.

Kiyoomi had struggled with the public showers and even more with the unfamiliar environment. Had they sanitized the rooms? What about the training equipments? Do they clean the bathrooms every hour? These thoughts had plagued Kiyoomi often but it was quickly brushed away by thinking of what his therapist had taught him.

Breathe in, breathe out. He was fine.

Exposure therapy had helped Kiyoomi this far.

At the end of Youth Camp, he’d gotten used to the facilities, less careful of touching things yet still fixated on making sure his mask was on when not playing. His gloves never saw the light of day because he was either touching a volleyball or had his hands inside his jacket’s pockets.

He was okay.

Now, they were heading home and Kiyoomi was ready to bathe for an hour or two in the safety of his house before heading to the dorms the next day.

Kiyoomi breathed in and out through his mask, wishing to take it off but fearing that his mysophobia would act up if he did so. He sighed and continued to walk with Motoya.

“Sakusa-san!”

Kiyoomi paused and turned, only to meet Miya’s bright smiling eyes. Motoya, beside him, also paused, curious.

“What?”

Miya grinned, clutching the straps of his backpack. “I’ll meet ya in Interhigh, right?”

Kiyoomi frowned, “Of course, Miya-san. Don’t lose to Fukurōdani again.”

Miya rolled his eyes, “We’re better this year! Kita-san is our captain now.”

“Whatever,” Kiyoomi replied, uninterested.

Miya laughed and reached out—to pat, to slap, to…touch—but before he could touch Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi flinched, an obvious action that had Miya Atsumu pausing on his actions, hand frozen in the air.

Kiyoomi cursed himself. If Miya Atsumu didn’t think he was already a freak he was probably thinking it now. Kiyoomi sighed to himself. It was okay. One more person who thought of him like that was nothing. He was used to it.

And he was getting better.

Kiyoomi was okay.

“Oh,” Miya blinked, looked at his hands like they were unfamiliar to him. He looked back up at Kiyoomi then shrugged, said, “Sorry, Sakusa-san. Force of habit.” Kiyoomi shrugged back, pretended it didn’t affect him. Then Miya laughed as he retracted his hand and waved, “Let’s meet again. I’m looking forward to seeing yer gross spike once again.”

Before Kiyoomi could reply, Miya walked away, skipping and humming to himself. Kiyoomi watched him, brows furrowed.

“My spike is not gross,” Kiyoomi muttered, late.

Motoya snickered, “It is though, Kiyo.”

“Shut up.”

“Hmm.”

And that was their last meeting.

Because the next Interhigh found Inarizaki beaten by Karasuno and it was in this game that Kiyoomi saw the extent of Miya Atsumu’s talents. The court was his to command, his teammates was his to play, like a puppet master. He was their conductor and they were his players.

He burned brighter than the sun and Kiyoomi had felt himself flinch, feeling that forgotten emotion deep within him once again.

Kiyoomi might love volleyball but Miya Atsumu treated volleyball as love; one to nurture, one to enjoy, one to always treasure.

It had Kiyoomi clenching his fists.

Because once again, Miya Atsumu had shown him how reckless he was and what a wreckage he could become.

Miya Atsumu was a storm and he’d always left Kiyoomi yearning for more; to wreck him, to ruin him, to pull and push him upside down and inside out.

A hope that was granted years later.

( Itachiyama had lost and it had Kiyoomi feeling remorseful. Seeing Iizuna-san cry was heartbreaking and yet, it only made Kiyoomi want to work harder.

Because losing was inevitable and what was important was to enjoy the moment.

They win the next Interhigh.)

( Inarizaki came third. )

[ College: Chuo University, #15 Jersey ]

Kiyoomi had always been careful. He was a careful person who made routines and rules for him to follow in his everyday life. In short, he was a creature of habit.

When he was in college, he majored in Health and Sports Science to learn more about how his body works and to prevent injury in the future. Albeit interesting, Kiyoomi had lived the whole four years in an autopilot of some sort.

Everyday, he’d wake up early, at exactly six in the morning. He’d eaten breakfast at exactly six thirty and had left his apartment at precisely seven o’clock. He walked to school from his apartment outside campus, a short walk that took him fifteen minutes to his lecture hall. It was a mundane routine that he religiously followed, not only because it kept him sane but because it distracted him from thoughts that always seemed to plague him even though they had nothing to do with his life now.

Playing volleyball while studying in University was a stressful experience. If Kiyoomi hadn’t made his routines, he would have ended up a mess already. Or a semblance of it.

Classes went on for about half the day, four days a week. After classes, Kiyoomi went home, changed into his practice clothes and ran to the gym, always the first one there. He’d be at practice until around nine o’clock, then running home to shower and cook some dinner.

It was as boring as days could get.

But Kiyoomi had enjoyed it nonetheless. Because he could play volleyball; it was the only constant in his life even when he was studying, the hum of his television playing a recorded volleyball game a soft background while he reads pages after pages from a thick book.

Volleyball had become Kiyoomi’s constant and motivation.

And through volleyball he’d also made new friends that supported him for who he was; even his mysophobia. They closely reminded Kiyoomi of Itachiyama and that had made him feel warm, accepted.

“Kiyo-san, what’re you doing for Christmas?” Naoya, the setter of the team, asked while wiping sweat from his forehead.

They’d just finished practice and were only stretching now. Kiyoomi was on the floor, stretching his arms, his wrists, then his legs while droplets of sweat still dripped down his chin. He looked up at Naoya, humming.

“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi answered, honest.

Naoya was his age, tall and dark-haired with an undercut. He had a penchant for asking everyone to go out every weekend which had Kiyoomi always wondering where he got the time or energy to party from.

Kiyoomi had guessed it must be that college experience he’d prattled about the first month they played together. But it had been almost three years already and well— Naoya had stayed the extrovert of the team.

Naoya plopped down on the floor close to him and had this been three years ago, Kiyoomi had probably flinched and shuffled far but exposure therapy had helped curb his mysophobia and Kiyoomi only had to wear mask in public these days with a small bottle of hand sanitiser and wet wipes inside his pockets.

So when Naoya sat close to him, Kiyoomi only continued to stretch, bending his wrists here and there.

“Then, want to go out?” Naoya asked, charming smile on his face.

Kiyoomi blinked, turned to Naoya who was looking at him expectantly. Straightening up, Kiyoomi furrowed his brows because it was Christmas and wasn’t it supposed to be special? Although to Kiyoomi’s family, welcoming New Year’s together was more important, a lot of people still liked to celebrate Christmas together. Motoya had once told him it was the spirit of it or whatever that meant.

