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Philosophers are lovers to their very foundations.
It doesn’t come as a surprise, then, that Empedocles once proposed a world built of four elements, simple, eternal and unalterable, and the two divine forces people have come to know as love, responsible for the attraction of different forms of matter, and strife, the cause of their separation. Love and strife, attractive and repulsive forces responsible for the variation and harmony of the four elements that make up the universe, plainly observable in the human behavior in what people like to call the laws of attraction.
Plato, too, was certainly right when saying things that are most alike are filled with envy, contentiousness and hatred for each other because like is most hostile to like and that’s the reason why, as everyone knows, things that are completely in opposition to each other are friends in the highest degree, since everything desires its opposite and not its like. Truly, opposites really do attract, a paper-thin distance between their hearts.
None of the philosophers he reads ever talk about the like to unlike that suddenly turns to like to like because you failed to notice this one little thing about them here, the thing that screams your name, the thing you used to hate the most about them. They don’t talk about whispers on your nape in the morning, just five minutes before your alarm goes off. They don’t talk about the hugs from the back and the sweet nothings he whispers over steaming cups of coffee as he struggles to button up his shirt.
It is an undeniable truth that they were once complete opposites.
While Atsumu is a morning person, Kiyoomi needs his five extra minutes that easily turn into ten and then fifteen and when you know it, he’s already running out of the dorm without even saying goodbye. While Atsumu is talkative and mostly friendly, Kiyoomi has a wall around himself that prevents people from getting too close. While Atsumu speaks loudly, Kiyoomi’s voice is low and soothing as he speaks slowly and calmly. And, of course, while Atsumu had a philosopher’s view on the subjects of love, Kiyoomi was the one who saw it with cold, scientific eyes as he whispered, love is nothing but an idealization, a projection of one’s ego over an object of desire and the satisfaction of a possible unattained ego ideal of their own, it’s merely a narcissistic satisfaction. Or, in other words, wow, Omi, ya must be fun at parties…
Living with a roommate meant setting some boundaries and rules for the two of you to follow. Simple things, really, like who takes out the trash and who’s going to deal with the obnoxiously loud neighbor who apparently forgets that people are supposed to sleep at night; who would cook every Thursday and who’d be responsible for doing the dishes, who would be in charge of the cleaning and who would be the one to restock their small, shared fridge when things started to run out.
But living together also meant seeing everything they tried so hard to hide from other people.
Sakusa Kiyoomi walked on eggshells around other people, hiding himself under a mask and big puffy coats as if he’d never wanted anything more than to disappear from the public’s sight. Sakusa Kiyoomi, as Atsumu found out fairly quickly, was the kind of person who liked to have control over things, the kind of person who was strict and the kind of person that, well, that sounded like a pain in the ass, if he was being honest.
Don’t cross over to this side of the room, don’t ever touch my stuff, my bed is off-limits.
He took the left side of the room whereas Atsumu had to settle for the right side. Kiyoomi’s desk was organized and nothing like the mess of papers, books and paper clips Atsumu left randomly there when it was already 2am and he was too tired to finish his essay. He has a box of n95 masks unopened by his nightstand and an almost empty box of n96 masks on the left side of his desk, right next to his laptop. His white coat is neatly hung inside the closet on his side of the room, his bags resting right beside his bed in an organized straight line. His papers are neatly stacked on the right side of his desk, his pens and pencils neatly tucked inside a fancy leather pencil case.
Yer quite passionate ‘bout yer stuff, Omi-kun.
Maybe you should try it some time.
Sakusa Kiyoomi was quiet as he looked through flashcards and typed furiously on his laptop. He sighed a few times before stretching his arms over his head and cracking his knuckles as he delved into the thousand gigantic books he spread out over his bed. He had the biggest eye bags Atsumu had ever seen, the ugliest frown and what seemed to be the softest curls in the world. Sakusa Kiyoomi was the definition of the love manufactured by rational discourse, the platonic, ideal beauty of a thing as something he liked to call the truth, Miya, it’s not that hard.
Sakusa Kiyoomi was also beautiful.
