Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

February 3rd, 2018.

He remembered staring down at his wrist, gently cradled in his lap, swollen and mottled with ugly shades of blushing red and a faint purple.

The chairs in the waiting room of the Osaka Hospital stuck to his sweaty thighs uncomfortably. The distant scent of alcohol made his head throb in time with his pulse.

Bokuto paced in front of his chair like a caged animal, tugging the bicolored strands through his fingers, leaving it in disarray. Kiyoomi wondered if he was born with hair like that. He thought it would make total sense given Bokuto’s… personality. 

He shifted again, unsticking his legs again from the plastic covered cushion with a grimace. He cleared his throat. “Bokuto.” 

Bokuto didn't so much as twitch in response to his name, so Kiyoomi tried again, with a heavy sigh. “Hey.”

Wild golden eyes flicked toward him, tracking his form like Bokuto expected Kiyoomi would suddenly unravel at the seams. “I’m sorr–”

“-I’m thirsty.” Kiyoomi interrupted, hoping to avoid another tearful breakdown like the one at the gym. “Do you think they have a vending machine somewhere?” 

Bokuto had been beside himself with guilt. He'd been a little too eager to assist in a block and body slammed Kiyoomi to the ground.

When Kiyoomi fell, he shot out an arm to catch himself and immediately felt his wrist ignite in pain.

Upon realizing that Kiyoomi was hurt, everyone crowded him. Including Bokuto, as he frantically waved his hands in front of Kiyoomi, unable to decide what to do with his hands or where to put them. He didn't end up touching Kiyoomi in the end anyway and Kiyoomi was rather greatful. He'd planned on going to the hospital alone, but Bokuto had insisted that he come with since it was his fault Kiyoomi was injured. And, well, Bokuto had looked so earnest in his desire to be there for Kiyoomi that he found himself unable to decline, even if he really wanted to.

He swallowed his anxiety and bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. “Bokuto?”

The thing was, Bokuto was absolutely terrified of hospitals. Kiyoomi could understand that. It wasn’t his favorite place either. And Bokuto, in all his valiant and sickeningly genuine glory, kept sending Kiyoomi guilty glances like a kicked puppy.

“Uhhhh…” Bokuto pointedly looked around, brows furrowed in concentration. “I’ll ask! Stay still Sakkun, I’ll take care of you!” He bounded off towards the receptionist desk and Kiyoomi let out the breath he had been holding.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his injured hand delicately in his lap as he tipped his head back. The back of his head bumped the back of the wall with a soft thud. Finally, Kiyoomi thought. Peace. 

“So, ya come here often?”

His eyes, which had scarcely even closed for half a second, snapped back open. He turned slowly, in disbelief, to face the person that spoke to him. With hair so blond it singed his eyeballs, the stranger leaned back. A lazy grin and hooded eyes followed as he propped his slipper-donned feet onto the chair across from him. Kiyoomi could feel his eyebrow twitch as he worked to keep his face from contorting into disgust at the man that had plopped himself down right next to Kiyoomi like he owned the place.

The blond's smile only grew wider with the ensuing silence Kiyoomi gave him. He threw a tanned arm across the back of the chair, “Not much of a talker, are ya?"

His voice was smooth like honey, the baritones of his rich accent made Kiyoomi's ears warm. "S’okay." He shrugged. "Ya look like yer in loads of pain. Ya want some ice chips?” He shook the cup with his other hand, drawing Kiyoomi’s attention to the pink plastic mug with a chibi fox peeking from behind the man’s fingers. 

Kiyoomi grimaced, unsettled by the lack of personal space and the mere idea of sharing ice chips. The prospect of licking used cutlery sounded more enticing. His stomach rolled. “You’re disgusting,” Kiyoomi said, lip curling in disgust.

The man smirked and tipped his head back, lips brushing against the side of the mug. He shook ice into his mouth with a crunch. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yer not lookin’ all that sexy either,” the stranger drawled between crunches, lazily gesturing to Kiyoomi in his chair. 

Kiyoomi scoffed, “I still look infinitely better than you.”

He refused to look at him, opting to glare at the many health advisory posters plastered crookedly to the opposite wall. “And,” he mused, “if I looked that bad, what kind of desperate loser would that make you? Approaching someone at a hospital, no less.”