“Go out where?” Kiyoomi questioned, curious.

He didn’t have any plans for Christmas and maybe, hanging out with someone would make the day less gloomy, less boring.

“Don’t know. Dinner or some drinks,” Naoya answered, more chirpy now than earlier.

“Nao! Stop flirting with Kiyo!” Kou, their opposite hitter, exclaimed; loud enough for everyone in the gym to hear.

Another one piped in, “Kiyo, don’t listen to Nao! He was just looking for a new boyfriend.”

Kiyoomi blinked at the words before turning to Naoya who was now blushing, cheeks blooming red.

“I’m not, Kou! Shut the fuck up,” Naoya grumbled, rubbing a hand on his right eye, a habit that Kiyoomi knew he did when embarrassed.

Kiyoomi had shrugged and answered, making everyone freeze in silence, “Sure, let’s go out, Naoya-san.”

Naoya had snapped his head towards Kiyoomi so fast Kiyoomi feared he might get whiplash. His smile was blinding and the blush on his face was as bright as their jersey. He looked gorgeous.

“Seriously?” Naoya gasped then clutched Kiyoomi’s biceps, “You’re not joking, right, Kiyo-san? You’ll go out with me?”

“On Christmas,” Kiyoomi clarified.

“Of course!” Naoya cheered.

Later that evening, while running back to his apartment, Kiyoomi let himself get lost in his thoughts.

Kiyoomi had never… considered Naoya. He’d considered a lot of people in terms of romantic and sexual relationship. But not Naoya. In all the years they’d played together, he’d never thought of him as someone Kiyoomi could—or would—sleep together with. But perhaps that was because Naoya was a teammate and normally, Kiyoomi wouldn’t… do anything with them. But Naoya was a good person and Kiyoomi could try.

Maybe.

Kiyoomi wasn’t a prude and part of his exposure therapy was to try touching people in long periods of time. It might have been— unethical of him to use people for his own gain but he’d always respected them; he’d always told them that he was undergoing therapy and whatever relationship they had was only physical. Some of them were weirded out at first but had always warmed up to him after. A lot of them had been eager for some reason that Kiyoomi didn’t want to know but was forced to hear from one of them.

“You’re handsome so it doesn’t matter,” was what one of his partners had told him in a café, reaching out to hold his hand.

Kiyoomi had flinched then, the contact unfamiliar but the more time passed, the less guarded Kiyoomi was. It was— liberating, to be able to touch someone freely and to be touched back.

Innocent touches had turned into sexual ones and Kiyoomi hadn’t stopped the advances. He was in it for pleasure too; body warmth a luxury to someone like him who’d barely touched a person his whole middle school and high school years. It was a luxury and so, he savoured it.

First there were females only.

Females were soft. They made cute sounds that had Kiyoomi always feeling endeared. And when Kiyoomi had buried his face on their necks, muffling a moan, they’d clutch at his back, like he was their anchor keeping them from floating away. They feel good.

Then males came and Kiyoomi was shown another world. He’d fought with his sexuality, swallowed fear, and told his family because a broken home wouldn’t break again. He’d told them he liked men and women and it would stay like that and no one could change it. Kiyoomi had learned a lot about what sexuality actually was; by talking to people on the internet, by researching because he’d felt wrong at first, by reading books and even mangas that showed him that what he was feeling was right.

He wasn’t wrong.

It went better than Kiyoomi had expected and since then he’d breathed out a sigh of relief and explored his sexuality more. Explored more of who he was outside of volleyball and being an athlete.

And so came the males who were brave enough to approach Kiyoomi in the university café. They were shy at first, stuttering and asking if he was the Sakusa Kiyoomi because oh god, i love your games! i come to your games all the time! A lot of them were semi-fans who were into sports like him and some of them were random friends of friends or course mates.

Males were hard. They made grunting sounds that had Kiyoomi feeling even more aroused. And when Kiyoomi pulled them closer, mouth attached to their jaws, a hand on their hips, they’d clutch his shoulders, like they wanted to keep him, a sand that was hard to grasp. They feel good.

And males were rarely clingy. Kiyoomi didn’t hate clingy people, especially females, per se because not all of them were but— Kiyoomi liked his personal space, he liked it when his phone didn’t always ping with notifications, he liked it when he could have peace. And it may be that Kiyoomi chose clingy female partners because their warmth always permitted his cold body and their touches were comforting but Kiyoomi had always made it a rule to tell them first and foremost that their sexual relationship would only be that, a sexual relationship.

A lot of them seemed to think he was lying.

And maybe, Kiyoomi was or was not.

Sometimes Kiyoomi wondered if he should settle down, like a normal person. But then he’d feel a pull on his gut, like it was wrong, it wasn’t the right time, he was only using them.

It didn’t feel right.

And so Kiyoomi had lived his whole college life as a single man who always had a few masks stashed inside his pockets. The masks were sometimes joined by packets of condoms and lube, sometimes lighter and cigarettes, a few times chapsticks and lipbalms. And all the time it was joined by a hand sanitiser and wet wipes.

Safe to say, Kiyoomi’s pockets were, most of the time, full.

He could only wish for his heart to be the same.

It will come.

Someday.

The Christmas date with Naoya went as well as Kiyoomi had expected.

They went to dinner, they walked around Ginza, they went to a hotel and they fucked a total of two times.

And that happened a couple more times. The fucking that was. Naoya was an— interesting person. He hadn’t bat an eyelash when Kiyoomi said that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He’d only shrugged and took a drag from his cigarette, the after sex nicotine burned deep into their routine.

“Kiyo, I just broke up with my boyfriend,” Naoya had said. “I do want to get back with him but…”

“I heard he went to study abroad,” Kiyoomi had added, the pause a little unnerving.

Naoya had laughed, pressed his cigarette on the ashtray and straddled Kiyoomi’s lap, sitting on top of his dick. He took Kiyoomi’s own cigarette from him, threw that into the ashtray too and wrapped Kiyoomi’s arms around his waist.

“Yeah,” Naoya replied, breaking the silence. “He did and I still love him but life is a bitch and I’m here so will you comfort me?”

Kiyoomi had sighed and proceeded to fuck him.

Lonely people had their own coping mechanisms.

Naoya and Kiyoomi were the same peas in a pod.

They comfort each other.

Kiyoomi had graduated in the spring of 2018, with the cherry blossom petals falling on his shoulders.