Atsumu had already lost count of how many nights he spent wide awake, staring at his lashes gracefully casting a shadow over his cheeks, the way his curls fell effortlessly over his forehead and the way he scrunched up his nose when he was dreaming. Because even he has something to look forward to in the arms of Morpheus, I suppose . Sakusa Kiyoomi, pre-med student, freakishly tall with his give or take 192 centimeters was, at first glance, Atsumu’s like to unlike.
He was agape at first, but soon turned into philia as they started to cohabitate. Sakusa Kiyoomi, pre-med, was a dork and a blunt, ridiculous jerk. He liked to munch on sweets late at night as he tried to memorize every anatomic structure written on his flashcards, this is a lot, Omi-kun, and his laugh sounded thunderous as he nodded with a sigh, maybe I’ll fail this class, there’s no way I can memorize three-hundred-something structures in two days. Atsumu also found out he had the goofiest laugh when he wasn’t trying to act tough and unapproachable, when Atsumu squirmed when he poked him on the sides, these are your external obliques, he said. The aponeurosis should be around here, another poke, and here’s the latissimus dorsi muscle. What, are you ticklish now?
Atsumu couldn’t really tell when like to unlike had shapeshifted into a like to like, when he started to know more and more about the mysterious person living on the other side of his dorm room, learning that Kiyoomi liked his coffee with three sugars and way too hot, the way he always woke up late because he kept whining and hitting the snooze button on his phone for far too long, the way he didn’t mind touching Atsumu as he did with anyone else, I’m not going to die if I touch you, he had said. And besides, I’m stuck here with you. If I had something to worry about, I would have moved out by now.
He learned about Kiyoomi’s sleeping schedule and how he had to deal with shaky hands and shortness of breath, undiagnosed anxiety disorders and perhaps something even more serious. He learned about Kiyoomi’s tendencies to shut people out and how easily he turned into putty as Atsumu slowly stroked circles on his back to calm him down, as he made him look into his eyes and said it’s okay, Omi, it’s okay, ‘m here. He learned about the voice Kiyoomi gulped down most of the time, the sweet nectar dripping down his chin as he whispered please, don’t go away, stay with me for a bit longer. And Atsumu, a lover to his very core, had simply nodded and whispered I’ll stay with ya forever if ya want me to .
Perhaps philia had shapeshifted into eros when Atsumu opened the door to their dorm room after a cancelled early morning lecture, when he took the first step inside and froze. He stared for several seconds, minutes, for what felt like hours, because what happened to don’t cross over to my side of the room, my bed is off-limits when Kiyoomi had been sitting on the floor, flashcards in his hands as his head rested softly on top of Atsumu’s bed? What happened with the don’t ever touch my stuff when Kiyoomi himself had wrapped himself up on Atsumu’s blankets presumably as soon as he left?
It’s quite a job to start loving someone, Atsumu learned then.
It’s not about the smiles and the butterflies but also the anxiety attacks and the tears when nothing makes sense anymore. Sakusa Kiyoomi, he learned, walked on eggshells and liked to play where it was safest, where he could still see the shapes below his feet and not the endless abyss that stretched out from a higher spot. Atsumu, on the other hand, thought love was jumping over the precipice with his eyes closed and head devoid of any thought. Love was ceasing to exist and letting someone else take the reins; if he doesn’t think, he doesn’t exist and if he doesn’t exist, the void can’t claim him. It’s a simple thing, love.
Atsumu typed on his computer, looking up at an exhausted Kiyoomi looking through his flashcards once again. What is it? I feel you burning holes on my face. It shouldn’t have made him shiver, it shouldn’t have made warmth flood his stomach, the way Kiyoomi shifted his eyes from the cards to stare up at him with an arched eyebrow. Nothin’ , Atsumu answered. Nothing at all.
To love , Atsumu wrote in an essay, is to love the Platonic form of beauty. It is not to love a particular individual, but the elements they possess of true, ideal beauty. Reciprocity is not necessary, for the desire is for the object of beauty rather than the company of another. Absolute bulshit, if you ask him. Had reciprocity not been necessary, why was it that his search history was filled with absurd questions about how to know someone likes you back, am I crazy, how to know you’re in love ? Had reciprocity not been necessary, why was it that his brother blocked his number for an entire week because yer not making any sense, ‘Tsumu, wasn’t that the weird roommie who couldn’t stand yer guts? Ya don’t just start lovin’ someone out of fuckin’ nowhere ya doofus.
