Archive of Our Own

November doesn’t start as a war.

Really, Kiyoomi tries not to dwell on things. (Motoya would say he’s largely unsuccessful at this, particularly with Kiyoomi’s penchant for holding grudges like he needs them to survive). It’s not like Atsumu’s gift-giving habits consume Kiyoomi’s waking mind. He just thinks about it whenever he opens his signed, first-edition copy of 1Q84 he’s rereading—courtesy of Atsumu—or when he’s checking on the hydroponic grow-box by the television—yes, from Atsumu—or when he sees the ikebana arrangement on the island—you guessed it, Atsumu.

So Kiyoomi isn’t thinking much when Atsumu comes stumbling through the door on their third dating anniversary, wielding a massive box in one big hand as he balances his weight on the doorknob to slip off his shoes.

“What have you done now,” Kiyoomi says, eyeing the box with suspicion from his seat on the couch.

“Relax, you’re gonna like it,” Atsumu says, sliding precariously through the genkan on his socked feet. He slips into the living and sets the box down gently on the kotatsu, kneeling by Kiyoomi’s feet.

Kiyoomi sighs and sets his book down. His own gift for Atsumu is already on the kotatsu, in a small, hot pink bag with HAPPY BIRTHDAY written on it in glitter, courtesy of Inunaki on Kiyoomi’s birthday last year. It’s always a race on gift-giving occasions to see who gets to use the bag this time, and Kiyoomi won fair and square by hiding it in a box of Atsumu’s manga he’s been swearing he’d unpack for six months.

“Open it, open it, open it,” Atsumu says, jostling Kiyoomi’s knee.

“What’s the rush?” Kiyoomi leans forward and then freezes, squinting down at Atsumu. “Don’t tell me there’s something alive in here.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Don’t try to guess.”

Kiyoomi frowns but obediently untucks the flaps of the box to peer inside. Atsumu did bring home something alive—a huge, ornate circular tin, into which are tucked several dozen white roses.

“Know you hate how we gotta throw out the ikebana arrangements every coupla weeks, but I still wanted to get ya flowers,” Atsumu explains, as Kiyoomi slides forward to the edge of the couch so that he can lift out the container. “These are s’posed to last a year if you keep them in the tin with the solution. No more wasting flowers!”

Kiyoomi sets the roses down on the table, dwarfing the birthday giftbag. A light, sweet scent fills the air. Kiyoomi glares at them, running his tongue over his teeth. Atsumu knows how he feels about flowers. Fuck him for getting something so traditionally romantic that still considers Kiyoomi’s unreasonable dislikes.

“It’s going to get dusty,” he settles on. “Where would we even put it?”

“Figured it could go on the dresser. There ain’t nothing up there anyway.”

“I like it uncluttered.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes, sitting back on his haunches. “I can return ‘em if you don’t want—”

“No,” Kiyoomi interrupts. “We can keep them.”

Atsumu grins and leans forward to press a kiss to his clothed thigh, resting his cheek there afterward. He reaches out to slowly push the empty cardboard box until it topples off the far end of the kotatsu, leaving the view of the roses and, beyond that, the birthday giftbag.

“That for me?” he asks, one hand wrapping around the bare skin between Kiyoomi’s sweatpants and ankle sock.

“Your fingers are fucking freezing,” Kiyoomi grumbles, halfheartedly jerking his foot away. It’s futile. Atsumu’s grip is like iron. “No, it’s for the neighbors—of course it’s for you.”

Atsumu whoops and snatches the bag, tossing the tissue paper into the air and pulling out the package inside. “Underwear!”

“They’re bamboo fiber,” Kiyoomi mumbles, and maybe he sounds a little defensive, but it’s hard not to with thirty pristine roses sitting a meter away, mocking him. Underwear for an anniversary? Really, Kiyoomi? “You said you were itchy and smelly. These might help.”

Atsumu beams up at him, eyes crinkling, and fuck if he doesn’t look cute in a Jackals hoodie with Kiyoomi’s name plastered across the back. They’ve never publicly announced their relationship as a favour to MSBY’s harried (mainly thanks to Atsumu) PR team, but Atsumu does like to play coy. “Thanks, Omi-kun! Didn’t think you listen anymore when I talk about my junk. Thought the mystique faded years ago.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. “There has never been any mystique around your genitals. You’re naked constantly.”

“‘Genitals’? Do you gotta be so clinical about it?” Atsumu asks as he tears into the package.

“Fine. Your massive cock and balls, does that sound better?” Kiyoomi says, staring down at him balefully. When Atsumu starts rubbing a pair of briefs against his cheek, sighing wistfully, Kiyoomi snatches them away. “These haven’t even been washed yet. You disgust me.”

“And yet you keep letting me put my dick in you. Oh! I can probably do a load of laundry before our dinner reservation,” Atsumu says, leaping to his feet and taking back the briefs from Kiyoomi. He takes two steps away, then rushes back, bending down to smack a kiss on Kiyoomi’s forehead. “Thank you, baby,” he says, before taking off once more like a human hurricane.

“Don’t put your old underwear in there. You know the ones. Throw them out!” Kiyoomi calls after him. Then he turns back, eyes catching on the roses, and sighs.

He should’ve known Atsumu would pull something like this—something romantic, something memorable, that Kiyoomi would be forced to think about everyday. It’s been this way even before they started dating, when Atsumu gave him that first ikebana arrangement years ago. Kiyoomi has been playing catch-up ever since, always on the back foot, always waiting for the day Atsumu finally looks at one of Kiyoomi’s gifts in return and says: you thought this was enough?

Kiyoomi pushes at the rose tin with his foot, scowling down at them. Next time, it’s going to be different. Christmas is a month away, and Kiyoomi still hasn’t bought anything for Atsumu. They never do anything huge for the holiday, just using it as an excuse to hang out in each other’s company and cheat on their meal plan, but Kiyoomi can make it something bigger. Something that Atsumu will remember for years to come. Something that isn’t fucking underwear.

He stands, grabbing the roses to put them away in the bedroom, and lets the gears start turning.

The day Kiyoomi and Miya become something more than coworkers begins with Inunaki whistling as Kiyoomi shuffles into the locker room. “You look like shit, Sakusa.”

“Inunaki, really?” Meian says, but there’s something patronizingly sympathetic in his eyes as he looks Kiyoomi over. “You good, kid?”

Kiyoomi grunts as he opens his locker, tossing his backpack inside. “Furniture got delivered. The assembly instructions are in English.”

“I can help!” Bokuto says, and Kiyoomi can hear the grin in his voice from across the locker room. “I put together my stuff and Akaashi’s, too.”

Kiyoomi glares over his shoulder at Bokuto. He went to college with Akaashi. He knows what that man’s apartment looks like. “Akaashi has his bookcase propped on a Windows XP manual to keep it level. I’ll pass.”

“I could do it,” Miya says, and Sakusa’s frown deepens.

“You can read English?”

Miya cocks his head, blinking innocently at him. “What, you think I’m dumb just ‘cause I didn’t cry my way through college like you and Bokkun?”

Kiyoomi purses his lips. “Of course I don’t think that. I think you’re dumb on purpose.”

Miya laughs, a full-bellied thing, one hand on his stomach as he leans back. “Man, you already got me clocked. Just think about it. You got my number.”

“Unfortunately,” Kiyoomi says, and buries his head in his locker.

Living alone isn’t difficult. It’s an unmitigated fucking disaster.

Kiyoomi thought he had young adulthood under control when he was living in his dorm at Waseda. Sure, it was pre-furnished, and he ate at the cafeteria or konbini everyday instead of cooking, and he had a roommate to share cleaning duties with and talk in the general direction of when exams had him losing his mind. But he didn’t expect moving to Osaka to be this fucking hard.

“Fuck!” he snaps, throwing the hex wrench that came in the disassembled dresser box at the wall, before flopping down onto his back on his bedroom floor. He’s not an idiot. He graduated college with honours while keeping an athlete’s schedule. There’s no reason a dresser should be stumping him, but here he is, with a drawer somehow put together inside-out.

His phone buzzes beside him and he scrabbles for it, holding it precariously over his face. It’s Twitter, and Kiyoomi flicks open the first notification—a sponsored sports drink ad from Motoya.

Kiyoomi glares at the photo. None of this would be a problem if Kiyoomi had gone to Shizuoka. Motoya is excellent with hands-on crafts—his macaroni art in elementary school once sent Kiyoomi into a jealous meltdown—and he’s the only person Kiyoomi can bear getting teased by when it comes to shit like this. But Kiyoomi couldn’t sign to EJP, not just because they weren’t recruiting outside hitters, but because he depended on Motoya religiously for a decade. He can’t grow around him, not yet.