His brother and sister were there, as well as his mother. His father was on a business trip, unable to attend. Kiyoomi hadn’t expected anything from his parents, if he was honest, but his mother being there for him did make him a little bit emotional. It was nice, surrounded by his family. Motoya, too, had come, bearing gifts and a cheerful smile. Kiyoomi had welcomed him with a one armed hug that had Motoya sniffing because,

“Kiyo initiates touch now. Ohmygod. I’m so proud of you.”

In which Kiyoomi retaliated with a, “You’re such a baby. I’ve been like this for years.”

The family had went to an expensive restaurant after, celebrating Kiyoomi’s graduation and his long overdue celebration for being the MVP at the recent Japan National Collegiate Volleyball Championship.

Safe to say, Kiyoomi had went home that day feeling more happy than usual.

[ Osaka: MSBY Black Jackals, #15 Jersey ]

Now he was in Osaka, having been recruited by the Jackals after receiving his MVP title. At first, Kiyoomi had told them that he would think about it. After all, it was not an easy decision to move his whole life from Tokyo to Osaka.

In one of his meet-ups with Naoya, the setter had said, “Why not? Maybe you’ll find something there that isn’t here.”

Kiyoomi had hummed, laying on the bed, looking at the ceiling, “Yeah. Maybe… We’ll see.”

“Do you hate Osaka?” Naoya asked, laying down next to Kiyoomi once again. “Or maybe the Jackals?”

“No,” Kiyoomi replied, after a bit of consideration. He didn’t hate Osaka nor Jackals. But— well. “Just… someone.” Kiyoomi whispered, almost inaudible.

“Hmm, is it an enemy?” Naoya asked and Kiyoomi shook his head. “Crush, maybe?” Again, a shake of head. “Then a rival?” Another shake of head. “Well, who could they be to you, Kiyo?”

The sun, Kiyoomi wanted to reply.

“Nothing,” was what he said.

And so he’d left Jackals on the waitlist. He’d thought of the other offers sent to him, considering the pros and cons of each team.

Adlers, too, had contacted Kiyoomi. As well as EJP. For a brief moment, Kiyoomi had considered going to EJP and join Motoya there, just like their high school days. The same had happened to him with Adlers; he considered it for days, knowing that Wakatoshi was one of their players.

The thing was, he wanted to play against Wakatoshi; had wanted to receive his spikes from the other side of the net; had wanted to block him and see what expression that normally stoic face of his would have when he sees Kiyoomi blocking him. They’d been rivals for too long, why stop now?

Besides, Adlers and EJP might have interesting players but Jackals also had interesting ones that Kiyoomi had heard were making names in the volleyball scene. Add to that, Jackals had offered Kiyoomi a sum that he didn’t particularly needed but had tempted him to choose them at the end.

Besides that, Kiyoomi had always wanted to live in Osaka. His grandmother from his mother’s side was from Osaka and his family might not have a close relationship with his relatives there but Kiyoomi had still wanted to see that traditional japanese house that his grandma grew up in. Kyoto, too, was close to Osaka and—

And if Kiyoomi was a braver man, was the same man that he was in high school, even middle school, he wouldn’t have made so many excuses to himself or to his family on why he, at the end, after weeks of thinking over it again and again, chose MSBY Black Jackals as the professional team he’d play volleyball for.

He would have said it straightforward, no sugar coating, no going around the bush, no complicated reasons on how’s and why’s and whatever excuses he could come up with.

Just straight up,

Because Miya Atsumu was there and he’d been haunting me for years.

That. Simple.

But Kiyoomi wasn’t the same man as he was in middle school or high school, brave and fearless and blunt. He was still blunt, yes, because people needed it sometimes but fearless he wasn’t anymore. Because there was a lot to lose the older you get.

Like a home.

Like a place to belong.

Like a heart.

Even knowing these, Kiyoomi had packed his bag, had flown to Osaka, had driven to the Jackals’ gym. Had thought,

Maybe it will be different this time.

[ Higashi-ōsaka: April 2018 ]

It was different this time.

But at the same time, it wasn’t.

Kiyoomi was conflicted.

The first time Kiyoomi met Miya Atsumu again, it was when Coach Foster had invited him to watch a practice game against another team. Kiyoomi had arrived half way to the game, the score being 20-22, to Jackals who were leading.

Kiyoomi had watched as the team received another serve that Miya Atsumu had set quickly and was spiked and scored by Bokuto Koutarou. Jackals’ had cheered then and praised Bokuto for scoring, thumped Miya’s back with big grins on their faces.

This was the team that Kiyoomi was going to join.

When the match point came, Miya Atsumu had set the ball to Shougo Meian, who spiked it in the middle, a risky one but the power he had put on his spike had the ball whooshing past the receiver’s ready hands, hitting the floor with a loud thud. There was a brief silence before Meian thwacked Miya’s back, making Miya let out a loud groan followed by him letting out a loud joyous laugh that made his face looked younger— just a little bit childish.

This, Kiyoomi thought, never changed. Miya still acted like a five year old child when playing volleyball and it was— comforting.

“Meian-san!” Miya screamed, punching Meian’s arm in retaliation.

“Good job there, Miya,” Adriah Thomas said, followed by a ruffle to Miya’s head.

“I scored though?” Meian pouted at Adriah, the expression so out of place that Kiyoomi flinched a little at seeing it.

“So?” Adriah cocked a brow, grin teasing.

“Tsumtsum, good job!” Bokuto jumped on Miya, clinging on the setter’s back.

“Bo-kun! Yer heavy,” Miya grumbled, shrugging the other man from him.

“Whatever. Kids these days,” Meian scoffed before gathering everyone to the net and shaking hands with the other team.

Everyone was polite, smiling at each other, promising to play again next time, saying goodbye. The atmosphere was good and Kiyoomi tried to picture himself in the midst of all these rowdy people, winning a game with them, scoring from Miya’s set— it’s not that bad.

When Jackals’ finally were done with the greetings, Coach Foster gestured for Kiyoomi to follow him to the team, clapping his hands as they stop in front of the bench where most of the Jackals’ were sitting and drinking water.

“Coachie!” Bokuto exclaims, waving his water bottle. “You saw our win?”

Coach Foster nodded, smile on his face, “Sure did, Bokuto-san. It was a good practice game. Work on your jump though.”

“Aw…” Bokuto pouted, curling in on himself.

Miya chuckled and patted Bokuto’s head, “Don’t be sad, Bo-kun. I’ll practice with ya.”

“Tsumtsum, you’re the best!” Bokuto squished Miya in his arms, making the setter huff out a pained laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” Miya continued to pat him, not minding being squeezed by Bokuto’s strong arms.