Kiyoomi smirked as the snicker turned quickly into spluttering as the man next to him choked on one of his ice chips. Although, to Kiyoomi's greatest displeasure, instead of leaving, he laughed and simply shrugged off the insult. “I got yer attention anyway didn’t I? And call me Atsumu instead, would ya? I like it better than ‘desperate loser’.” 

Atsumu was charming, Kiyoomi'd give him that. He looked out the window and wondered how long it would take to make it across the room and escape through it.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” He asked, petulantly picking at the seams of the plastic on his chair with his uninjured hand. 

Atsumu smiled at him again, genuine and small. “I really, really don’t.”

With a long sigh, Kiyoomi turned to look at him.

Atsumu was wearing maroon pajamas with a fuzzy black robe draped across his broad shoulders. Every item of clothing he had on looked rough and worn, like years and years of use has thinned the fabric and pulled it threadbare. It hung around his frame as if it had fit properly once, but didn't now.

Despite his horrendous sense of style, and Kiyoomi's personal chagrin, Atsumu was extremely handsome. He seemed like the kind of person that smiled constantly. It was crooked, and not always sincere. Playful and intense with a gaze that seemed to be in a constant challenge that said, You can't ignore me, can you? It irritated Kiyoomi beyond belief that he couldn't ignore Atsumu, despite knowing better. It didn't make any sense. 

"That's unfortunate for you. However, I don't intend to be a part of whatever half-assed plan you seem to have concocted to use me to sate your boredom," Kiyoomi replied, incensed. 

Atsumu's thick, dark brows rose in surprise, his mouth parting just a moment as something like shame and embarrassment colored his features. He turned away, scratching at the back of his neck. Kiyoomi couldn't see his face, but the tips of his ears were a little pink. "I wasn't tryin' ta upset ya, I just wanted to talk to ya, s'all." He explained. After a beat, Atsumu asked, “What’s yer name by the way?”

Kiyoomi chewed on the thought. There was a reason Atsumu was at the hospital too.

His breathes came heavy, despite the fact that he'd been sitting next to Kiyoomi for some time. He still looked strong. Kiyoomi could tell that he had a muscular build underneath the loose fit of his pajamas. And while his face was full, with rosy cheeks and pink lips, he had the slightest shadows of bruising in the hollows under his caramel colored eyes. The tan of his skin looked slightly ashen, a shade a little too pale for a man who appeared to embody the sun in his fingertips. 

He debated on refusing, he really did. But for some reason, he couldn't. Perhaps a name wouldn’t hurt, or maybe Kiyoomi was no better than Icarus; powerless to the curious warmth the sun provided. 

The etching of flowers on his back tingle; a warning.

After a very long moment, longer than what was probably socially acceptable, he found his voice once again. “Sakusa.”

He knew what it meant, he wasn’t a fool. Atsumu watched him with rapt attention, starving for it. It was the folly that Sakusa spent his life avoiding, the flowers displayed across his back burning as he swallowed.

His mouth parted once again, “Sakusa Ki–”

“Sakusa-san, the doctor will see you now!”

Kiyoomi hadn't realized it had been him that was called until he saw Atsumu's eyes blow wide, flicking across the waiting room to the nurse that stood patiently at the door across the room. He followed Atsumu's gaze, swallowing the lump growing in his throat. 

“Ah. Looks like our time is up, Sakusa-kun." Atsumu gave him another one of those blinding smiles before lifting himself slowly from the chair. "Thanks fer talkin' with me."

Atsumu dusted off his pajama bottoms and looked at Kiyoomi one last time, providing him with an offensively nerdy salute and a wink before he sauntered off, clapping one of the nurses on the back as he walked through a different set of doors. Kiyoomi could do nothing but watch him go, glued to his spot in that wretched chair with his blood trudging through his veins like molasses. The pain in his wrist felt dull in comparison to the way his heart thudded violently in his chest.  

“Sakusa-san?”

His ears rung.

“Coming.” His voice was gravelly and tight, and it echoed in the quiet waiting room. 

He stood slowly, cradling his wrist in his arm as he trekked across the floor, belatedly realizing that there was no one in it but him now. He hadn't noticed the old lady that was near him leave, or that Bokuto had never come back with his tea. 

Kiyoomi shook off the eerie sense of worry, chalking it up to his distaste of hospitals, instead of the heavy weight in his chest and the fragment images of stark blond hair and shining brown eyes. 

“So.” Dr. Hikashi hung three X-ray images on the glowing white screen. “You didn’t do too much damage.” He tapped his finger on the X-rays, “It’s a minor fracture. Should heal up well in four to six weeks, give or take.” 