The second tweet on Kiyoomi’s timeline is from Meian, a homey, cutesy photo of his fiance in front of an ornate little white cake. It’s obvious from the flour smeared on her cheek that she baked it herself. She and Meian would probably be great at putting together furniture and making dinners that aren’t cup ramen with some eggs cracked over it and maybe even fixing the way Kiyoomi’s toilet tank runs every few minutes. But Kiyoomi can’t bear the thought of disturbing them on a Sunday when they’re so clearly basking in Meian having a day off. Asking for help when it’s convenient is already like pulling teeth for Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi scrolls a little further, his nose scrunching up on instinct when he sees Miya, posting yet another gym selfie in a muscle tank cut so low Kiyoomi can see one brown nipple and loose shorts barely covering his ass. Miya posts less frequently than Kiyoomi expected, surely to keep some false air of mystery to him, but his Instagram is a veritable slideshow of thirst traps. Kiyoomi may have glanced at it once or twice in college and again when he signed with MSBY a few months ago.

Miya is a terrible option, probably the worst, solely based on attitude. He’d drop everything to come over just so he’d have ammunition to torment Kiyoomi with for weeks. But there’s no one better with their hands than a setter like Miya who specializes in overhead tosses.

Before he can overthink it, Kiyoomi opens his contacts and hits Call.

Miya picks up on the second ring. “Little early in the day for a booty call, ain’t it, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi hangs up on him without saying a word.

Miya calls back immediately, and then again when Kiyoomi declines the call, and one more time when Kiyoomi peels himself up off the floor and heads to the kitchen to make his third cup of coffee for the day. Sighing, Kiyoomi finally answers.

“Watch your mouth or I’ll block you this time,” he says.

Miya laughs, warm even through the distortion. “I promise I’ll be good. You just surprised me, is all. What’s a guy s’posed to think when you never even text but jump straight to a phone call?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Well, shit,” Miya says, whistling through his teeth. “Are you injured? Do you need me to take you to the hospital? Didja call an ambulance?”

“It isn’t—” Kiyoomi pinches the bridge of his nose. “—I’m fine. Physically, at least. I need you to come help me build furniture.”

There’s a pause for so long that Kiyoomi pulls the phone down to glance at the screen to make sure the call is still going. When he puts it back to his ear, he catches Miya clearing his throat.

“Can ya wait, like, an hour or two? Got something I need to take care of.”

“That’s fine. The furniture isn’t going anywhere.” Kiyoomi glances down at the coffeemaker, chewing his lip. “But Miya?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

He can hear the smile in Miya’s voice when he says: “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Kiyoomi has just finished watching an artsy French film that mostly went over his head, the dresser haunting him from the floor behind his couch, when there’s a knock on the door. He gets up and opens the door without bothering to check the peephole.

“Finally—” He pauses at the sight in front of him. “What the fuck?”

Miya grins at him a little sheepishly from behind the ikebana arrangement held tight in his arms, his face obscured by a few orange hibiscus flowers. “Brought you a housewarming present.”

Kiyoomi steps aside to let him in. “It’s October. I moved in at the beginning of September.”

Miya huffs as he kicks off his shoes and slides on a pair of guest slippers Kiyoomi opened right after their phone call. “Yeah, but I didn’t know what to get you. And I know you ain’t decorated for shit since then.”

He’s not wrong. Kiyoomi has had neither the discretionary income to buy knick-knacks nor the patience to do arts and crafts with bargain store material. He eyes the arrangement as Miya sets it down on the island in his kitchen. It’s objectively beautiful, but—

“What’s that face for?” Miya asks, thick brows furrowing.

Kiyoomi steps in closer, running a finger down the thin branch in the middle of the arrangement. “No one’s ever bought me flowers before,” he admits.

“That’s bullshit,” Miya says, meandering over to open Kiyoomi’s fridge like he owns the place. Like they’re friends. He pulls out one of the cans of Sapporo that Bokuto left the last time he and Miya came barging in, taking a big swig and sighing in contentment. “Guys deserve flowers too.”

Kiyoomi toys with a bunch of baby’s breath. “Where’d you get them from? I should probably know the name of a local florist for special occasions.”

“O-oh, well—” Miya stutters, running a hand through his hair. He almost looks…nervous. Kiyoomi’s never seen that shade on him. “I can text ya the shop I got the flowers from, but I did the arrangement myself.”

Kiyoomi looks up fully from the baby’s breath to stare at Miya fidgeting with the tab on the Sapporo, even though his grin is as shit-eating as ever. “You do ikebana.”

“Why not?” Miya says, gaining back some of his blustering confidence. “Samu and me had bad tempers growing up—”

“You still do.”

“—and our ma was desperate to give us calming hobbies,” Miya continues loudly over Kiyoomi’s interruption. “Samu didn’t take to ikebana ‘cause he turned out to be allergic to most everything, but I like it well enough.”

“And what am I supposed to do with this when it dies?”

Miya shrugs. “Guess you could dry the flowers if you catch them early enough, but otherwise, just throw ‘em out. If you gimme the pot back, I’ll make ya a new arrangement.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t flowers die after a few weeks? That’s a lot of effort for a coworker.”

“Yeah, well—” Atsumu squares his shoulders, brown eyes glinting in the afternoon light. “It ain’t much for a friend. If you wanna be that.”

Kiyoomi studies him—his vintage Orix BlueWaves hoodie with a smattering of bleach stains on one sleeve, the gold studs in his ears he takes out before every practice, his ratty sweatpants with a hole in one knee that must be chilly in the fall weather, his hair expertly tousled and styled despite the fact that he’s out to build cheap furniture. Kiyoomi hasn’t had many friends in his life—Motoya, Iizuna, Wakatoshi, a few of the girls in his high school class he studied with, Akaashi, his college roommate, Bokuto in the few times a year they played against each other in the collegiate circuit. Miya isn’t quite like any of them—a little bolder, a lot meaner, completely caught up in his own image. But he’s also reliable, dependable, with a thousand tricks up his sleeve and hands Kiyoomi trusts. Kiyoomi supposes it wouldn’t be that terrible to add him to the shortlist.

“What do you know about fixing toilets?” he asks, hoping that’s answer enough, and Miya’s eyes light up.

Asking for help has never been one of Kiyoomi’s strengths.

Growing up with much older siblings and parents that worked excruciating hours meant he was often home alone until late at night. It fostered strong, parallel senses of individualism and paranoia, leaving him confident in advanced cooking techniques for an elementary schooler (boiling water on the stove), but also making him dive behind the couch every time a delivery person rang the doorbell.

Some days, Kiyoomi would follow Motoya home. Motoya’s dad is a writer, spending everyday cooped in his office plucking away at a vintage typewriter, but he would always make time to say hello and help out when they got stuck on homework. In high school, it was his uncle who taught him how to parallel park and check his oil, how to bake scones, how to write a poem—and most importantly, how to swallow back his pride and ask for help.

It’s still a bitter taste today, watching as Akaashi sits down across the table from him in a cafe in Shinjuku, his smile serene but the glint in his eyes mischievous.

“You look well, Sakusa-kun,” Akaashi says, swirling the stir stick in his latte. “How goes living with Atsumu-san?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, tapping a finger on his americano. “It’s only taken six months, but he finally stopped mixing colours and whites when he does my laundry.”

“What about emptying the dishwasher the same day he runs it?”

“A work in progress. How is it having Osamu in Tokyo again?”

Akaashi glances away out the window, but Kiyoomi doesn’t miss how his smile curls higher on the left side. “He’s started staying over at my place more this time. It’s good for him to be around people. He won’t say it, but I know he misses Atsumu-san when he’s here.”

“I’m surprised he isn’t going out of his mind, with the way Atsumu bombards him with texts.”

Akaashi hums in amusement. “I thought Atsumu-san would come with you, to be honest.”

“I try not to drag him to every family dinner. He tries his best, but my father still isn’t sold on the boyfriend concept,” Kiyoomi says, his smile rueful. “Plus, Bokuto and Hinata wanted him to go go-kart racing with them this weekend.”

“Oh? And they’re not waiting for you to join them?”

Kiyoomi exhales heavily, staring down at his drink. “I have my reasons,” he says. He’s allowed to keep some secrets from Akaashi, like how he’s banned from the go-kart premises for unsportsmanlike behaviour. He’ll accept that road rage is one of his fatal flaws.