But you do.
Because one day you’re staring at them as they run through their flashcards and all of a sudden they snort and ask you if you’ve lost something in their direction and you can’t help but laugh because yes , you just lost your heart and they’re holding it proudly in their hands like a jewel they don’t know how to handle properly. Because they start bringing you coffee and the donuts you’ve mentioned were your favorites once when your finals are coming because I figured I could help you out with something but that was the only thing I could think of. Can I do anything else for you?
Because when you’re both stressed out after a hard day, you break down over your beds and you talk. You talk about your childhood and you tell them you have a brother, you tell them you’ve shared everything, you tell them it’s kind of weird to wake up and not see him next to you. And then you laugh and change the subject because, otherwise, you’ll probably start talking about how much better it is to wake up to dark green eyes and the perfect colon on one’s forehead.
And before you know it, you’re splattered on the ground with a hole in your chest.
Ah.
Ah , Atsumu couldn’t help but think, so this is what falling in love feels like.
I don’t want to be just his friend anymore.
It comes as a series, the realization that they’d been tiptoeing around their feelings, around each other, for far too long now. Their friends were surely tired of having to listen to them talking about the insufferable roommate because there was no other way to describe how small they made the room seem and not only because they were giant men, no, but because their voices echoed and created a melody of their own, a melody their hearts weren’t ready to grasp yet and so .
So, they complained. What else were they supposed to do?
If you’re so unhappy with him as your roommate, you can always ask for another one , Atsumu heard someone talking to Kiyoomi. He knew he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, he wasn’t , he just had to leave and they were blocking the entryway. He stood there behind the door, crouched down as if trying to make himself look smaller. It’s not about asking for another roommate, it’s just that… I don’t know. He makes me mad. I want to punch him sometimes, you know? He’s got that easygoing smile I can’t stand and then there’s the loud typing at three in the morning.
Oh.
Not that he didn’t do the same whenever he spotted his brother trying to run away from him, hiding his face with his bags or, in certain events, his friend’s hoodie. I can see ya, idiot Samu. Come on, lemme complain a bit to ya about that insufferable roommate of mine, that cocky bastard. Can ya believe what he told me this morning? Well, first…
Perhaps that’s the reason why no one believed them, Atsumu had thought once, when they finally told people what happened on that rainy day back in August, on the day Kiyoomi allowed him to sit in-between his legs as he wrote an essay. Hey, Omi-kun? What would ya say about love if someone stopped ya around campus and told ya they were doin’ a research about it? What are yer thoughts on it? What followed was silence and the clicking sounds of the laptop’s keyboard. It’s a narcissistic satisfaction, Kiyoomi replied without ever taking his eyes off the screen.
Of course he’d say that.
Philosophers are lovers to their very foundations, in love with knowledge and everything that comes with it. Why are things, why is the universe, why is love, how does it modify itself, what is the principle of life, what is the one undeniable truth and when did it come to be for the first time. Love, as Atsumu learned throughout his life, modifies, surrounds and supports everything. Love, painful and sweet all at once. Love, swimming inside dark green eyes and running around the moles on his forehead and down his back as if they’re labyrinths from where it can’t escape. Lucky, Atsumu used to think, I wish I could be the one running so close to his skin.
But , Kiyoomi whispered as he let his arms hang low, hands resting against the arms of the chair they were sat on. I think it has the most beautiful honey eyes with those little specks of gold swimming in it. I think it’s obnoxiously loud in the morning and it doesn’t let me sleep in. It’s an insufferable person I can’t help but laugh along with. It’s the flashcards and everything else. Atsumu couldn’t feel his legs all of a sudden. How about for you?, Kiyoomi added with a smirk. What would you say?
He had laughed and thrown his head back over his shoulder. You , he said, simply.
And that had been it.
They’re not trying to keep it a secret, not really.
They drop hints.