Kiyoomi looked at the images and then back at his wrist. His eyes stung and his nose burned. It was good news, but the dread felt heavy in his stomach. 

“We’ll put a brace on you to keep it immobilized while you heal. I’d like you to take the time to recover. It’s important that you allow this injury to heal completely before going back to work, given the nature of your job.”

His job. He was a professional volleyball player. Elected to play at the next Olympics along with several of his teammates. He couldn't just take six weeks off from practice.

“Is there anything I can do to speed up the process?” Kiyoomi asked, slightly panicked. 

Dr. Hikashi looked at him impatiently, perturbed that he seemed to have barely listened. “I understand that you must be eager to heal, Sakusa-san, but it is pertinent to your injury that you baby it a little bit.” 

Kiyoomi sighed, defeated. 

With that, his doctor seemed satisfied, finally clicking off the light to the X-rays and pushing back in his chair. “I’ll prescribe you a high dose of pain killer for the swelling and pain. You can pick up the prescription on your way out at the front desk.”

He took the towel-wrapped ice pack that rested gently on Kiyoomi’s skin and slid the brace over his swollen wrist, elevating it to the proper position before latching both velcro straps across his forearms to keep the position stable. When everything was in place, Dr. Hikashi pushed back again, his chair sliding noisily across the linoleum floors. Eager to create distance, Kiyoomi stood, swaying on his feet a bit as his fatigue finally caught up with him. His wrist throbbed incessantly where it was cocooned up against the sturdy prop of the wrist brace.

“Thank you, Hikashi-sensei.” 

With a small nod, the doctor waved him off and the same nurse from before escorted Kiyoomi back to the waiting room. Before opening the door, she paused, seeming to consider something with a purse of her thin lips. “I know it’s not my place…B-but I couldn’t help but notice.”

Kiyoomi raised a brow in question.

“Miya-san seems to have taken a liking to you. He’s, well…” She chewed on her bottom lip. 

Kiyoomi cleared his throat, sensing her conundrum. “Please don’t worry. I won’t make a habit of entertaining him.”

Her eyes widen, “That’s not what I–”

Kiyoomi pushed the door open with his elbow, finding Bokuto in one of the waiting room chairs, his large frame perched awkwardly as he clutched a can of green tea that looked tiny in the broad expanse of his hands. 

“Sakusa!”

Kiyoomi winced at the volume, silently apologizing to the rest of the people sitting peacefully in the waiting room. He ignored Bokuto’s eager gaze in favor of picking his prescriptions up at the front desk. In the corner of his eye, he could see Bokuto shifting nervously where he now stood, a couple meters back, rocking on his heels.

Struck by a profound sense of obligation, Kiyoomi turned his head slightly, acknowledging him. He murmured. “I’m alright. Just a minor fracture. Should heal in a few weeks.” 

He felt more than heard Bokuto’s sigh of relief, the tension that coiled in his muscular frame seemed to melt like a thin layer of snow in the morning sun. “Okay! I’ll go bring the car around!”

Kiyoomi was grateful for the excuse his wrist provided him. On their way out of the hospital and towards his home, Bokuto didn't speak once. In the absence of chatter, Kiyoomi rested peacefully with his head lying gently against the window, eyes falling shut as memories of that curious boy flitted across his closed lids. He felt the ache bone deep. It scorched through his flesh, causing him to wince as it rooted itself deep into the hollows of his ribcage and nestled there. 

Miya, he thought. The nurse's voice rang quietly within his head. Miya Atsumu. 

Distant memories of his own screams, of blood red flowers, and tears that wouldn't stop plague his mind. It’s said that a soul mark only appears in the most monumental moment of your soulmate's life. A beautiful array of flowers would burst onto your skin, covering you in art. A true representation of what it meant to be in love. What it meant to have a soulmate. You carry their moment with you on your skin forever. And when Kiyoomi’s soul mark first appeared, searing itself across his back, it was one of the worst days of his life. He felt the mark like lacerations of a whip, branding him without mercy and tainting his soul with a future so bleak it was vile.

He had known no others that felt what he did. Kiyoomi carried the wound of loss on his back for his soulmate; a parade of death.

His mark felt alive where it spanned across his back, it burned like the light dusting of a sunburn. It was too bad, really. In the language of flowers, Spider Lilies never meant anything good. They were spindly; a spider's web in the wind. Blood red and deceptively fragile looking. They are beautiful flowers that symbolize death.