Akaashi chuckles, and Kiyoomi has a sinking feeling that Atsumu already told Bokuto and Bokuto told Akaashi about his go-karting misadventures, because nothing is sacred in this world, least of all Kiyoomi’s pride. “What was it you wanted to ask me about today, Sakusa-kun? Your message was rather cryptic.”

“I should have known you’d cut through the small talk,” Kiyoomi mumbles, before sighing. “It’s about Atsumu.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Everything is fine,” Kiyoomi says, because it is. Atsumu is an attentive boyfriend, and he’s adaptable enough that moving in together has only caused a handful of minor fights. Heated debates, in Atsumu’s terms. “He’s good to me.”

There’s a pregnant pause, Akaashi’s eyes narrowing behind the tortoiseshell frames of his glasses. “...too good?”

Kiyoomi takes a sip of his americano to buy him time. “I don’t know what to get him for Christmas and I know he’s going to get me something disgustingly romantic.”

“I see,” Akaashi says, nodding. “Osamu is hard to shop for, too. What did you get Atsumu-san for your anniversary?”

Kiyoomi groans, collapsing back in his chair to glare up at the ceiling. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Be honest, Sakusa-kun. I need to know what I’m working with here.”

“Underwear,” Kiyoomi says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Like, fancy underwear.”

“Practical,” Akaashi says. “If Atsumu-san is anything like Osamu, he needs underwear.”

“He doesn’t throw them away when they get holes,” Kiyoomi says.

“Osamu still has underwear from high school. I understand. What’s wrong with gifting Atsumu something he needs?”

“Because,” Kiyoomi says, sighing through his teeth, “he got me three dozen roses designed to last a year. A year, Akaashi-san.”

Akaashi’s eyebrows raise. “I’ve never even heard of that.”

“Exactly. I don’t know where Atsumu gets his ideas from, but I want to outdo him for Christmas.”

“Oh, I see,” Akaashi says slowly, his smile growing wry. “You’ve turned this into a competition, per usual. Do you think that’s healthy?”

“Fuck off,” Kiyoomi grumbles. He should have known Akaashi would play devil’s advocate. “We compete for a living. This is completely natural.”

“Are you forgetting the part where you’re on the same team?”

Kiyoomi snorts. “Being on the same team doesn’t stop us from competing.”

“Sure, but perhaps your romantic relationship shouldn’t be a competition.”

“What Atsumu doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Kiyoomi says, with finality. “All he’ll know is that I got him a nice gift for once.”

Akaashi clears his throat, looking out the window again. Kiyoomi has the distinct impression from years of knowing him that Akaashi is trying not to laugh at him. Kiyoomi almost wishes he would, just so Kiyoomi could be annoyed with him outright. “Alright, Sakusa-kun. If my relationship advice isn’t needed, what exactly can I help you with?”

“I need gift ideas,” Kiyoomi says. “What did you get Osamu for his birthday?”

Akaashi’s eyes soften, gleaming, in that disgusting way people do when they’re in love. Kiyoomi’s just glad he can’t see the way he looks at Atsumu himself. “Osamu doesn’t much appreciate knicknacks, and he already has a thousand kitchen appliances. So I took him to a pop-up restaurant organized by a visiting Michelin-starred Italian chef he always talks about.”

Kiyoomi glares at him. “I thought you said he’s hard to get presents for. That’s a great gift, Akaashi. You’re useless.”

Akaashi, bastard that he is, just laughs. “Atsumu-san likes food, too. You could always take him somewhere nice for dinner.”

“Atsumu isn’t like his brother. He gets anxious if we go anywhere more expensive than McDonald’s and he hates when I pay.”

“Then get him an experience based on something he likes,” Akaashi says, shrugging. “Surely he has interests other than volleyball.”

“You’d be surprised,” Kiyoomi says, sighing once more.

Kiyoomi isn’t nervous.

Nervous implies he’s going into this with something to lose. Nervous implies he’s invested emotional weight into tonight that would leave him disappointed if things go south. No, Kiyoomi doesn’t get nervous—especially not about seeing Atsumu, alone at his apartment, on Christmas, only one of the most romantic days of the year.

Kiyoomi wipes his sweaty palms on his nicest jeans and takes a deep breath before knocking on Atsumu’s door. Atsumu’s apartment is the kind of new construction with careless, paper-thin walls, and Kiyoomi can hear hurried shuffling inside before the door swings open.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says breathlessly, hanging on the door. “You’re early.”

Kiyoomi is struck by the sight of him—there’s flour on his cheek, his hair askew like he’s been dragging his hands through it, a soft pink Hello Kitty apron covering what Kiyoomi can tell are nicer clothes than Atsumu ever wears to work. The low light in the genkan haloes behind his head, turning his skin bronze in the shadow.

He’s stunning. Kiyoomi can’t help himself—he reaches out and rubs a thumb over Atsumu’s cheekbone, wiping the flour from it. Atsumu swallows with a click, face blushing prettily.

“I can come back later,” Kiyoomi says, teasing, and Atsumu recovers instantly, rolling his eyes.

“It ain’t that big of a deal. You just gotta wait for me to cook.” Atsumu steps aside, sweeping his arm with a flourish. “C’mon in.”

Kiyoomi steps in, slipping his shoes off. Atsumu has gone through the effort of tidying even his shoe rack, his baseboards spotless, the living area cleaner than Kiyoomi has ever seen it as he steps forward.

The kitchen, though, is another story entirely.

“Did you murder someone in here?” Kiyoomi asks, eyeing the bombshell of Atsumu’s tiny counter. He’s lucky to have any counter space at all in a place so small, but here it’s only enough for a cramped cutting board topped with a bowl, surrounded by a haphazard mountain of bags and containers.

“This is what creative genius looks like,” Atsumu says, taking his place at the counter. He crowds the corner, blocking Kiyoomi’s view with his broad shoulders. “Just sit down. This is s’posed to be a surprise.”

Kiyoomi steps closer, trying to peer over his shoulder, but Atsumu turns to face him, arms spread to block the cupboards.

“Omi-kun, I’m serious,” he says, but he’s grinning crookedly like he can’t help himself. “Go watch Netflix or something. This’ll only take a few minutes to finish.”

Kiyoomi sighs but raises his hands in surrender. “Fine. I don’t know why you’re trying to be mysterious when I’ve seen pictures of your morning shits, but I’ll go sit down if it makes you happy.”

“It does,” Atsumu says, waiting patiently until Kiyoomi turns and walks away.

Kiyoomi obediently sits down on Atsumu’s dumpster-dive floral couch (not before tossing a throw over the cushions first) and clicks over to Netflix. He puts on a documentary about the bubonic plague, but his attention is split, glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen.

The scent of frying meat and oil fills the air only a few minutes later, and Kiyoomi pauses. There’s something familiar about it, a scent-memory he can’t place, leaving him disoriented in his own body.

He can’t see around the breadth of Atsumu’s body, but he stares regardless, documentary forgotten as Atsumu removes the fried meat from the stove and mixes it with something in a bowl. By the time Atsumu is plating it up, Kiyoomi is frowning in concentration, brow furrowed.

Atsumu finally walks over, holding up two plates. He sets them on the kotatsu, sitting down on the floor beside Kiyoomi’s feet, and Kiyoomi sees what’s on the plate.

“Niku-dango,” he says, eyebrows raising. “I didn’t know you could cook anything besides ramen.”

Atsumu smiles up at him, something wicked in the flash of his teeth like he has another secret yet to reveal. “C’mon, give it a try.”

Kiyoomi slips down onto the floor beside Atsumu, picking up his chopsticks to roll a meatball experimentally on the plate. Atsumu swats him on the arm.

“Stop that. You’re gonna wipe all the sauce off.”

“I’m just making sure it isn’t going to come alive on me,” Kiyoomi says, but he picks up the meatball, pausing with the chopsticks just before his face to side-eye Atsumu. “Are you going to eat or are you just going to stare at me?”

“Maybe I’m full just looking at your pretty face,” Atsumu says with a wink.

Kiyoomi’s gut swoops. This is the problem with Atsumu—he’s always flirting, always joking. It leaves Kiyoomi on the back foot, wondering where they stand, if Atsumu is serious, if he’d laugh if Kiyoomi asked him out. He hates living with the uncertainty.

Still eyeing Atsumu, he pops the meatball in his mouth and bites down. The effect is instant—he freezes, eyes going wide, letting the flavour sink in.