They walk each other to their buildings and have lunch together. They go out for coffee and walk hand-in-hand sometimes, when Kiyoomi’s feeling up for it. They have dates and Kiyoomi always wipes the sides of Atsumu’s mouth with his thumbs whenever they get crepes or the strawberries parfaits from that café just a few blocks away from the dorms. They wait for each other’s class to finish and always pass by that bookstore they love, Atsumu excitedly babbling about this absurd new concept, because look!, while Kiyoomi nods with a proud grin tugging at the sides of his lips, their fingers intertwined inside the pockets of his jacket.
And yet.
The first time they thought they were joking was at a friendly lunch they decided to have with Osamu and Kiyoomi’s cousin, the brown-haired, brown-eyed guy he sometimes saw Kiyoomi meeting up with after class. Wow, it doesn’t even look like you guys are family, Atsumu had commented once and Kiyoomi had just chuckled as he shook his head. You’re such an idiot, he said. The first time they thought they were joking had Osamu throwing a napkin at Atsumu and Komori trying to muffle his laughter when Kiyoomi covered his face with his hands.
“April Fool’s was a long time ago, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu had rolled his eyes and sighed loudly before staring down at his food. “Can’t believe ya even got Sakusa-kun to collaborate with ya in this madness. I’m so sorry for my stupid brother but also thank you so much for taking ‘im off my back.”
Kiyoomi nodded, his cheeks full and eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he chewed.
“Can’t believe the three of you are just ganging up on me like that,” Atsumu complained. “Omi! Don’t ya have anything to tell them? Love is the specks of gold blah blah blah shit.”
Kiyoomi blinked at him once. And then twice. “You should really try this,” he said, pointing to the plate in front of him. “It’s really good.”
God.
The second time it happened had been a few weeks later and it happened because of a sprained ankle and the piles of homework they were drowning in. Kiyoomi had been tending to him, his touch cool and soft against a swelled up, honestly kind-of-purple ankle that had to be kept up , whatever that meant. Atsumu was sure it didn’t mean leaving his leg resting on top of a mountain built out of every pillow they had around the dorm. This is too much, Omi. ‘M not gonna die if my leg is a bit closer to the floor.
Osamu had visited a few (thirteen) times that week, bringing them food and sitting by Atsumu’s bed only to make fun of him as he ate with one of his legs quite literally staring at the ceiling.
“Has lover boy been feeding ya properly?”
It came out choked and playful, as if he’d been waiting to make that joke ever since that day they went out for lunch, ever since he and Komori laughed their asses off.
Atsumu snickered. “Is it so unbelievable that Omi-kun could want me?”
He didn’t even pretend to think as he let out a: “Of course it is.”
Funny how doubt creeps on people, Atsumu thought back then as he stuffed his face with his brother’s homemade meal. It tasted like home but also like the anxiety of having to do a presentation on a subject you knew nothing about because you missed all of your classes. Funny how like to unlike and like to like merged into a single person and blurred the lines of what Empedocles proposed as a primitive law of attraction, funny how Freud must’ve been right when he said love is nothing but a narcissistic satisfaction of the ego as you project your ideals onto someone because hell. If no one believed they were a couple, could they even be considered one? Were they a bad match?
“D’ya have a crush on him or something?” Osamu asked before ruffling his hair. “Get well soon, ya jerk. Mom’s bugging us to come visit on the weekends.”
The third time happened months after.
It started with a very frightened Komori banging loudly on their door at 7AM. You go get it, it’s too early for me to be up on a Saturday. Atsumu begrudgingly got up and walked up to their door, to the image of someone who looked like he just saw a ghost and brown, wide eyes staring up at him in disbelief. You’re wearing his shirt , he said as if Atsumu didn’t know that, as if he hadn’t slept safely tucked into his arms and feeling his heartbeat right under his ear. But well .
He had tried talking, gesticulating wildly in front of Atsumu’s face who, in return, only blinked lazily at him and yawned a few times. Are you even listening?! Because I’m being followed here and then you’ll have to deal with this on your own.