Regret. Abandonment. Loss.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt. It wasn’t supposed to burn. But Kiyoomi had kept that part to himself, afraid of the pity he’d see in the eyes of the people that knew him. He pretended not to know. Kiyoomi pretended he didn’t have a mark at all. He wouldn’t chase after death. 

When he got home, immersed in the sanctuary of his solitary home, he felt relief. If only temporary. 

Even from a young age, Kiyoomi was always a fastidious person. He kept his room clean, he preferred the food on his plate not to touch, and he practiced his hand writing until the kanji was so neat it could have been typed. Unfortunately for Kiyoomi, life was not agreeable to his nature. In fact, it was the entire opposite. Life was a conglomerate of juxtapositions: plants that could only live by slowly killing another plant, the brilliance of machinery that poisoned the earth, the change of seasons that cycled through life and death. 

Life was indeed very messy, and Kiyoomi was restless. When he became old enough to ask why, his mother decided to give him something to focus on: volleyball. 

The effect was immediate. Kiyoomi loved little else but volleyball. It consumed him, mind, body and soul. He loved the satisfaction of every successful play, of aching muscles and deafening cheers. Every year he got a little better and every day he loved it a little more. His passion spread like wildfire: completely engulfing his life. 

It was at his beloved practice that life threw him yet another wrench in his delicately refined peace. He remembered the day clearly, every single play, every jump he made. The drills he went through and the comments from his teammates about winning nationals again. He remembered every second of that day until he was hunched over on the floor, screaming in agony as his soulmark etched itself onto his skin, mutilating him for an eternity. 

He was sixteen. 

And every single day since, the creeping reminder of the fragility of his life, of his soulmates life seized him with an iron grip. His curiosity bled out from the poisonous flowers upon his back, replacing his juvenile sense of wonder with fear and paranoia. Wayward in his foolishness, life offered no more excitement for that which was unknown, leaving only dread in its wake. 

And when Kiyoomi could control his life a little more as an adult, he did. He woke up every day at the same time, jogged at the same park. All of his meals were planned specifically to fit his lifestyle. He knew the clerk at the grocery store he frequented and bought the same groceries biweekly. Everything Kiyoomi did was planned, full of intent and unwavering dedication. Life was easier when it was organized to a fine point. 

It was ironic that he landed himself in a team that had the most chaotic people that he’d ever met in his life. More often than not, it was easy to avoid their mayhem by sidelining their eager invitations by letting his disinterest in people and public spaces speak for itself. After the first several invitations that Kiyoomi declined, they never bothered him about it again. Hinata and Bokuto would briefly mention to him that they were planning on going out and extend a casual “We’d love to see you there!” and that was that. 

He’d never admit it, not out loud–not even to Motoya, that he secretly enjoyed their enthusiasm, just a little bit. 

When Kiyoomi first joined the team, he couldn’t sleep the night before his first practice because he was anxious about how he would fit in. Not many people took to his personality easily. 

Fortunately, Bokuto and Hinata were some of the easiest people in the world to get along with. There was not even a moment of hesitation from either men or the entire team as they welcomed Kiyoomi with enormous smiles and waving arms. Where Kiyoomi would curl in on himself, Hinata and Bokuto took up space greedily with their inviting natures and eagerness to accost any living being with their friendship. It was a good system, and unknowingly, they created a haven for Kiyoomi amongst the crowds, the wake of their boundless energy offering solace for his weary soul. 

He appreciated them, but he wouldn't tell them that. He’d never hear the end of it. Once, Kiyoomi watched Bokuto cry when Kiyoomi bumped an elbow with his in a moment of celebration after a tough win against the Adlers. Bokuto had held up his arm with reverence, tears streaming down his face as his cries echoed against the metal lockers. 

Kiyoomi felt like he couldn't risk the soft underbelly of his heart for anyone. He knew that everyone eventually died, no one would be safe from illness, tradgedy, and death. The people he loved would fall to it eventually, as would he. But, he wouldn't make any unnecessary connections, if he didn't have to. His guard stood fierce in every aspect of his life, always prepared for an assault on his comfort. The walls he’d built over the years, imposing as they were daunting, protected Kiyoomi’s vulnerabilities like a reliant soldier. 

Unyielding. Impenetrable. Unrelenting. 