Kiyoomi watched their interactions; how they conversed with Coach Foster, how they talked with themselves, how they were so comfortable with giving each other nicknames.

Briefly, Kiyoomi wondered if he would fit in with them. He’d just graduated from college, played with his college teammates for years and now was going to try to integrate himself in the middle of all these— strangers. It was a bit nerve-racking.

Coach Foster cleared his throat then, gesturing to Kiyoomi who’d been standing a little bit far from his side.

“Everyone, meet your new teammate. He’s a new recruit that is going to play with you in a few weeks time. Perhaps some of you know him already.”

“Sakusa!” Someone exclaimed and Kiyoomi snapped their attention to them.

Ah, of course. It’s Miya.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi nodded, face unchanging. The mask covering half of his face didn’t help anyone with deciphering his emotions. Good. Good.

“Sakusa-san! Didn’t know yer joining us,” Miya grinned, now free from Bokuto’s hold. He was holding his water bottle on his right hand while the other is gripping the edge of the bench he was sitting on.

He looked excited.

Kiyoomi scrunched his nose under his mask, then sighed to himself quietly. Was he sure about this? Being on a team with Miya Atsumu? The person that turned Kiyoomi’s world upside down years go?

“Well, I am, Miya,” Kiyoomi answered, rolling his eyes.

“That’s perfect! I’ve wanted to set for ya after youth camp!” Miya declared, like those words didn’t make Kiyoomi’s chest tighten. In guilt, in spite; because Miya was the one who destroyed him when they played against each other that one fucking time in Middle School.

“Let’s see, Miya,” Kiyoomi answered, forced himself to act nonchalant. Miya wouldn’t get a raise out of him. Never again.

“Alright,” Coach Foster piped in. “Sakusa is going to start practicing with the team once he’s settled in Osaka. Please guide him.”

A series of yes coach, sure coach, my pleasure, coach! echoed around the gym at Coach Foster’s last words.

Kiyoomi bowed to them, back straight, head down as he said, “Take care of me.”

And when he straightened up again, it was Miya’s grinning face that he saw and Miya’s bright eyes that he locked on.

Kiyoomi asked himself once again, are you sure about this?

He didn’t deem himself an answer.

*

The second time Kiyoomi met Miya Atsumu, it was his first official day on the team. Miya Atsumu had entered the locker room, greeting everyone that was already there before he turned to Kiyoomi and stared him down for a long beat.

Kiyoomi had stared back, not one bit intimidated. If it was the Kiyoomi from high school, he would have showed annoyance, or had already taunted the setter. But Kiyoomi had grown to become a patient—albeit, petty—adult and he’d learned to pick his fights.

Miya Atsumu said, “If ya hesitate hitting the ball I set to ya, I’d better not hear ya say ya were jus’ calculating. The balls I set to ya are curated for ya to hit it perfectly. If ya don’t score from it, I don’t want ya on the team.”

The locker room went silent, not a breath, not a peep was heard; one could hear a pin drop in the silence that had followed Miya Atsumu’s words.

Kiyoomi should have been irked, even offended at Miya Atsumu for assuming that Kiyoomi wouldn’t be able to score from his sets. But Kiyoomi also remembered that day in Youth Camp, when he’d hesitated for a split second, and it might seem like an insignificant reaction to anyone but to Kiyoomi and probably to Atsumu who had been observing the whole team that week, it had been an issue of trust.

Was Kiyoomi going to hit the ball? It was too short. It was too high. It wasn’t easy enough, it wasn’t hard enough.

A setter and his spikers’ relationship was the thread that binds the web that was the team and if trust was an issue then the team would crack later on and that would be detrimental to everyone involved.

Kiyoomi scoffed, met Miya’s intense gaze, said, “Don’t worry, Miya. I’ll hit anything that you set.”

Miya stared him down for a while longer before his face bloomed into a smile, genuine and happy.

“Oh? Great, Sakusa-san!” Miya exclaimed, reaching out with a hand, intending to pat Kiyoomi’s arm but stopped mid-air. He paused for a bit before doing some sort of air pat, blowing wind towards Kiyoomi’s arm. “Let’s get along, okay?”

Then the lockers erupted into different kinds of sounds. Some were laughing and some were shouting at Miya to give Kiyoomi a break. Kiyoomi would tell them that he didn’t need it because he’d never miss a ball set to him by any setter. But he kept mum and continued to change into his practice jersey, ignoring the noises passing through his eardrums.

“TsumTsum, don’t be so hard on him!” Bokuto exclaimed, wrapping an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders. “Don’t worry OmiOmi, he did it to me too. You’re not alone.”

Kiyoomi tilted his head and nodded, zipping up his jacket before pulling his mask up his face, hands quickly being shoved inside his jacket’s pockets.

“Whatever,” Kiyoomi mumbled. “And don’t call me that.”

“What? OmiOmi?” Miya let out in a sing-song voice, teasing.

Kiyoomi furrowed his brows. No one had ever called him— Omi or OmiOmi before. Motoya called him Kiyo, so as his family and college teammates, even the partners he’d had either called him that or just his full name. Never any variation of Omi.

For some reason, it was annoying.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi furrowed his brows, back slouched just a little as he passed by Bokuto and Miya, not looking back when Bokuto screamed,

“But OmiOmi is nice!”

Nice? Yeah, right.

( The nickname stayed.

Kiyoomi didn’t mind. )

Kiyoomi would admit to himself that he’d learned to love volleyball through and through; like it was the air he breathed, like it was the most important thing, like a treasure.

Growing up stuck in a loop of I want that. I have to do that to achieve that. Can I do that? had made Kiyoomi realise that not everyone felt the same way as him. And he himself would not feel the same way as other people.

Namely, Miya Atsumu.

When Miya Atsumu fucked up his axis, pulled the gravity of his life down to the very core of his being where his insecurities and desires lied, Kiyoomi had been impressionable. It was deeply rooted in the fact that Kiyoomi had never wanted anything in his life, except for order; the way he was unable to leave things before it was finished, that too was rooted to the desire to control his life the way his family always left him to decide whatever he wanted to do.

Kiyoomi didn’t want to do anything. Volleyball was a hobby. He had to get stronger because Wakatoshi was stronger. He didn’t do anything solely for himself.

But Miya showed him a different emotion; that he didn’t have to be this to be that. That being himself was okay to achieve anything. That leaving something unfinished didn’t mean he’d lose control in himself. That he could be selfish.

Miya was reckless and he’d filled that blackhole in Kiyoomi’s chest, showing him something new.