“What are you doing here so early?” Kiyoomi’s voice echoed just as another yawn broke through Atsumu’s mouth. He slowly walked towards the door, slowly wrapped one of his arms around his waist and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his head. “You can go back to bed now.”
Atsumu did, nodding and waving Komori a sleepy goodbye before throwing himself on the still warm sheets and covering himself with the blanket. He could still hear Kiyoomi’s hoarse, sleepy voice and Komori’s agitated one as he was probably gesticulating some more, Atsumu thought with a chuckle. It didn’t take them long or it didn’t feel like it, because he blinked and next thing he knew, Kiyoomi was already slipping under the blankets with him again. What did he want?
It sounded more like a groan than a question, but Kiyoomi understood him anyway.
“Confessions,” he shrugged as he pressed a kiss to Atsumu’s shoulder. “Someone wanted to confess to me. He came here to ask if he could tell them I was already dating someone. If he could tell them I was dating you. Even if it was fake. He knows I don’t like the whole confessing thing. Too much trouble.”
Yeah , Atsumu thought, that does sound like him .
“Mm. And what did you say?”
“Was I supposed to say anything other than yes?”
Atsumu chuckled softly as he let Kiyoomi lull him back to sleep. “I guess not.”
The fourth and last time it happened, Atsumu was already beginning to accept the fact that they wouldn’t ever believe that they were, in fact, together. They were out for lunch, the twins and the cousins, and none of them said a word as they ate desperately as if none of them had seen food in months, years even. Kiyoomi was staring down at his plate when he asked, eyes dull and emotionless: “Do any of you know of a nice place we could go to? Nice as in anniversary-worthy nice.”
“Hm,” Osamu hummed softly, cocking his head to the side and blinking lazily at them. “Not ‘round here, no.”
He did know a lot about the nicest places close to home, Atsumu knew that. They were always trying out new restaurants and bakeries and just about any other place that had food or drinks. Osamu had a mental list of all of these places, apparently, and it went from how good their coffee was on a scale of five stars to detailed commentary about that one dish that could be called a crime, ‘Tsumu, did ya even taste that?!
Komori seemed just as lost, blinking at them as if he hadn’t fully understood the question.
“Why would you go to an anniversary-worthy nice kind of place?”
Atsumu wanted to scream.
Kiyoomi, on the other hand, just raised his eyes from his plate and shrugged before replying, simply: “For us to celebrate our anniversary? Why else would we go to an anniversary-worthy nice kind of place?”
“Please, stop saying anniversary-worthy nice kind of place every single sentence,” is what Osamu chokes out, still munching on his food.
“You just said it yourself, though.”
He was this close to screaming.
“Since when are you two together?”
“For about a year?”
Screams are coming.
“Oh, is this about the confession lie thing from before?” Komori seemed to suddenly remember, his eyes lighting up. “Man, I didn’t know you were so into this whole fake dating thing. Are you really that against being confessed to? You even convinced Atsumu to play along with you, I’m impressed.”
Osamu looked up from his plate with an arched eyebrow. “And since when do you help out with these things?”
Screams, screams, screams.
Bubbling in his stomach, climbing up his windpipe, suffocating him softly as Kiyoomi sighed and slowly intertwined their fingers under the table, stroking soothing circles over his hand with his thumb. It said it’s okay, it said let’s get out of here and go back to the dorm, it said I want to touch you, it said everything Atsumu wanted to hear, everything that sent the screams flying down again until they were buried under thousands of other thoughts, under the thousands of Omi floating around, waiting for the perfect time to roll off his tongue.
“‘m not really helping out ,” Atsumu had shrugged. “Things are a bit more serious than that.”
“Of course they are…”
They are.
Of course they are.
So they don’t believe them. Cool.
It’s not any different than a secret relationship, Atsumu thinks as Kiyoomi embraces him first thing after they walk into their dorm, as he strokes soothing circles on his back and presses sweet, lingering kisses to the corners of his mouth. It’s a secret they share because they don’t really have a choice, not when what a funny joke is what they get as an answer when they try to explain that no, this isn’t a joke, we’re together for real. It’s the things they whisper to each other when no one else is around, the touches they save for the moment when the door to the outside world will close and then there’ll be Atsumu and Kiyoomi and the piles of piles of unread books and the stubborn cursor that keeps on reminding them that hey, you have an essay to write.