“How is it?” Atsumu asks. If Kiyoomi didn’t know better, he’d say that’s hesitation in Atsumu’s voice.

“It’s—” Kiyoomi starts, chewing slowly. “It tastes like my grandmother’s recipe.”

Atsumu’s shoulders slump in obvious relief. “It should. Motoya-kun got it from your ma for me.”

Kiyoomi swallows before taking a deep, unsteady inhale. “My grandmother died when I was twelve.”

“I know,” Atsumu says, softer this time. “You mentioned you missed her.”

“You were wasted out of your mind when I said that. I didn’t think you’d remember.”

Atsumu picks up his chopsticks, fiddling with one of his dango. “I’m always listening to you, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi blinks back the sting in his eyes, summoning a small grin. “You know, I don’t think friends are supposed to have secret family recipes.”

Atsumu stares resolutely at his plate. “What if I was something else?”

“Like what?”

“Your boyfriend,” Atsumu says, shrugging with one shoulder, still looking down.

Kiyoomi sets his chopsticks down, twisting to face him. “Atsumu, look at me.” When Atsumu does, Kiyoomi leans in to press a kiss to his forehead, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he says, inches away from Atsumu’s mouth. “It’s going to be hard catching up to you in the boyfriend competition.”

He’s close enough to see the gold flecks in Atsumu’s eyes when they go big and searching, the dimple on his right cheek as his smile explodes.

“That’s okay,” Atsumu says. “You got all the time in the world to beat me.”

Kiyoomi is in despair.

Their living room is, politely put, a fucking disaster. There are bags and boxes all over the coffee table, items strewn over the couch. A few pieces of tissue paper lay scattered on the ground. It’s no different than how Atsumu used to leave his own apartment during the days when they spent most of their time at Kiyoomi’s, but even Atsumu is better than this.

Kiyoomi stands at the edge of the living room rug, arms folded tight across his chest as he surveys the damage. Atsumu is out for the day for work on a modeling contract, and Kiyoomi spent all morning shopping.

It’s fair to say the shopping was more of a blind grab-bag panic than the organized market research Kiyoomi went into the day expecting. There’s something from every shop he passed through, and now he has to deal with the fallout.

Kiyoomi sighs heavily, from somewhere deep in his soul, before squatting by the coffee table. The first item is a shoebox, and inside, a pair of patent leather loafers in Atsumu’s size. It’s an expensive gift, the kind that would last for many years with care.

It still makes Kiyoomi frown. The both of them live in athleisure wear, and when Atsumu dresses up for clubs or dinners, he tends to wear nice sneakers or a well-loved pair of Doc Martens. Kiyoomi knows he’d wear these—he has a cheaper, uncomfortable pair for business events—but their use would be sparing. It’s a triannual event at most. Atsumu needs something with more mileage.

He moves to the next item: a new winter peacoat, tailored to match Atsumu’s broad shoulders and narrow waist. There’s a pretty grey and brown herringbone design that would look nice against Atsumu’s tan. Atsumu is in desperate need of winter clothes other than sports team hoodies, but again, it’s seasonal.

There are other gifts—a Pikachu wafflemaker Atsumu would use for a couple of weeks and then stash in the back of the over-the-fridge cupboard to live in obscurity with their fondue set, an embroidery kit he’d have done in one sitting, a new pair of aviators he’ll lose just like every other pair before, a Switch game he’s been eyeing that’s just as likely to be played for five minutes and then never again as it is to become a cherished favourite.

The last item is one he knows will make Atsumu smile: a plushie of a squirtle wearing sunglasses that Kiyoomi paid an arm and a leg for instead of trying to win out a claw machine. Atsumu has a mild obsession with his plushie collection, something Kiyoomi found unsettling at first but that has grown on him. The floating shelves in their bedroom are devoted to Atsumu’s most treasured plushies, staring down at Kiyoomi with dozens of glassy, unseeing eyes while he’s fighting for sleep or, worse, looking up with Atsumu on top of him fucking him. He glares at the plushie with distaste, knowing it would join the army with its smug smirk.

They’re all good gifts. If Atsumu was excited about underwear, Kiyoomi is sure he’ll be excited at anything even slightly fun. But they’re not great. They’re not memorable. They’re not going to be laying in bed ten years from now while Atsumu fondly reminisces over a pair of sunglasses (the squirtle may be an exception by virtue of its visible presence alone). He needs something Atsumu will remember, something he can brag about to the likes of Suna Rintarou, something that means Kiyoomi wins.

He picks up his phone and dials a number he has called only once before: Miya Osamu.

Kiyoomi didn’t know what to expect for their first anniversary, but it certainly wasn’t being dragged out of bed at zero-dark-thirty and being manhandled into a vehicle to drive for hours to an unknown destination.

“For the record,” he says, shoulders hunched where he’s curled up in the passenger seat of Osamu’s truck, “I don’t like this one bit.”

Atsumu’s incessant humming stops, but his fingers continue tapping along as yet another AKB48 song plays through the FM converter Atsumu plugged into the cigarette lighter and has to fiddle with every thirty miles when the station fizzles out. He glances at Kiyoomi, eyes narrowed.

“The record shows it, because this is literally the tenth time you’ve said it.”

“It’s the fourth time. Don’t use ‘literally’ when you’re not being literal. You know it annoys me.”

Atsumu huffs, looking over his shoulder to change lanes. “Didja consider you complaining so much was annoying me?”

“My complaining is completely warranted,” Kiyoomi says, sharper now, crumbling a straw wrapper from their last 7-11 stop in his palm. “You made me get up so early not even the birds were awake—”

“It was seven a.m., Omi-kun—”

“—made me get in this complete fucking deathtrap of a truck,” Kiyoomi barrels on, grimacing as the truck makes a commiserating and unexplained thump, “and won’t even have the decency to tell me where we’re going or what we’re doing besides driving east—”

“Koshigaya.”

Kiyoomi pauses, squirming in his seat to look at Atsumu. “Excuse me?”

“We’re going to Koshigaya,” Atsumu says, grinning brilliantly, as if that explains anything.

“What the fuck are we doing in Koshigaya?”

Atsumu nods over his shoulder. “Grab the bag on the floorboard.”

Kiyoomi glares at him for a few moments before reaching back. Behind his seat, sure enough, is a large gift bag. Kiyoomi tugs it over the console and into his lap. When he looks inside, pushing aside the tissue paper, none of the confusion clears.

“You bought me a helmet,” Kiyoomi says, deadpan.

“Sure did.”

Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu, who in turn stares out at the road. “Are you going to elaborate?”

Atsumu laughs, just once. “Kiyoomi, please. Do you trust me?”

“Not really,” Kiyoomi says, still eyeing him. “You lie constantly.”

“I ain’t lying right now,” Atsumu says, waving a hand before dropping it to rest on Kiyoomi’s knee. “I’m just omitting details. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t like going into things unprepared,” Kiyoomi says, giving the helmet a last look before setting it down on the floorboard by his feet. “It spikes my anxiety, Atsumu.”

Atsumu inhales slowly through his nose, then exhales. He squeezes Kiyoomi’s knee gently. “It’s indoor skydiving, baby. I bought you a helmet so you wouldn’t worry about lice, and I was able to get them to reserve a suit they just washed for ya.”

“Indoor skydiving,” Kiyoomi repeats slowly.

“Last time Motoya-kun came ‘round, you guys were talking about skydiving,” Atsumu says, looking more and more sheepish as he goes. “You said you had too much anxiety to jump out of a plane, and when I said I wanted to try it, you said it’s too dangerous with my concussion history. I thought this would be a compromise.”

“I need to be more careful about what I say around you,” Kiyoomi mumbles.

“You don’t gotta do it if you don’t wanna. We can turn around now and go home. Fuck the reservation and the hotel, it ain’t that much this time of year.”

“No,” Kiyoomi says, laying his hand over Atsumu’s. “I’m going to do it.”

As it turns out, skydiving comes with an unexpected consequence.

The moment they’re both back on the ground and out of their suits, Kiyoomi grabs Atsumu by the wrist and begins dragging him out of Skystation Japan, helmet tucked under his arm.

“Omi-kun, seriously, what are you doing,” Atsumu hisses, stumbling to keep up with Kiyoomi’s aggressive pace. It’s not crowded in the facility today, but the people who are around part like waves before them. Kiyoomi can only imagine what his face looks like right now.

“Don’t argue. Just come with me,” he shoots over his shoulder. Atsumu huffs but hurries up.