And Kiyoomi, looking back now, was grateful. But Miya wasn’t the only one who shaped Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi had Itachiyama and his family and Wakatoshi and himself to fall onto whenever he felt like the grey clouds were starting to gather over his head once again. He’d worked on himself through the years; therapy, socialising, touch, thinking, volleyball, desiring.

Miya was the trigger but Kiyoomi hadn’t hold him on a high pedestal for a long time now.

And although Miya Atsumu had kept on haunting him even in university when he hadn’t even seen Miya in person for years, Kiyoomi had learned to stop feeling jealous.

Because it all boiled down to that; the core of this emotion, the reason in why the Miya Atsumu in his mind would never stop haunting him.

Kiyoomi was jealous of him. He’d wanted to be like him or at least feel half of what he felt. But when Kiyoomi learned he could just be— himself, in a sense that he didn’t have to impress anybody to be one, Kiyoomi had stopped being jealous. It was gradual, slow and steady. Leisurely.

He’d stop being jealous and it felt like a breath of fresh air. It was amazing.

And right now, playing beside Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi had promised himself to never allow the setter to affect him again.

“OmiOmi, nice kill!” Miya shouted after Kiyoomi scored in a particularly difficult time.

His grin was wide and his eyes sparkled. Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “Of course, Miya. Who do you think I am?”

“Aw, Omi-kun! At least say thank ya!” Miya raised his hand, intending to slap with how his palm is straightly poised but as routine now, Miya stopped a few centimetres from Kiyoomi’s bare arm and started patting the air.

“Heh,” Kiyoomi shrugged, glancing at Miya’s retracting hand. “In your dreams.”

“OmiOmi!” Miya cried out as the team went to their places once again, his slender fingers and calloused palm in the forefront of Kiyoomi’s mind.

This— had been happening a lot. Miya and his hands in the air and patting whatever space was left between him and Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi had thought it was nice at first; someone who was considerate of him, someone who knew when to stop invading his personal space, someone whom Kiyoomi didn’t have to glare down every second of the day just to let them stop touching him.

But it had become an annoyance now. Kiyoomi was frustrated.

It had been three months since they’d played together in Jackals and Kiyoomi had integrated himself perfectly fine. The team was helpful; showing him their routines, joining him to watch their previous games, not reacting to Kiyoomi’s distance whenever the team huddled together.

Miya Atsumu was one of the first ones who warmed up to him because apparently,

“I have to get to know my players, Omi-kun! That way I’d know yer quirks when playing. It’s my job.”

Kiyoomi was pretty sure his job was to set a ball, not get chummy with Kiyoomi. But Kiyoomi didn’t say anything, only ignored Miya when he kept on talking about how they could use Kiyoomi’s unique spikes in games.

Kiyoomi didn’t mind.

What he did mind though was Miya always wanting to— touch but always stopping before he could graze Kiyoomi’s skin or jacket. Respectful or not, if Miya wasn’t going to follow through it then he should stop doing it in the first place.

And although Kiyoomi knew it was second nature for Miya to touch his teammates—even before, in Inarizaki, Kiyoomi knew. He’d watched most of his games—if he was going to be cautious about it for this long, then Miya should stop.

“Or you could just do something about it, Kiyoomi-kun,” Wakatoshi said when they FaceTimed one evening, talking about recent games.

Kiyoomi and Wakatoshi had become closer through the years. Sometimes they’d do video calls, sometimes Wakatoshi called Kiyoomi to ask for advice about his relationship with his chocolatier boyfriend. In all honesty, Kiyoomi rarely even had good advices to give the older spiker but Wakatoshi was grateful nonetheless at Kiyoomi’s half-hearted advices that always ended with but do whatever you want, Wakatoshi-kun. I bet Tendou-san would be happy with whatever you decide.

“I don’t know what you mean, Wakatoshi-kun,” Kiyoomi frowned, looking down at a notebook with a few strategies written by the assistant coach with the help of Meian and Miya.

“Have you ever thought of telling him that you’re okay with him touching you?” Wakatoshi said, always blunt.

Kiyoomi scoffed, “Why should I? He must have already known.”

Wakatoshi hummed through the speakers of the phone. “Does he really?”

At that, Kiyoomi looked up from the notebook and stared at Wakatoshi’s face on the screen. He paused, thinking of how the team had acted around Kiyoomi the past three months, especially Miya. Thinking about it now, the team rarely initiated high-fives or pats on Kiyoomi’s back. They’d stand close to him but they never touched him. The closest one to get to him was always Miya with his hand always hanging in the air, twitching before he’d pull away, bright grin still on his face.

Huh.

“I… might have assumed that the team knew I have gone to therapy,” Kiyoomi said, honest, contemplating.

“It happens,” Wakatoshi sighed, like Kiyoomi omitting a big part of what volleyball was all about—touch—wasn’t that big of a deal.

In a way, it wasn’t. Because Kiyoomi only had to touch the volleyball for the game to continue, there was no written rules about touching each other.

But on the other, touch was a way to communicate with one’s team; high-fives, fist-bumps, gentle pats, painful slaps—to name a few—were a sort of bonding, a show of trust.

And Kiyoomi had just omitted that big part of him; the part of him that now could touch whoever he wanted, could even get intimate with someone. How did he even do that?

Kiyoomi frowned to himself and looked back at what he’d been focusing on the last three months he’d joined Jackals. He remembered practicing until he was the last one out of the gym. He remembered talking to Meian about their routines and their rotations. He remembered tuning out Miya when he talked about Kiyoomi’s unnatural wrists and how it was so amazing, omiomi!

At the end, Kiyoomi muttered, to himself, to Wakatoshi,

“Not my fault.”

Wakatoshi replied, “If you say so, Kiyoomi-kun.”

That was how Kiyoomi had started to initiate touch with his teammates.

He’d started slow because— well, Kiyoomi was quite embarrassed about having played together with the Jackals but forgetting to tell them one of the most important thing about him. And so he’d started with small touches.

Like when Bokuto scored, he’d raise a hand for the other hitter to slap. It was a small gesture, Kiyoomi knew but Bokuto had beamed widely, looking at Kiyoomi’s raised palm before he slapped it as hard as he could.

“OmiOmi! Nice kill!” Bokuto exclaimed, excited.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, lowering his hand beside him, “You scored it.”

“Still!” Bokuto grinned and skipped to where he belonged, the game resuming after a few seconds.

Then medium gestures. Kiyoomi could admit that he could have skipped over the steps or levels of touch but despite Kiyoomi being comfortable with touch now, he was still cautious about letting other people touch him. Therapy was still ongoing and Kiyoomi looked forward to the day he’d stop having to go to his therapist, just for check-ins. Still, it had helped him through the years and Kiyoomi was quite thankful about it.