And then one day they believe it.
It starts with two bodies and a bed, although not in the way it usually goes. Kiyoomi is dressed to go out in the chilling weather, Atsumu is not, sprawled out over his lap with a golden explosion staining Kiyoomi’s jeans. What are you doing? , was what he asked as soon as he sat down and Atsumu crawled over towards him. Cuddling , he replied as if it was obvious, shrugging and closing his eyes, scrunching up his nose when Kiyoomi poked his cheek.
“Come on, get up,” he says softly as he brushes a strand of hair out of Atsumu’s forehead. “We promised we’d go out for coffee with them today. And then movies. We’ll be late.”
“Mm,” Atsumu hums as he nuzzles the palm of Kiyoomi’s gloved hand. “I don’t wanna.”
“You promised.”
He sighs. “I know , but this is too comfortable. It’s warm, and outside is not. Yer warm and comfortable and I don’t wanna move.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t reply, but Atsumu notices the way his eyebrows come closer and closer and the way his lips are slowly molded into an adorable pout as the cogs turn around in his brain and he comes to the conclusion that ah, that’s right. They’re a tangled mess of limbs within five or ten minutes, none of them bothered to count, and it almost feels like nighttime when Kiyoomi grabs their shared blanket and pulls it up to cover them, one of his hands resting softly over Atsumu’s head, his fingers playing with his hair and urging him to close his eyes and let sleep claim him again.
He could do that. It’s a Saturday.
Who even cares about the three essays he still has to write, anyway?
It’s a Saturday and it’s cold out and he’s being cuddled and there is absolutely no way he’s getting out of this bed today. Sorry, Samu , he thinks as he closes his eyes and lets Kiyoomi hold him closer, but I don’t think I’ll be able to meet ya today. I’ll pay for coffee next time, I promise.
“‘m gonna fall asleep if ya keep doing that, Omi.”
“It’s fine,” he replies in a whisper with a soft kiss to Atsumu’s forehead. “You can sleep.”
This bastard.
It’s quiet and he can only hear Kiyoomi’s heartbeat close to his cheek and the way he breathes oh, so slowly, so calmly, as he buries his hands in his hair, as he dives down to press kisses to the top of his head, his forehead and sometimes even to the tip of his nose. It’s the serenity of the secrets they share late at night as they rest over each other’s chests and the trembling figures when, for some reason or the other, things suddenly get overwhelming. It’s okay, their touches say, I’m here. You’re not alone. I’m not leaving. You’re safe with me. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
It’s the comfort and warmth of his touch, Atsumu thinks.
And then it’s the explosion of their door being, quite literally, brought down by angry hands and a clinking keychain as he huffs and puffs and Atsumu blinks the sleep away as Kiyoomi sits up and greets them slowly with a hi? as if they didn’t just invade their dorm room in the middle of the weekend.
There it is, the gray mess Atsumu’s grown so used to in these last few years and the brown nest peeking from over his shoulders, eyebrows raised and eyes wide as Osamu chokes out an angry “Do you know just how fucking late you two are?!”
Yes , Atsumu wants to answer, it was intentional. In case you haven’t noticed .
He doesn’t say anything.
“What the fuck are you two doing?”
Ah.
There it is.
Because humans have a tendency to overlook the things they can’t deal with, Atsumu remembers from the time he accidentally took the wrong class, they pick up these things and throw them under the rug even when they’re being rubbed right beneath their noses. Perhaps that’s why, he thinks, his twin looks like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown as he blinks once and then twice and a few more times after that, his brows furrowing and his eyes twitching as he stares straight into Atsumu’s soul.
And what else is he supposed to say other than, “I told ya we were together.”
It shouldn’t be funny, the way Osamu’s face contorts into every other emotion in the span of a millisecond, the way he scrunches up his nose and lets his mouth hang open all at once. For a second, Atsumu almost thinks he’s having a stroke. (He isn’t.)
“Since when?”
“Since August.”
Komori opens his mouth in a wow and claps his hands together. “ This August?”