He wasn't friendly like his cousin; all warmth, good-natured, with an affable lilt and a curious shine. He wasn't good at being a friend. He didn't know how and couldn't stand the risk of the carnage that loss would give to him if he tried. Not even the person that was designed in this world to love him would last. 

Kiyoomi wasn't without love entirely, though. He was fortunate that his cousin was on his team in high school. He'd stuck to his side like glue and ignored Motoya’s encouragement to make friends. It was easier with Motoya. He was family and therefore stuck with him. He understood Kiyoomi’s personality and was the first person that Kiyoomi told when his flowers appeared. He sat quietly with him, a hand placed comfortingly between the shoulder blades of Kiyoomi’s trembling form. He understood, without words or fanfare, the depth of Kiyoomi’s mourning.  

I’m sorry Kiyo… I’m so sorry, he whispered with a trembling voice, huddled next to him on the floor of Kiyoomi’s childhood bedroom. The broken sobs that hollowed out his chest were loud in the silence that followed afterward. 

He never pestered Kiyoomi about relationships again after that and Kiyoomi had never cried like that since. 

And on and on he went. He gave little thought to love, to life. He carried the burden of his lillies silently. 

Rinse and Repeat.

🀦

On a particularly sunny day, several weeks after his visit at the hospital, his follow up appointment arrived. He got ready with the thrum of anxiety toiling beneath his skin. He stood on the train platform, waiting for his train to show up and wondered if he would see Miya. It was a stupid, uncontrollable, and ridiculous thought.

As soon as the image rose in his brain of amber eyes and fluffy blond hair glowing in the backlight of the windows, he immediately dismissed it with vengeance. They’d only just met and it wasn’t a particularly long interaction. 

"Looks like our time is up."

The memory of that alluring voice made him anxious. It was irrational in all senses. The probability that Miya and him would even see each other, that Miya would even be at the hospital was laughable.

Except that the nurse knew him by name. 

He'd pondered his own foolishness from the moment he stepped onto the train, and again in Dr. Hikashi's office when Kiyoomi was cleared to go back to practice. Miya circiled his thoughts over and over until Kiyoomi was scowling as he stepped out from underneath the veranda and into the hospital courtyard.

The sun shone brightly down onto the earth, warming him slowly. Snow glistened as it melted, leaving quiet echoes of droplets pattering on the sidewalk. Kiyoomi mourned the loss of the snow. Without it, the world opened with noise. Spring forced its way into existence steadily– persistently, despite the freezing and barren winter that still clung its talons into the earth’s roots. 

“It’s you!”

He didn’t have to look to know whose voice that belonged to. It’s uncanny; there’s only one person that would be here, with a blasé–Kansai-Ben drawl. 

Kiyoomi sighed and felt the fragments of his peace melt along with the lasting pieces of winter as he finally looked up. His eyes found the very last person he wanted to see. 

Walking toward him with the sun casting over his golden hair, illuminating him in a godly kind of light was Miya Atsumu. He ditched the ugly robe in favor of a slightly less ugly gray sweatshirt and matching pants. His feet– along with his mismatched purple and yellow socks, were tucked into an old, dingy-looking pair of white tennis shoes. He had his usual mess of blond hair pulled away from his face with a black headband, sending his locks fanning out in gentle waves behind it. Miya strolled through the gardens and up to Kiyoomi with a level of charisma that he presumably possessed when doing everything. A level of confidence unbefitting of a man who looked like he slept in a gas station bathroom. 

“Omi-Omi!” Miya’s voice carried across the courtyard, turning heads as he came close. “Didja miss me?” 

Kiyoomi stared at him, stupefied. Realization dawned like a slap to the face. “You don’t know my name.”

Anger stung his tongue bitterly, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth. He spent a laughable amount of time thinking about Miya in the last several weeks, only for the man himself to not even bother remembering his name properly. Not only that, but instead of asking like a normal person, Miya just made one up. 

Miya’s wide amber eyes glittered and danced in amusement. From his smile to the lazy way he cocked one hip while he stood, Miya looked like a cat that caught the canary. 

Humiliation flared to life in his belly, turning his cheeks warm. He turned to walk back into the hospital, his shoulders hunched, folded tightly inwards. Foolish is he who cradled such a fragile thing like hope, only to allow it to be ground into dust at the mere inclination that he did not make nearly as powerful of a first impression to Miya as he did for Kiyoomi. Swells of regret began to curl in his belly. He’d been made a fool and it showed. 