Kiyoomi leads them outside, and then around the corner. Atsumu questions him the whole way, but Kiyoomi ignores it all, bringing them behind the building. He glances around, looking for the cleanest section of wall and pavement, before rounding on Atsumu.

“What are we—” Atsumu manages, before Kiyoomi shoves him against the wall, pressing close to him. Atsumu’s eyes go wide, then hooded, teeth flashing in a smirk. “Aw, did skydiving really get you that worked up? Unlock something new in ya? What kind of kink would that even be?”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi says, gripping Atsumu’s waist and rucking his sweatshirt up. “It’s the adrenaline. You did this on purpose, you dickhead.”

Atsumu drapes his arms over Kiyoomi’s shoulders, head tilting back against the wall. “I mean, you do get a little excited after games, but I wasn’t planning on this. This—” he shoves his thigh between Kiyoomi’s legs, against the hard line of his cock—“is just a happy accident.”

Kiyoomi’s breath stutters. “You going to do anything about it?”

Atsumu watches him for a long moment, eyes glinting. He glances each way once, hesitating on the fire exit door, before he tangles a hand in Kiyoomi’s curls and pulls him in.

Kiyoomi kisses him like the world is ending, fervent, frenetic, his heart rate still pounding from the feeling of floating and falling. His hands tingle with adrenaline where they’re wrapped around Atsumu’s waist, tugging their hips together. Atsumu licks into his mouth, running his thumb over Kiyoomi’s jaw, before pushing his leg up. Kiyoomi gasps, forehead dropping to Atsumu’s shoulder.

“Bet you can come like this,” Atsumu murmurs, mouth brushing Kiyoomi’s ear. “Never takes you long after a game.”

“We can wait until the hotel. We aren’t animals,” Kiyoomi manages, even as he rocks his hips down onto Atsumu’s thigh.

Atsumu hums, a hand drifting lower and lower to cup Kiyoomi’s ass. “Hotel’s in Tokyo. You really want to sit through traffic like this?”

Kiyoomi groans, both in despair at Atsumu’s logic and the feeling of Atsumu growing harder where he’s straddling Kiyoomi’s leg. He turns his head into Atsumu’s neck, eyes squeezing shut. “You did plan this. This is why you brought extra clothes.”

Atsumu laughs. He laughs at him. “I brought extra clothes so we could spend the night and have breakfast with your brother tomorrow. It wasn’t my ulterior motive to get you so hot and bothered you’d come in your jeans beside a dumpster.”

“Fine. Make me come. Let’s get this over with,” Kiyoomi says, before biting down on Atsumu’s neck.

Atsumu snorts one more time for good measure, then uses the hand on Kiyoomi’s ass to rock Kiyoomi into him. Kiyoomi sucks at his neck, hoping to leave an embarrassing mark for Atsumu in the morning. The thought quickly leaves his head as Atsumu jostles his leg, increasing the pressure on Kiyoomi’s cock.

It’s almost shameful how easily Kiyoomi gets sloppy, hips jerking without rhythm as Atsumu whispers in his ear. Only Atsumu gets him like this—unrestrained, uncaring of anything except pleasure, blind to his surroundings, senses filled by Atsumu’s cologne and the warmth of his body and the rough timbre of his voice.

Before Kiyoomi can even formulate the words not enough, Atsumu already knows. He reaches between them to clumsily undo Kiyoomi’s fly, shoving his hand in Kiyoomi’s briefs to grip his cock. Kiyoomi’s desperate and wet enough already that the way is smoothed, softening the rub of Atsumu’s calluses. Kiyoomi sighs against him, body tensing, gut coiling like piano wire.

When he comes, it’s with a gasp, so quiet and vulnerable it would make him flinch around anyone else. Atsumu strokes him through it, slick and sticky all over Kiyoomi’s dick. Kiyoomi finally jerks away, fumbling in his jacket pocket for tissues.

“Want me to—” Kiyoomi takes a steadying breath, mouth dry with the force of his orgasm—”want me to take care of you?”

“Nah,” Atsumu says, grinning wickedly as he wipes his hand clean with the tissues. “Unlike someone, I’m a big boy who can wait until we’re in private to get off.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Kiyoomi grumbles, tucking himself back in his jeans. “You’re the one who convinced me to do this. Now I’m going to be thinking about showering the rest of the way.”

They start walking back around the building, but Atsumu stops him after tossing the tissues in the open dumpster. He grabs Kiyoomi’s chin with his clean hand and tilts his head down, pressing a kiss to Kiyoomi’s forehead.

“I know new experiences aren’t really your thing, but—was trusting me worth it?”

Kiyoomi looks him in the eyes, gleaming and hopeful. He kisses Atsumu too, on the corner of his mouth. “It always is.”

One glaring disadvantage of living with a significant other that Kiyoomi never considered before Atsumu is the inability to hide gifts in his own home. Another disadvantage is if that significant other doesn’t have a car, and neither do you, and you also made the mistake of buying a total of seven Christmas presents that you now need to carry through public transportation to said significant other’s brother’s place to stash them all there for a few weeks.

Kiyoomi isn’t a complete asshole; he calls a cab instead of trying to take the subway, piling his bags in the seat beside him as he’s driven to Onigiri Miya. Miya Osamu is the kind of insane hustle-mentality entrepreneur that manages to survive living in an apartment above his own business, with no separation of work and play. Kiyoomi doesn’t want to imagine the monster Atsumu would be if he lived above a gym.

Kiyoomi intentionally arrives after the lunch rush, so it isn’t terribly crowded in the small shop, a part-timer dozing behind the cash register as Osamu wipes down the handful of tables squeezed into the shop.

Osamu looks up as he comes in, eyebrows raising as he takes in the bags. He tucks the dish towel into his apron pocket and wanders over, the infamous Miya smirk on his face, just as smug as Atsumu’s no matter how much people say Osamu is the nicer twin.

“When you said you bought gifts for Atsumu, I wasn’t expecting all this,” Osamu says, nodding at the bags hooked over Kiyoomi’s forearms. He doesn’t offer to take any. Kiyoomi just knows Osamu’s relishing in his suffering; Atsmu would, too. “Didja forget the part where Tsumu is a twenty-six year old man and not a child begging for toys?”

“Believe me, this wasn’t my plan when I went out,” Kiyoomi says dryly, lifting the bags up expectantly. “You going to let me set these down or did you want to gawk some more?”

“Hang on—” Osamu fishes in his jeans pocket and pulls out his phone, snapping a quick picture as Kiyoomi glares at him. “Don’t look at me like that. Tsumu’ll love to see you like this later. Fucker would scrapbook this if I sent it to ‘em.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but he can feel his cheeks heating beneath his mask. “It’s not that strange that I’m buying him stuff, you know.”

Osamu skirts around him, leading the way to the stairwell back beside the shop counter. “I ain’t saying it’s weird. Just that Tsumu is sentimental as all hell.”

Kiyoomi follows him up the stairs and into the apartment above the shop. It’s dated and dimly lit inside, but spacious enough with the footprint of the kitchen below. Osamu leads him to the tiny guest bedroom, sliding open the closet.

“You can set it all down there,” Osamu says, stepping aside to let Kiyoomi into the closet. “Just don’t get in a fight with him for the next few weeks so he doesn’t sleep over.”

There’s a hint of steel in Osamu’s voice, a warning in there. It’s probably warranted—Atsumu ran with his tail tucked to Osamu’s more times than Kiyoomi would care to recount in the early days of their relationship. Time has, thankfully, cooled the explosive edge of their arguments, but Kiyoomi is pretty sure Osamu holds grudges even worse than his brother.

Kiyoomi sets the bags down neatly before turning to Osamu with one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him plied with sex until Christmas so he stays home.”

Osamu’s grimace is Oscars-worthy. “I don’t know how Tsumu managed to find someone as shameless as him for a partner. If you ever even mention fucking him again, I’ll ban you from the store for life.”

If this was Atsumu, it would be an empty threat. Coming from Osamu, it might not be. Kiyoomi grins behind his mask. “Noted.”

Osamu’s face smooths out as he looks down at the bags again. “Why so much shit, anyway? You doing an advent calendar or something?”

Kiyoomi sighs, grin fading as he looks at the bags, too. “He’s difficult to shop for.”

“Tell me about it,” Osamu says, snorting.

“What do you get him on your birthday?”

Osamu glances at him, smirking, and Kiyoomi’s hope at a helpful suggestion crumbles before he even speaks. “Tsumu and I don’t do gifts anymore. Us going home to see our ma is our thing.”