“Last August,” Kiyoomi replies. “We told you that.”
“I thought it was a joke!”
Of course they did.
There’s no way they wouldn’t have, is what Atsumu thinks as he pulls up the blankets all the way up to his head, burying himself in the warmth and the smells of everything he’s started to treasure after being, quite literally, forced to share a dorm with a guy who couldn’t be described as anything other than jerk at first. But Atsumu found out he liked living with said jerk, that he wasn’t as bad as he seemed, that his like to like started to slowly shift into a like to unlike and like to like and to unlike every couple of days. Because Sakusa Kiyoomi, pre-med, 192 centimeters tall giant was not your usual college student, was not just the pretty face that got tens of thousands of confessions every month.
(Maybe he was exaggerating a bit, but his point still stands.)
There’s no way they would have believed them when all they did was complain about each other. And yet.
“Why would we joke about that?” Kiyoomi asks with a chuckle.
Atsumu starts laughing.
Not because of the misunderstandings, not about the whole love philosophy that got swept off its feet when this huge, unapproachable giant walked into their dorm room and whispered I can’t believe I didn’t get a single room before greeting Atsumu with the driest hi, I’m your roommate he’s ever heard in his life. Not because of the way their confession went and not because of the way Kiyoomi frowned and pouted like a kid when Atsumu properly said it first because I can’t believe you said it first. I had a whole thing planned out. Not because of the way his brother and Komori had two opposite reactions to the fact that they were (technically) played with during a whole year, but simply because love doesn’t follow rules and it’s a stupid thing to try and tame it logically.
Empedocles, Plato, Freud and every other wannabe love specialist can go find something else to write about, is what Atsumu is laughing about, because they’ve just proved them all wrong with the feelings they nurtured inside this gray, lifeless dorm room, with the lumpy cohabitation in those first three months and the late night deep talks about nothing and everything all at once and the fact that Kiyoomi was better at talking philosophy than Atsumu was, the fact that he couldn’t help but ask, maybe I could get ya to do my exams for me , and the way Kiyoomi laughed a hearty laugh before replying that in your dreams, Miya.
“Is the coffee thing still up?” Komori asks.
Ah, right.
The coffee.
“I think,” Osamu chokes out. “I think I’m gonna go home. And process this. And then I’ll come back ‘ere and I’ll punch the shit outta him.”
“Yer the one who didn’t believe me,” Atsumu replies from beneath his covers. “Stupid Samu.”
“I think we’re better off rescheduling,” Kiyoomi replies. Komori hums softly before someone clicks their tongue. “‘Tsumu didn’t even want to leave in the first place, so maybe once it gets a bit warmer?”
“Oh, God,” Osamu complains. “‘m gonna be sick.”
And they leave.
Amidst the childish laughter from Komori and the silent snorts coming from the warm body right next to his, Atsumu hears his brother complaining as he slams the door shut and Komori’s voice slowly disappears into nothingness as he whispers a soft I’m so sorry for intruding as Kiyoomi simply hums in response. And then there’s silence, warm and comfortable and with a sprinkle of cinnamon on top as Kiyoomi snatches the covers and climbs on top of him with a sweet smile on his face.
“Hey you.”
Atsumu giggles. “Hi.”
They roll over on the mattress of the single bed on the left side of the room, the covers thrown on the floor and his desk a tad bit messier than it was when they first arrived, the white coat still hanging neatly inside his wardrobe, his mask boxes still neatly placed on top of his desk, but the bags are thrown all over the place, a few of them resting on top of the unused bed on the other side of the room, the papers sometimes falling to the floor as Kiyoomi throws them into a messy pile before throwing his tired body over Atsumu at night with a groan, I need a massage, and Atsumu quickly shoving him aside as he laughs. Do I look like a fucking masseur to ya?
It’s a fucking mess, their room and their hearts and the fact that they chose each other despite every other law of attraction telling them that opposites attract, you’ve taken the wrong turn, go back . It’s a mess they like to call their own, fingers intertwined and lips brushing chastely against one another before smiling proudly as they whisper, “I love you,” because there’s nothing more they have to say.