He caught the tail ends of Miya’s voice calling after him as he walked with the single-minded goal of trying to find his route of escape. 

“Hey!" Miya huffed, sounding a lot closer than Kiyoomi would have liked. "Dammit, wait! Don’t ya walk away from me! Seriously, I'm a sick person here and ya have freakishly long legs!” 

Embarrassment licked up Kiyoomi’s neck like fire, sending the hairs standing at attention as the tips of his ears burned hot. Of course, Miya can’t just let him leave in peace. It has to be an utter spectacle. He turned on his heel, kicking his chin upwards as he looked down his nose at the blond. His eyes widen only a fraction as he nearly bumps noses with Miya, who was much closer than Kiyoomi had anticipated.

They stood a hair's breadth away, nose to nose, the puffs of breath Miya let out fanning against the mask-covered part of his face. It sent goosebumps across the uncovered parts of his skin. Kiyoomi repressed a shiver. “It appears you’re even dumber than you look because that,” Kiyoomi spat, backing up to get some breathing room. A strange pang crackled up his spine as he continued, “is not my name.”

Miya looked at him, perplexed and a little warm, before he recovered, the smug mask reappearing. “Is too,” he argued. 

He was momentarily struck dumbfounded, his mouth opening and closing as he stood gaping. Miya continued to stand in front of him looking extremely confident and quite pleased with himself. Eventually, Kiyoomi settled on: “you’re confused. I’ll find someone to escort you back to your room.” He looked around for any person in the vicinity that might be able to help him out and found himself unfortunately, completely, and utterly alone. 

Miya flushed from the tips of his hairline to his neckline, where his skin hid beneath his sweatshirt. “Yer a real piece of work, ya know that? Yer name is Omi, or at least, that’s what I’ll be callin’ ya. Since we’re friends and all, Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“How did you– I didn’t.” Kiyoomi stammered, eyes comically widened.

Miya shrugged, unperturbed by Kiyoomi’s discomfort. “I asked one of the nurses.” 

“You what?! That has to be against PPC."

“Probably.”

He really had nothing to say to that. He didn't know what to say. Kiyoomi hadn't even known where to start. So he just turned around and started walking away again, quicker this time.

Miya laughed long and loud, the booming echoes of his jubilance followed Kiyoomi until he reached the threshold of the hospital entrance. Forget Miya, Kiyoomi thought. He was nothing. Crazy, that’s what he was. Clinically insane. He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to do with that information. Call the hospital? Report the violation of PPC? He found himself scaling just how much danger Miya Atsumu posed to him when the voice of the devil spoke directly behind him. 

“Ya don’t even remember my name, do ya?” 

“Nope.” He lied, eyeing Miya from the corner of his eye, tilting his head just enough to watch him shift from foot to foot, looking rather nervous. 

“It’s Atsumu. Miya Atsumu.” He offered, muttering the name under his breath so quietly that Kiyoomi thought he may have imagined it.  

“I don’t care who you are. I won’t be seeing you again.” Kiyoomi moved to start walking down the street before the delicate skin of his wrist was enveloped in a firm, warm grip. Shock filled his body, quickly followed by horror and anxiety. He felt each finger on his skin like a brand. Then, to his surprise, the spike of displeasure slowed, replaced by a flutter he’d never felt before. 

“Awww, but we have so much fun together, dontcha think?” Kiyoomi stared at their conjoined hands in silence, feeling the pinch of his brows as he frowned. “Anyway, it’s a little rude not to remember someone’s name after they’ve introduced themselves. I remembered yours, Omi. ”

Kiyoomi thought it wasn't that rude, not if the person in question had a few marbles knocked loose in the head. “Leave me alone.” He said, tugging his arm against Miya's hold. Miya let him go easily. He stuffed his hand deep within his pocket, where it was safe. He didn't walk away like he'd planned, though.

Miya smiled. “But yer so pleasant. I like ya.” 

He wrinkled his nose and Miya laughed brightly at him. “I can tell this is the makin' of a beautiful friendship.”

Kiyoomi sighed. “You’re not… admitted here, against your will, for the sake of your well-being… right?” 

Miya blinked, brows furrowed. "Uh... well, I don't exactly want ta be here. If that's what ya mean. I can't exactly leave either. But- Well, I don' really know what yer askin' me, Omi-Omi." He shifted from foot to foot, eyes trained on the ground. "'M not confused, like bein' crazy er anythin'. I'm sick, Omi. S'all." 