“That’s genius,” Kiyoomi grumbles. “I don’t think Atsumu would be particularly excited if I took him home to see my mother as a gift.”

Osamu claps him on the shoulder, with more force than is surely necessary. “Don’t overthink it. You putting up with him for so long is enough of a gift for Tsumu.”

It really isn’t, Kiyoomi thinks, but bites his tongue.

Kiyoomi’s downward spiral begins October 5, 2019, although he won’t put words to it until much later.

It’s Atsumu’s face that does. This is their first year together for his birthday, and Kiyoomi was sure he’d picked a great gift for him: a new set of cookware, in a nice robin’s egg blue to match the tiled backsplash Atsumu installed above his stove. A practical gift, the kind that will last for years.

But here Atsumu is, looking completely unsurprised standing over the box at his kitchen table, like he knew exactly what Kiyoomi was planning.

“Nice,” Atsumu says, lifting the smallest pot out and holding it up to the overhead light. It gleams, shiny and brand-new and completely mocking Kiyoomi. When he sets it on the table, he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Kiyoomi’s head. “Thank you. I really needed new pots and pans.”

“You did,” Kiyoomi mumbles, glaring at the box. “You were probably going to kill us both with Teflon poisoning.”

“Do people actually die from that?” Atsumu asks, unloading all of the pots in precarious stacks. “Samu only uses cast iron, but he’s kind of a bougie fucker these days.”

“You don’t die. You get polymer fume fever,” Kiyoomi says distractedly. “Do you not like the cookware or something?”

Atsumu stops to look at him, barking out a laugh. “What? I love ‘em, Omi-kun. Mine came pre-stained from a thrift store. I feel like a real adult now.”

Kiyoomi sets aside the pre-stained comment for future consideration. “You didn’t look surprised at all.”

“Oh, well—” Atsumu chuckles, scratching his temple. “You left the tab open when you let me borrow your laptop.”

“What.”

“The Amazon tab,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes. “You know, the shopping site, where you spend hours reading reviews on cleaning supplies and lube—”

“I know what Amazon is,” Kiyoomi snaps. “I let you use my laptop?”

“Yeah, like a month ago. I needed to pay my water bill and couldn’t do it on my phone.”

Kiyoomi reels, literally, falling back in the chair. He let someone use his laptop, something he hasn’t done since high school when Motoya broke his and needed to do a research paper, and then proceeded to get salt and vinegar chip crumbs lodged so far in the keys Kiyoomi couldn’t use his left shift bar. The idea that he let Atsumu use it—and didn’t even realize he was doing it!—is unfathomable. What is Atsumu making of him?

Atsumu peers at him, frowning in that soft way that makes him look ten years younger and pouty. “You good?”

Kiyoomi almost says it. It hits the back of his clenched teeth, spills out as an “I—”, the love you thick and sweet as umeshu on his tongue when he swallows it back. “I wanted to surprise you,” he says instead, gripping his knees to keep himself steady.

Maybe Atsumu hears it anyway, reaching down to tilt Kiyoomi’s chin up, his smile lopsided. “I know. But look—I bought the shit to make nikujaga yesterday because I assumed I’d get a big pot today. So now we get a nice dinner outta it.”

“You can’t cook on your birthday,” Kiyoomi says, standing up. “At least let me do that.”

“No fucking way. You’ll burn the pans immediately,” Atsumu says. “You can wash them for me. How about that?”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi says, grabbing the biggest pot from the table to bring it to the sink. There’s no point in arguing with a Miya in the kitchen, he knows that much.

As he’s letting the water heat, Atsumu wraps his arms around his waist from behind, hooking his chin over Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “It was a great gift, baby. Next year, just close the tab when you’re done, yeah?”

“Next year,” Kiyoomi says, a little wondrously, and it sounds like a promise.

A week before Christmas, the panic sets in for real.

The problem with getting most of December off from games in the V.League is that it leaves little to distract Kiyoomi from his spiraling. His anxiety at the best of times vacillates wildly between annoying and catastrophic, and the meter has steadily ticked up over the days, spilling over onto the people around him. Motoya isn’t answering his calls. Suna Rintarou left him on read in Twitter messages. Iizuna recommended gift cards as Atsumu’s present and Kiyoomi blocked him for a day. Atsumu’s method of damage control is usually avoiding bringing the anxiety up until Kiyoomi does, but even he’s been looking worried.

Kiyoomi handles it. He takes showers so hot he gets heat rash, drinks so many sugar-free Red Bulls that Atsumu bans them from the apartment, breaks into the pack of cigarettes they hide for parties and bad days, and picks at his nails until they bleed. His therapist is going to fire him as a patient, he just knows it.

He handles it until suddenly he isn’t handling it all, standing stock-still with locked knees outside an edible arrangement shop, trying to decide if Atsumu’s mild banana energy will let him survive any cross-contamination in the shop. The plastic arrangement in the window is clearly for a funeral. Maybe Kiyoomi should get one for himself. His heart is going to give out at this rate. He’s definitely going to black out on the sidewalk.

Who even gets an edible arrangement for their boyfriend? Their gorgeous, energetic, twenty-six year old boyfriend? This is a gift for someone like Motoya’s parents on their wedding anniversary, or Coach Foster at the end of season, or the vet’s office that keeps rescuing the Sakusa family shih-tzu from well-deserved senescent death, or—

Before he can even process it, his phone is pressed to his ear, ringing. He doesn’t even have a full second to process it before the line clicks.

“Kiyoomi-kun?” Miya Etsuko says on the other end, her accent even more syrupy than Atsumu’s. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m going crazy,” Kiyoomi says, voice shaking. In an hour, he’ll be embarrassed at not even asking how her day’s going. Right now, though, his vision is black on the sides, eyes locked on a star-shaped plastic cantaloupe slice glimmering with varnish spray, a cobweb caught between two points. His palm sweats around the phone despite the December chill.

“Take a deep breath for me, alright, Kiyoomi-kun?” Etsuko says, calm as ever. “We’re gonna be okay.”

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, holding it in his chest. Over the phone, he can hear Etsuko’s kitchen radio listing the local obituaries, the rush of the sink turning on for a few seconds before shutting off. When he exhales, it’s steadier.

“There ya go.” Etsuko sounds pleased. It’s different than the self-satisfaction he’s used to with his own mother. “You wanna talk about what’s going on?”

“It’s Atsumu,” he says, and rushes on when she makes a noise of discontent. “He’s fine. I just can’t figure out what to get him for Christmas and I’m running out of time and I know he’s already picked out—”

Etsuko cuts him off with a soft laugh. “Kiyoomi-kun, you don’t gotta get him nothing.”

“I do, though,” Kiyoomi argues, frowning at the cantaloupe. “He always knows what to get me and I just want to put the same effort into his gift for once.”

“Osamu told me about everything you left at his place, y’know,” Etsuko says, smile evident in her voice. “Atsumu’s gonna be overwhelmed enough as it is.”

“But none of it is right. I want to get him something that he’ll remember.”

Etsuko sighs, not unkindly. “He’s gonna remember it just ‘cause you got it for him, sweetheart. All that stuff you got him is plenty of effort already.”

Kiyoomi falls silent, and the quiet stretches between them, dishes clinking on Etsuko’s end. The shop proprietor inside catches Kiyoomi’s eye and stares so pointedly Kiyoomi is compelled to move down the block.

“Y’know, we didn’t have a lot of money when the twins were kids,” Etsuko finally says, pausing.

“I know,” Kiyoomi says, gut twisting. The disparity between his belongings and Atsumu’s has always been startling, even if Atsumu never remarks on it.

“What I’m saying is that Atsumu don’t care about material things. Sure, he’s gonna baby those shoes you got him, but he’d be just as happy if you made him a home-cooked meal.”

“I’m a terrible cook,” Kiyoomi mumbles.

Etsuko laughs again. “You’re missing the point, Kiyoomi-kun. Atsumu just wants to be with you. Do something you both enjoy for Christmas, and you’ll make his whole year.”

Kiyoomi’s head snaps up; a woman passing him on the sidewalk steps to the far side. “He’s never been skiing.”

“He’s never been—what?”

“I’ll take him to a ski resort in Hokkaido.” Kiyoomi’s shoulders relax as he speaks. “It’ll be a first for him. Surely he’ll remember that.” I’ll definitely win, he doesn’t add.

“You really don’t gotta spend that much money,” Etsuko says slowly. “I was thinking a bottle of wine and a movie by candlelight.”

“No, this is definitely it. Thank you, Miya-san. This has been enlightening.”