So, yes, he could have skipped over the steps but it was also needed. To make him comfortable, to make the team comfortable, to make each and everyone of them comfortable.

Especially Miya;

Who still hadn’t gotten the cue.

The first time Kiyoomi raced his palms—both of his hands in the air—for Miya to slap in a high-five, Miya had stood there, stunned. It was only a medium gesture but Miya acted like Kiyoomi was asking to suck his dick.

Which was an awful thought.

It took Miya a whole ten seconds to slap his own calloused palms against Kiyoomi’s own and Kiyoomi tried not to feel exposed at Miya’s scrutinising gaze.

“Nice dump, Miya,” Kiyoomi had said before turning away.

“Oh,” Miya breathed out, almost inaudible. Then he exclaimed, “Thank you, Omi-kun!”

That had been the start of countless, albeit scattered, touch exposure; courtesy of Sakusa Kiyoomi and experienced by MSBY Team Jackals.

Later, when they’d won the game, Miya had sidled to him, not close but not far. He’d grinned at Kiyoomi, eyes bright, saying,

“Omi-kun, I didn’t know ya like touching now!”

Kiyoomi bit his tongue that wanted to say I always did but I couldn’t and instead replied,

“Just for today. Tomorrow you have to start paying for it.”

“Omi-kun! Are ya a swindler?!” Miya had whined and Kiyoomi had walked away, small smile on his lips.

Full touch didn’t quite happen the way Kiyoomi wanted to. If he was asked how he wanted it, he’d have told someone some lie about team hug after winning against Adlers or some bullshit like that. Kiyoomi didn’t quite know how to approach a full touch.

What even was a full touch? He’d asked himself one night, laying on his bed after a day of another practice match against a prominent college team. When they’d played, Kiyoomi had been exposed to Bokuto’s high-fives, Miya’s always infuriating air pats that Kiyoomi had now found out had become some sort of habit to the setter, and the rest of the team’s pats to his back.

He’d been the one who scored a lot of service ace that day and that made him the receptor of a lot of hands on his skin; on his back, on his hair, on his arm, on his fingers.

And they were all welcomed. He’d been playing with Jackals for close to four months and he’d be a pretty cold-hearted guy if he wasn’t receptive of their touches.

However, pats and high-fives and all those minor touches were different from what Kiyoomi had dubbed full touch. So when it happened, Kiyoomi was stunned—

And pretty endeared.

All in all.

Hinata Shouyou had come back from Brazil and had joined the Jackals not long after. And to celebrate that, the team had decided to plan a welcoming dinner for him, almost a month after he’d joined. Kiyoomi looked back to his own welcoming party months ago, just a simple barbecue and sake that ended peacefully.

Kiyoomi looked around and compared his own welcoming party with Hinata Shouyou’s and thanked all the God’s that took care of him that it wasn’t this bad when he had his.

They were in an Izakaya, sitting on the tatami floor and occupying two tables with different kinds of food in front of them; Edamame, Yakitori, Hoke, Tamagoyaki, Motsu Nikomi littered the table. The food were joined by a few big glasses of beer, some highballs, a few Chuhai’s and Kiyoomi’s staple, Umeshu.

Kiyoomi was sitting with Miya, Bokuto, Hinata, Meian, and Adriah. Miya was sitting beside Kiyoomi who was squished against the wall. Miya had grinned at him when he crossed his legs upon sitting beside Kiyoomi, leaving a fair amount of distance between them. Kiyoomi had breathed a sigh of relief.

“Omi-kun, remember yer welcoming party?” Miya, still sober, had asked, conversational.

Kiyoomi had furrowed his brows and pursed his lips under his mask. “Of course.”

“Ya were so different then!” Miya beamed, too bright.

Kiyoomi squinted, “Well, a few months can change a person, Miya.”

“Oh, I bet!” Miya had exclaimed, grabbing his glass of Chuhai and swallowing a few gulps of it.

“What do you mean, Miya?” Kiyoomi had asked, pulling his mask down as he grabbed his glass of Umeshu. He let the condensation wet his already cold palms, fingers moving up and down the glass in a contemplating habit.

“Because,” Miya started while he grabbed a tamagoyaki with his chopsticks, the food coming right on time. It’s still hot and Kiyoomi looked at it, wondering if he should grab some now or wait for the next plate. “Oh, ya want, Omi-kun?” Miya asked, tamagoyaki clipped in between his chopsticks hovering over Kiyoomi’s small plate.

Kiyoomi looked at it, then at Miya. Miya pulled his chopsticks back, saying, “Ah, sorry. I do this with ‘samu, so—“ he shrugged, retracting his hands slowly.

“No,” Kiyoomi grabbed Miya’s wrist, stopping his actions. Miya looked at him, an eyebrow cocked. “Just put it here.” Kiyoomi told him, pulling his hand back, and gesturing to his plate.

“Aw, OmiOmi!” Miya sing-songed, dropping the tamagoyaki on Kiyoomi’s plate carefully, his grin bright, almost happy. “Yer warming up to me!”

“No,” Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, picked his own chopsticks and proceeded to eat the egg dish, ignoring Miya’s whines and questions of what they’d been talking about earlier.

Kiyoomi couldn’t remember either. He let Miya whine more while savouring the tamagoyaki.

That had been two hours ago.

In those two hours, Kiyoomi had conversed with Adriah—who was sitting across from him—in English, talking about their favourite team and favourite volleyball players.

Kiyoomi had said, “Romero from Brazil is a favourite of mine.”

Adriah had perked up, nodded his head fervently, “Yeah, me too! He’s in Adlers now.”

Kiyoomi knew that too. Wakatoshi had told him the moment he’d met the international volleyball player.

“I know,” Kiyoomi had grinned, a small little quirk on the side of his lips. “I should’ve gone to Adlers, eh?” He joked, head tilting to the side.

Adriah laughed, loud and attention grabbing. “Ehhhh, but you have me in Jackals! We’re a strong team.”

“Hey, what’s this about Adlers?” Miya had piped in in heavily accented English from Kiyoomi’s side, brushing his shoulder briefly before Miya shifted and the heat of his body disappeared.

Adriah had replied, “Kiyoomi-san was scouted by Adlers, I think?”

Kiyoomi nodded and Miya turned to Kiyoomi with wide eyes. “Romero!”

Adriah and Kiyoomi chuckled, Adriah’s voice drowning Kiyoomi’s quiet one. “That’s what we’ve been talking about. Atsumu likes Romero too, hm?”