Kiyoomi watched the emotion flitter across Miya’s face before it settled into something a little somber. “At least,” Miya whispered, a faraway look reaching the warmth of his eyes, “I’m not crazy yet.” 

Somehow that was worse than him being insane.

Kiyoomi was a careful man, with a jaded sense of intimacy, and a staunch resistance to the uncategorical. Yet, when sorrow colored the planes of Miya Atsumu’s face, Kiyoomi felt the unignorable urge to wipe it clean from his expression. "It'll be okay."

He didn't know why he said that. He didn't know if it was true, he couldn't possibly know the future for Miya. Kiyoomi didn't even believe himself when he said it, yet Miya looked at him with something like hope in his eyes.

“Say, Omi. Whaddya think ‘bout givin’ me yer phone number?” Miya asked, cheeks a rosy hue. Kiyoomi looked at him for a long moment, hoping his mask hid his flush better. The longer that he stared wordlessy, the less confident Miya seemed to get. He clarified after another moment, “Ahem. Since we’re friends and all.” 

He wanted to say no, it was probably the smartest thing he could do. Should do. Again, he surprised himself and held out his phone without another word. 

Miya took it excitedly and Kiyoomi’s fingers itched where his phone once lay. He watched Miya’s fingers fly over his screen with haste before returning it with a proud smile. He didn’t look at his phone, he simply pocketed it and bid his goodbye. 

When he was far from the hospital, walking down the stairs of the station, his phone vibrated where it sat in his pocket, weighted with the force of a thousand suns. Now a tainted and threatening piece of technology. He didn’t get calls often, so there was really only a single person that would be calling him without warning. 

He pulled his phone from his pocket, not bothering to look at the Caller ID.

“What do you want?” 

Motoya paid no mind to his tone, bulldozing past it easily. “Kiyo! Hi. How are you? Didn’t you have your doctor's appointment today? How did everything go?” 

His cousin was always a talker, more than what Kiyoomi found personally necessary. His reply was sufficient but curt. “Fine.”

“So grumpy. I guess it didn’t go well.”  

Kiyoomi grit his teeth, the muscle of his jaw spasming. "I said it went fine."

“Fine, fine.” The disbelieving tone clear in his cousin's voice. “How are you?”

Motoya knew him well, so well that he probably figured out that something happened by the way Kiyoomi answered the phone. It was useless to lie, and Kiyoomi wasn’t that great of a liar anyway. 

“I gave my phone number to someone I met at the hospital.” 

A brief moment of silence ensued on the other end of the line before his cousin’s voice comes out slowly, “… was he hot?”

Kiyoomi promptly hung up.

Later, as he rode the train back to his apartment, his phone chimed in his pocket. 

From: Komori Motoya [Received at 11:42 AM]

Hahahahaaaa 

Srry Kiyo, I swear. I just don’t know what to do with that. Sometimes I really can’t tell when ur joking.

To: Komori Motoya [Sent at 12:07 PM]

I wasn't joking.

From: Motoya Komori: [Received at 12:08 PM]

Kiyo. Why were you perusing at a hospital?

He didn’t deign that with a response.

He was not perusing. Miya approached him first anyway. Kiyoomi's thumb hovered over his screen before giving up and pocketing his phone with a frown. Motoya was right to be inquisitive, especially since Kiyoomi has never done anything like this before. Not even he knew why he'd done it, so he didn't exactly know how to answer Motoya's well placed questions. 

Kiyoomi decided that he was simply feeling generous. Or possessed. If he was going crazy, the damage was likely already done the moment he met Miya Atsumu. So, without another thought, he sent a simple introductory text. 

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 12:18PM]

This is Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

It was far too late to turn back now, he only hoped he won’t regret it too much in the end. 

That evening, while Kiyoomi was having dinner, his phone chirped where it was placed on the countertop, signaling a new text. 

From: Miya Atsumu [Received at 6:27 PM]

pudding cups r for the weak. jello is where it’s at

Kiyoomi stared down at his phone in silence. Of course his grammar and spelling was atrocious.

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 6:27 PM]

I mourn the loss of 5 seconds ago, when that text didn't exist.

From: Miya Atsumu [Received at 6:29 PM]

u can just say you like pudding more. its fine cause im a benevolent man and i'll still be ur friend even with your subpar taste.