“Sure thing,” Etsuko says, sounding bewildered.

Kiyoomi can’t hide the grin in his voice as they say their goodbyes.

Atsumu is planning something.

Kiyoomi can just tell. For all he puts on a self-assured show at games, flashing his notorious grin at fans, Atsumu’s natural resting face is dazed and confused, brow furrowed, eyes wide, mouth bitten or open to catch flies. Today, though, Atsumu has been smiling to himself, crooked, the kind of little tic that means he’s pleased with himself and doesn’t know he’s showing it.

Most days, it would be endearing. Kiyoomi first found it pathetic, then quickly and endlessly charming, the way Atsumu shows all of his emotions on his face. But today, on Kiyoomi’s birthday, he just wishes Atsumu wasn’t scheming at all.

It would be one thing if Atsumu had told him their plans in advance. Kiyoomi can manage his anxiety and low energy if he has time to mentally prepare for one of Atsumu’s all-day escapades. But aside from a breakfast of fluffy pancakes Atsumu made in their rice cooker, they’ve spent the morning doing absolutely nothing. Atsumu even let him sleep in. This is the third birthday he’s been with Atsumu and nothing has been typical about it at all.

It’s starting to stress Kiyoomi out, the whole doing nothing act. He’s sitting on one side of the couch with a book in hand, Atsumu’s head in his lap, a baseball documentary playing on the TV. Atsumu has a terrible time sitting still for more than half an hour even on a good day, but they’ve been laying here for at least an hour. Kiyoomi is tired of waiting on the other shoe to drop.

When the documentary ends and Atsumu lets it autoplay to the next random movie instead of getting up, Kiyoomi snaps. He drops his book on the end table and reaches down to tilt Atsumu’s chin towards him.

“When are we leaving?”

Atsumu blinks up at him, clearly ripped from the moments before sleep. Kiyoomi would feel bad if he wasn’t so tense himself. “What’re you talking ‘bout?”

“It’s my birthday,” Kiyoomi says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “You always plan something to do today. I’ve been waiting for whatever you’ve come up with.”

Atsumu reaches up to pet at Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Be honest, baby. Do you actually want to do anything today?”

Kiyoomi squints at him. This sounds like a trap, if Kiyoomi were talking to his parents—something to get him to be honest and then turn their disappointment for it on him. But this is Atsumu, straightforward to the point of being a dickhead about it. Psychological games aren’t typically his modus operandi.

“No,” Kiyoomi finally says, running his hand absently through Atsumu’s hair. “I’d be perfectly happy to sit on the couch the whole day. But I know you want to do something.”

“Kiyoomi, it ain’t about me,” Atsumu says, chuckling. “If you don’t want to do anything on your birthday, I’ll respect that.”

Kiyoomi frowns down at him. “Sure, but I can tell when you’re planning something. You don’t have a good poker face, you know.”

Atsumu sighs dramatically, pulling himself upright. “You really wanna know what my plan is?”

“Yes. I’m tired of stressing about it.”

Atsumu stands and heads to the kitchen. Kiyoomi watches over the back of the couch as he fishes in the panty to pull out a Calpico-branded box from below the bottom shelf.

“The grocery bag box?” Kiyoomi questions, eyeing the box with suspicion as Atsumu carries it over.

“I may have taken the bags out of it temporarily,” Atsumu says, setting the box down on the coffee table. He opens the flaps as Kiyoomi inches forward to see inside. “Ta-dah!”

Inside is an intricately-woven wicker basket, stuffed full with what Kiyoomi realizes are bath supplies—lavender Epsom salts, a rainbow bath bomb, massage oils in various scents, new coconut oil lotion, rosebud balm, a lip scrub, and a new pumice stone. He looks back up at Atsumu, questioning.

Atsumu shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “You seemed a little jealous when Wan-san was talking ‘bout going to a sauna last weekend, but I know you hate going to them ‘cause of the germs. Thought this could be a compromise. You don’t even gotta leave the house.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “This is why you decided to deep-clean the bathroom on a whim yesterday?”

Atsumu laughs. “Well, the toilet was pretty nasty anyway. One of us has been missing the bowl.”

“Gee, I wonder who’s gotten drunk twice in the past week with Ojiro despite it being in the middle of season and came home stumbling over themselves?”

Eyes darting away for a moment, Atsumu huffs in indignation. “Regardless, I thought you would enjoy a nice bath in a fresh tub. No soap scum or hair in sight.”

Kiyoomi pauses, looking Atsumu over. He seems genuine that this is the only plan for the day, if his little pout is anything to go by. Relief finally washes over Kiyoomi, his shoulders relaxing.

“Come here,” Kiyoomi says, patting the cushion beside him.

When Atsumu rests one knee on the couch, settling his weight down, Kiyoomi leans in and kisses him. Atsumu makes a surprised noise but then falls into it, resting a hand on Kiyoomi’s thigh. Kiyoomi lets him lick into his mouth for a few moments before pulling back, resting their foreheads together.

“Want me to draw you a bath?” Atsumu asks, voice already lower from a minute of kissing. Kiyoomi’s stomach warms.

“What’s the point of a bath if you don’t get filthy first?”

Atsumu’s grin is blinding.

Kiyoomi’s definitely going to win this fucking thing.

In sheer numbers, he’s pulled ahead. In the corner of their living room is a tiny silver Christmas tree, still half-decorated in ghosts and awful plastic spiders from Halloween, only the star on the top visible above the mound of presents Kiyoomi has stacked around it. Atsumu added two gifts of his own, along with an envelope tucked into the tree branches.

But Kiyoomi is positive he’s going to win on quality, too. One favour cashed in with a family friend who works at a travel agency, and he’s in possession of the confirmation email to a ski resort in Sapporo for a week-long stay in a beautiful suite. He even picked Atsumu up a nice pair of ski boots that they’ll have just enough time to get fitted.

“Hot chocolate coming up,” Atsumu calls, and Kiyoomi tears his eyes away from the tree to see Atsumu carefully walking into the living room with Spider-Man oven mitts on and two mugs wrapped in them. “It’s scalding, watch out.”

Kiyoomi lets him set the mugs on the table before pulling him over to the tree, Atsumu laughing as he tosses the oven mitts aside.

“You’re never this excited about Christmas. What’s with you?” Atsumu asks, letting himself be tugged down next to Kiyoomi in front of the presents.

“In case you suddenly can’t count,” Kiyoomi says, “I went a little overboard this year.”

Atsumu hums, poking the nearest gift (the god-forsaken squirtle) with his dinosaur-socked foot. “I’m very aware of the number of presents around the tree, Omi-kun. I just don’t get why.”

“You always give me memorable gifts. I wanted to match that for once.”

Atsumu looks at him, brow furrowing, smile perplexed. “It ain’t a competition, Kiyoomi.”

“Isn’t it?” Kiyoomi says, leaning forward to drag the biggest box to rest between Atsumu’s legs.

Atsumu exhales heavily, but his smile doesn’t waver. “Pulling out the big guns first, I see.”

“I don’t care about the other gifts.” Kiyoomi waves a hand—fuck the squirtle. “This is the one I really want to give you.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, tearing into the wrapping paper. He finds the edge of the tape on the cardboard box beneath and rips at it with his short nails until Kiyoomi retrieves scissors from the coffee table to cut it open for him.

Atsumu’s smile freezes as he looks into the box. Slowly, he pulls out one of the beautiful cream boots, inspecting it. “Ski boots.”

“Ski boots,” Kiyoomi repeats, nerves firing at the hesitation lining Atsumu’s face.

“I’m guessing there’s a ski trip to go along with this?”

Kiyoomi frowns, picking at the linoleum with his thumb. “It would be kind of shitty to buy you ski boots and not take you skiing, Atsumu.”

He watches in slow motion as Atsumu carefully sets the boot aside and sits up on his knees to pull the envelope from the tree branches. Solemnly, Atsumu holds it out with both hands to Kiyoomi like a business card.

Kiyoomi glances between the envelope and Atsumu before gingerly taking it between index finger and thumb. The envelope is thick, like something more than a card is stuff inside it. He tears it open and pulls out the card.

The card itself he barely pays attention—there’s an illustrated stocking on the front with the words “Stuff me.” Inside, though, his breath catches. He unfolds the piece of paper held within.

“It’s the same fucking resort,” he mumbles, staring at the reservation email Atsumu printed out. “The same week.”

Atsumu has the balls to laugh, tousling his hair. “Hey, look at it like this—we’re totally in-sync! Guess we could give one of the packages to Samu and Keiji-kun.”