“Yes! Thomas-san, you do too?” Miya chirped, excited.

Kiyoomi had glanced at him then and found Miya’s cheeks flushed pink. Kiyoomi turned his gaze to Miya’s glass of drink and found it full once again; how many had it been?  Three? Four? Miya was a fast drinker. And drinking Chuhai was like drinking juice too, easy to swallow, hard to taste the alcohol.

Kiyoomi had sighed and listened to Adriah and Miya babble about Romero and his previous games, letting the voices of his teammates and the customers in the Izakaya soothe him.

And now, here Kiyoomi was.

With a drunk Miya clinging to his arm, mumbling about onigiri and ramen. Hadn’t he just eaten a whole bowl of edamame? Granted, edamame wasn’t really a proper food.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi grunted when Miya’s head dropped on his shoulder, his fingers clutching Kiyoomi’s biceps. “You’re drunk.”

Miya blinked his eyes open for a bit, squinting. He looked up at Kiyoomi for a second before closing his lids once again, nuzzling Kiyoomi’s arm, face almost to his armpit. Kiyoomi scrunched his nose.

“OmiOmi, you have to take TsumTsum home,” Bokuto said, sounding sober even after a few drinks of beer.

Kiyoomi frowned, glancing up and meeting Bokuto’s eyes. He found him clutching one asleep Hinata Shouyou and a drunk Inunaki who was draped on his shoulders. Upon seeing him, Kiyoomi sighed and nodded.

“Alright,” Kiyoomi replied, jostling Miya with his shoulder.

“Thank you, Omi-kun,” Bokuto smiled. “I’m gonna bring these two to my place. TsumTsum lives close to Fuse. Just take a taxi and ask him for the address.”

Kiyoomi nodded again, “Thank you, Bokuto-san. I live in Fuse too.”

And with that, Bokuto dragged Inunaki and Hinata out of the Izakaya. Kiyoomi had watched him struggle and for a brief moment, Kiyoomi had thought of offering his help. But then Miya made a sound, mumbling something about sets and balls which, well. Kiyoomi let out a blow of breath and glance towards the door, seeing Barnes join Bokuto with helping Inunaki stand straight.

After watching the others disappear around the corner, Kiyoomi looked around and found most of them had gone home. There were still few of them mingling around, just drinking and talking. Meian and Adriah were still downing drinks, quietly talking to each other. Kiyoomi looked down at Miya who’d snuggled to his arm once again.

Well, nothing to do now but take Miya’s drunk ass with him.

Initially, Kiyoomi had planned to shove Miya and himself inside a taxi so they could be home as fast as possible. But when Kiyoomi had helped Miya outside the Izakaya, holding him by his lower back, Miya had exhaled a huge breath before exclaiming,

“Fresh air!”

Kiyoomi had frozen. Wasn’t Miya falling asleep just ten seconds ago? What the fuck.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi said. “Keep it down. It’s one in the morning.”

Miya turned to him, blinking his eyes before grinning, “Ah, OmiOmi! Ya still here? Wanna go for round two?”

Kiyoomi scoffed, rolled his eyes, “Round two? You’re drunk.”

“Oh,” Miya breathed out. “I am?”

Pfft—

Kiyoomi took a deep breath, clutched Miya’s bicep. “Yes, Miya. You are. Let’s get you home.”

“No,” Miya whined, pouting. “Wanna stay here. OmiOmi, let’s stay here?”

Kiyoomi looked at him with wide eyes for a beat before swallowing a laugh down his throat. Really, if Kiyoomi thought Miya acted like a child while playing volleyball, he acted even more of a child while drunk.

It was part endearing and part annoying.

“No,” Kiyoomi refused, frowning behind his mask.

Miya’s lips began to tremble, his eyes watery as he looked at Kiyoomi with puppy eyes.

What.

“Yer a meanie,” Miya said, poking Kiyoomi’s covered arm. “I don’t like ya anymore.”

Uh—

Kiyoomi blinked, cocked a brow. “Oh, you liked me?”

“Yes! Yer a good spiker! Ya hit my sets perfectly and let me touch ya,” Miya ranted while poking Kiyoomi’s arm repeatedly.

The bustling of the Izakaya became their background, the light from the lamp on each side of the street and in the front of the door the only light offered to them. The early September air was cool but welcomed to his heated skin, its wind quietly blowing his hair, soothing.

Here, right now, Kiyoomi felt something in himself shift.

It was a different kind of feeling when he’d seen Miya the first time and Miya had condensed everything that Kiyoomi new in one particle and pulled it right back down from where Kiyoomi had kept it hidden high up, where no one could reach it.

Now, Kiyoomi felt a buzzing deep within his being, goosebumps rising on his skin while cold sweat build on the back of his neck. This kind of feeling was unfamiliar to him and yet— he didn’t mind.

As long as it wasn’t dangerous, he didn’t mind feeling emotions.

Kiyoomi welcomed them.

So when Miya jostled him by his arm, whining for Omiiiii, Kiyoomi snorted and pulled his arm back from Miya’s hold.

“Fine, fine,” Kiyoomi sighed for the nth time that evening. “Let’s go for a walk, Miya.”

Miya perked up, half-lidded eyes widening. He was sleepy, Kiyoomi could see but Kiyoomi could also see that he was fighting it hard.

Maybe a walk would wake Miya up, Kiyoomi thought while they walked down the streets, his hand hovering over Miya’s arm, just in case the setter keeled over.

“Ya know, OmiOmi,” Miya started, after a few minutes of walking in silence. “Yer actually a good guy.”

Kiyoomi glanced at him briefly, seeing Miya facing forward, his hands clasped behind his back. Thankfully he wasn’t wobbling like a typical drunkard would.

“Thank you…” Kiyoomi trailed off, not knowing if it was a compliment or an insult.

“What was up with ya in High School though?!” Miya exclaimed, turning to Kiyoomi fully. They’d reached a quiet neighbourhood now and Kiyoomi stirred Miya towards a bench with a lamp light hovering over it. Miya continued, “Ya kept on glaring at me! And yes, I felt it! Ya hate me, Omi-kun?” Miya pouted while Kiyoomi forced him to sit, settling beside him not long after.

Kiyoomi pondered the question for a few seconds before turning to Miya who was looking at him, eyes wide-open, almost clear.

“No,” Kiyoomi whispered, quiet. “I don’t hate you, Miya.”

“So why did ya give me all those stinky-eyes in high school?” Miya asked, huffing and scuffing the toe of his sneakers against the pavement.