Kiyoomi furiously tosses the paper at the floor. It doesn’t have far to go, but it winds and twists it way down, enraging him even further. “I thought I was going to finally fucking win.”

“Win?”

“Yes, win,” Kiyoomi hisses. “I wanted to get you a present so good you’d remember it for years. It would make up for everything else I’ve gotten you.”

Atsumu crawls the foot of space between them and tosses a leg over Kiyoomi’s lap to straddle him. He takes Kiyoomi’s face in his hands, kissing the moles above his eyebrow before looking him dead in the eyes.

“This ain’t something you can win or lose, Kiyoomi. I love the stuff you do get me, but the only thing I care about is you putting up with me.”

Kiyoomi scoffs, trying to pull his head away, but Atsumu’s grip is invincible. He glares at Atsumu. “Tell me what I can get you to make up for this.”

“I really don’t need—”

“I’ll get anything, Atsumu. I mean anything.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to argue again, before his eyes narrow. “Anything?”

“That’s what I said,” Kiyoomi agrees, but the gleam in Atsumu’s eyes immediately makes him suspicious.

“I wanna eat you out.”

“Absolutely not,” Kiyoomi says reflexively.

“C’mon, Omi-kun,” Atsumu whines, draping his arms around Kiyoomi’s neck. “It ain’t like I’m asking you to do it to me.”

Kiyoomi’s nose scrunches up even as his hands find Atsumu’s waist. “It’s disgusting.”

“It’s fun, is what it is. It’ll feel real good, I promise.”

“I wouldn’t be able to kiss you again. Is that you want?”

Atsumu grins, toying with the hair on Kiyoomi’s nape. “You said the same thing about blowjobs, and now you give ‘em yourself.”

Kiyoomi closes his eyes, inhaling sharply. Atsumu does have a point. Blowjobs used to be off the table, until they both got drunk enough one night that Kiyoomi relented. Rimming is another level. But it’s not like Kiyoomi hasn’t thought about it, in considerable detail, during the innumerable instances Atsumu’s tongue has made a grand performance in his life. He knows it would feel good, like Atsumu said.

“Fine,” he grits out. “We’ll try it.”

“What?” Atsumu asks, looking flabbergasted when Kiyoomi opens his eyes again. “That was too easy.”

“Do you want to argue about it all night instead?”

“Fuck no. I just don’t want to do it if you’re not comfortable.”

Kiyoomi sighs, fingers slipping beneath Atsumu’s sweatshirt to warm on his skin. “When am I ever comfortable with new things? If I don’t like it, you’ll know immediately.”

Atsumu leans forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for being open to it, baby. Now let’s open the rest of the—”

He cuts off as Kiyoomi pulls his hips down, grinding them together. “It’s now or never, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, thumbs venturing below the waistband of Atsumu’s sweatpants. “Take advantage of my generosity while it lasts.”

Kiyoomi has never seen Atsumu scramble upright so fast.

This is it.

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, trying to relax where he’s laying on his back naked on their bed. Atsumu rests between his legs, hands stroking over his inner thighs. Mortifyingly, just a few minutes of kissing has already made his cock thicken up. Life with Atsumu is just like that. It goes right to Atsumu’s head.

“Still doing okay?” Atsumu says, and he’s a sight for sure, lips red and swollen already, hair a mess from Kiyoomi’s fingers in it. Afternoon light filters in from the sides of their black-out curtains, limning him in a golden haze.

“Why are you asking me? We haven’t even done anything,” Kiyoomi says, but there’s a tremor to his voice, maybe from nerves, maybe from excitement.

Atsumu’s eyebrows raise, and he looks pointedly at Kiyoomi’s dick. “Omi Junior would beg to differ.”

Kiyoomi groans. “God, I hate you. Don’t give my dick a fucking nickname.”

“Yeah, you really hate me. That’s why you moved in with me and go with me to see my mom and cried the last time I had to go to—”

“I did not cry,” Kiyoomi snaps. “If you keep talking like this, I’m going to go watch Cherry Magic without you.”

Atsumu’s head inclines, eyes narrowing. “You ain’t walking out of here anytime soon,” he says, and then grabs the peach-flavoured lube on the comforter beside him and slicks his hand up.

Kiyoomi exhales slowly when Atsumu wraps a hand around him, stroking slowly, squeezing a little on the head. Every few strokes he presses his thumb into the slit, sensitive and a little painful in a way that makes Kiyoomi’s dick jump. Kiyoomi lolls his head back against the pillows, watching Atsumu’s eyes go lidded.

He’s just beginning to really feel it when Atsumu lets him go, cock laying across his hip. Atsumu drops onto his forearms, using both hands to spread Kiyoomi’s cheeks apart. And it’s not like they haven’t been in the position hundreds of times for Atsumu to finger him, but there’s something filthy about Atsumu licking his lips, eyes hungry as he looks down. It makes him feel exposed, intrinsically aware of every inch of his body, of Atsumu’s thumbs brushing through the hair on his ass and the cool winter air on his hole.

Then Atsumu leans in, breath hot and damp, and Kiyoomi has no more time to think before Atsumu licks over him.

Kiyoomi’s legs try to close subconsciously, but Atsumu’s big hands on his thighs press them back open. Kiyoomi’s mouth falls open as he tries to process the sensation—foreign, but also pleasant, the pressure and the warmth.

Atsumu pulls his head back a little to grin up at him, teeth flashing, before he dives back in. This time, Kiyoomi loses his breath, Atsumu’s tongue laving at him and pressing in. His right hand grips the pillow above his head, the left Atsumu’s hair, unsure if he wants to push him away or pull him closer.

Pull him closer, definitely, he decides a few minutes later. It builds slower than getting a blowjob, a different sort of good, warmth filling his stomach. Atsumu lets himself be pulled in, nose pressed flat against Kiyoomi’s skin.

And then Atsumu sucks.

Kiyoomi gasps, bolting upright, hand tearing at Atsumu’s hair. “Don’t—” he manages, but he holds Atsumu in place.

Atsumu laughs when he relaxes his mouth, vibrating against Kiyoomi. “Like that?”

“You’re disgusting,” Kiyoomi says, completely breathless, chest heaving.

“Want me to keep going?”

Kiyoomi glares at him. “You better fucking not stop now.”

Atsumu kisses his thigh before resuming, and Kiyoomi slowly settles back down. Atsumu slides a lubed finger in beside his tongue this time, and then another, stretching him open enough to slip his tongue inside. His other hand finds Kiyoomi’s dick, still slick, and begins stroking, even as Kiyoomi’s thighs squeeze around his head.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, syllables thick and stumbling like he’s tipsy, “I’m close. I’m really—”

Atsumu hums and slides his fingers deeper, searching as his tongue licks at his rim, and it only takes a few circles in the right spot before Kiyoomi’s back is arching, a stuttered gasp slipping out of his mouth, come hitting his stomach and sliding over Atsumu’s fingers.

Atsumu doesn’t stop until Kiyoomi shakily pushes his head away, carefully pulling his fingers out and sitting back. He holds up his left hand, covered in come, inspecting it. “Guess you did enjoy it, huh?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t even have the energy to snipe back. He sinks into the mattress, eyelids drooping.

“Go wash up. Make sure you brush your teeth. I want to take a nap.”

“You just wanna cuddle,” Atsumu says, but he gets up anyway, retreating to the bathroom.

Kiyoomi is almost asleep when he finally returns, blinking his eyes open as Atsumu wipes him down with a washcloth. It doesn’t replace a shower, but it gives him enough time to come down first. He pats the bed when Atsumu tosses the washcloth in the hamper before crawling into bed beside him.

Kiyoomi turns so that they’re facing each other, tossing a leg over Atsumu’s thigh. “You’re going to hold this over me for years,” he mumbles, glaring sleepily at him.

“Nah. Maybe six months,” Atsumu says, brushing Kiyoomi’s bangs aside.

Kiyoomi reaches down to feel that Atsumu’s still hard in his sweatpants, but Atsumu takes his wrist and brings his hand up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles.

“Later,” Atsumu says. “I know you wanna sleep.”

“I do.” Kiyoomi’s eyes slip shut. “Thanks for being patient with me.”

“Of course, Kiyoomi. I’m just glad you enjoyed yourself so much.” There’s a pause, long enough that Kiyoomi nearly falls asleep again. “But you do know what this means, right?”

Kiyoomi tears his eyes open, only to see Atsumu grinning wickedly at him.

“I win.”