Kiyoomi considered being honest, just tell Miya every little thing that Kiyoomi had felt when he’d seen him for the first time, continuing for the whole of their high school years.

But Miya was drunk. Miya was babbling nonsense and come tomorrow, he wouldn’t even remember their conversation.

So Kiyoomi chose a half-lie, half-truth. “You were on an enemy team.”

“Hmpf, just because we beat ya in first year! That was so long ago, OmiOmi!” Miya gestured with his hands wildly, almost hitting Kiyoomi on his jaw.

Kiyoomi grabbed Miya’s hand, settled them on Miya’s lap where they weren’t a hazard to his face.

“I know,” Kiyoomi nodded. “That’s why I don’t do it anymore. I don’t think about it anymore.” Kiyoomi explained; this time, honest.

“I see,” Miya settled down, his eyes drooping again. “Ya like the Jackals, Omi-kun?” He asked, quiet.

Kiyoomi glanced at him and found him looking up at the moon which was full and bright, blanketing the night with its comforting rays.

“I do,” Kiyoomi nodded.

“That’s good,” Miya Atsumu grinned, eyes slipping close, and head tipping to the side, towards Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Because I like ya too.”

And then he’d fallen asleep, leaving Kiyoomi wondering what his words meant and what he was supposed to do now.

At the end, Kiyoomi had called a taxi, brought Miya to his apartment, dropped him on his sofa and went to take a shower and a much needed sleep.

Come morning the next day, Miya was gone from the couch.

Kiyoomi shrugged.

Oh well.

( Later that day, when Kiyoomi’s hungover had abated, he’d realised Miya had breached full touch easily. He’d hugged Kiyoomi’s side when they were getting to his place, he’d nuzzled his face on Kiyoomi’s biceps, arms wrapped around Kiyoomi like a koala. Kiyoomi hadn’t minded then. And even now, the memory didn’t bother Kiyoomi.

Huh.)

[ Sendai, Miyagi, Japan: November 2018 ]

They were playing against Adlers.

It was Hinata’s official debut as a Jackal’s member and it was Kiyoomi’s first important game with the team. It was also Kiyoomi’s first game against the Adlers after losing to them at Koruwashiki last year. Kiyoomi was hyped; not only because he’d play against Wakatoshi but also because he could feel that it was going to be an intense game that he’d surely enjoy participating in.

And enjoy Kiyoomi did.

The game started with Jackals’ scoring the first point, Hinata spiking the ball that Miya had set to him. They had used that freak quick attack that Kageyama and Hinata was known for in High School but this time, it was quicker and Hinata Shouyou jumped higher and he’d spiked harder.

It was different.

The game continued like that. Taking points from each other, glaring behind the net, taunting through setter dumps.

It was fun.

And through it all, Kiyoomi had watched Miya Atsumu perform to the best of his abilities.

Kiyoomi had already known that Miya would go far and beyond just to score, just so he can play more volleyball and see it through the end. Once, in high school, Kiyoomi had thought the end of volleyball was just a beginning of a bigger puzzle and so it was always unfinished. This was one of the reason why Kiyoomi couldn’t quit volleyball that easily, even when he’d felt like pressure was raining down on him, he didn’t quit.

Now, Kiyoomi still thought the same but he’d learnt to accept that volleyball in itself, finished or unfinished, was worth playing. No matter if he lost or if he won. He was lucky enough to survive this long. Lucky to meet people. Lucky to still be playing what he’d learned to love: volleyball.

When he was in the court, Kiyoomi felt like he was in the top of the world and Miya must feel the same. Looking back now, Miya had probably felt like this the whole time; when Inarizaki had beaten Itachiyama, when  Inarizaki had lost to Karasuno, when high school ended and they had to choose a more secure path.

This was probably why Miya would do anything for volleyball. He’d dive for it, he’d dig for it, he’d crouch deep for it, he’d jump as high as he could for it and Kiyoomi—

Now that Kiyoomi could understand what Miya might have thought all these years, Kiyoomi could only feel respect towards the setter.

Perhaps this was what Kiyoomi had been feeling all along.

In the middle of the game, Kiyoomi had scored a line shot after Miya shouted an,

“Omi-kun!”

Kiyoomi had spiked the ball that Miya Atsumu had set, close to the line where no one was expecting for him to send the ball into.

The moment he’d scored, Kiyoomi heard the commentator blabber about him being the College MVP. Kiyoomi felt proud hearing that. He’d worked so hard for his volleyball that didn’t mimic anyone else. His volleyball that made him enjoy the game. His own volleyball that brought him joy.

Curling his hands into a fist pump, Kiyoomi looked to the side, found Miya with his hand on the air once again, grinning.

“Geez, Omi-kun! That was gross. Just gross!” Miya teased, eyes squinted into a smile.

Kiyoomi side-eyed him, frowning, “Excuse me?!”

“It’s a compliment, really!” Miya laughed, retracting his hand.

Kiyoomi raised his hand for a high-five, frown still marring his face as he said, “Whatever, Miya. Set higher.”

Miya slapped his hand against Kiyoomi’s own, brief, short. Warm, settling.

“It was a perfect set, OmiOmi!” Miya exclaimed as Kiyoomi walked away from him, feeling just a little bit triumphant.

The third set was particularly intense and Jackals had exchanged points after points with Adlers. Romero was a particularly difficult opponent and it was hard to receive his spikes. But Kiyoomi had dug the ball, had kept it in play with Bokuto scoring it.

When the climax was nearing and they were again fighting for who will dominate the game, Kiyoomi had thought that it was truly nice to be here. Playing volleyball with a team that understood him, watching a teammate score and giving them a fist-bump, hearing the crowd cheer for his team, for their opponent, for whoever.

It was such an— amazing feeling.

Going out with a smile. Ending on a victory. Both would be nice, Kiyoomi thought as he watched Miya dive for the ball. But either isn’t particularly necessary. All Kiyoomi wanted was to practice and train, paying proper care and attention to everything. Today, tomorrow, and all the way up to the day before his last game.

Kiyoomi watched as Bokuto spiked the final ball across the net, the sound of it slamming on the rubbered floor deafening. There was silence for a heartbeat and then loud cheers. Kiyoomi grinned, wide and painful and happy.

And as he huddled with his team, Miya and Bokuto’s hands on each side of his shoulders, he thought,

If he was lucky to go out thinking he could be done at any time, and still be satisfied, like this—

Then it was all worth it.

Jackals' celebrated the way they always celebrated a win.

Eating and drinking.

And that evening, tipsy and happy and high from victory, Kiyoomi made a mistake.

Miya Atsumu was a mistake.