Against his will, a small huff of laughter left him as he read Miya’s message. He actually did prefer jell-o rather than pudding, though he didn't feel like sharing that information with Miya. He was glad that Miya couldn't seem him, lest he witness the small smile adorned on his face against his will. 

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 6:30 PM]

I don’t like sweets. Also, we’re not friends.  

P.S. I am mildly impressed that you can spell a word like benevolence. It doesn’t suit you. 

Kiyoomi hadn't even been able to close his message app before Miya's reply popped up.

From: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 6:32 PM]

suuuuuuuuuuuuure

P.P.S. I'm actually a scholar. Shows what you know, Omi. 

He sat quietly at his dining table, admiring the litany of plants sitting upon the windows in his breakfast nook, phone in hand with a smile on his face. He opted to finish his dinner, rather than reply. Kiyoomi thought about Miya sitting in his hospital bed, under the same sky as Kiyoomi, smiling at his phone too. He felt nervous, a little ashamed, and to his utter surprise, a little excited.

Later, when he finished his nightly routine and lay in bed, he sent Miya a text. 

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 9:52 PM]

I pray the individual that allowed you to become a scholar in anything is fired. 

P.P.P.S. Your grammar sucks.

He plugged his phone in to charge and turned over in bed, tucking his chin under his comforter. And if anyone ever accused him, he’d deny the smile that existed in the cover of the darkness in his room until the day he died. 

🀦 

In March, days before his birthday, Kiyoomi stood with his head tilted up to the night sky; a breathtaking expanse of bright stars twinkling above him. 

Miya had called, begging him to meet up with him in the dead of night. He'd called when Kiyoomi had been in the MSBY gym locker rooms after practice. More and more lately, Miya opted to call him instead of texting, claiming ‘it’s way easier,’ which Kiyoomi didn't exactly believe but, he couldn't fault Miya either.

If Kiyoomi was stuck in a hospital day and night, he figured he’d be a little lonely too. 

They had talked nonstop since the moment Kiyoomi had sent him that text in February. His days, once quiet and serene, were now bursting with color as Miya texted him about his day. He didn't think that life at the hopsital could be so exciting, but Miya texted him about the gossip he heard from the nurses, his favorite flavor of jell-o, and what books he'd read. He never alluded to his illness, nor an impending recovery. In fact, Miya never spoke of it at all and Kiyoomi pointedly did not ask him. 

Ever since the day in the hospital, when Miya told Kiyoomi that he was sick, his mind had wandered to every possiblity under the sun. He wanted to know as much as he was terrified of what exactly had Miya sentenced to the four corners of a hospital room for the forseeable future. Kiyoomi wasn't stupid. He knew it could only be something severe, something a little too close to vest for Kiyoomi. A little like death. 

Which was why when Miya had asked him to meet him at the park, he ultimately decided, why the hell not? He hung up the phone with the promise of meeting up after Kiyoomi finished his dinner. He packed up his leftovers in a to-go container, threw on a jacket and his shoes, and walked to the station with the food tucked under his arm and hands in his pocket. 

When Kiyoomi rounded the corner, Miya was there waiting for him at the entrance, eyes cast downwards with his nose tucked into his scarf. 

He looked smaller in this light. His body was curled in on itself, hunched over to protect himself from the biting cold. Kiyoomi could see him shivering from halfway down the block.

Kiyoomi approached with measured steps, careful to not disturb Miya as he peered down at the ground, brows furrowed in thought. As he came closer, he purposefully scuffed his feet on the pavement to signal that he was there. The noise pulled Miya from whatever thoughts troubled him and his head snapped in Kiyoomi’s direction like a whip. Upon seeing him, the furrow in Miya’s brows relaxed and his lips curled into a warm grin.  

He’d seen that smile a few times by now, and yet every single time, it rattled Kiyoomi.  

“Took ya long enough. Five more minutes and I thought I was gonna freeze ta death out here!” 

Kiyoomi let out a dramatic, put-upon sigh. “I arrived just in time then. I wouldn’t want to see your frozen corpse.”

Miya clutched his jacket, right above his heart, with an ungloved hand, squeezing his eyes shut and moaned, “Oh the way ya woo me with yer magnanimity, Omi-Omi. My little heart just can’t take it!”

“I didn’t know you possessed such an expansive vocabulary.” Kiyoomi snorted, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, I brought you something.” He all but shoved the bento into Miya’s chest.

Miya’s eyes blinked open, flickering from Kiyoomi’s face down to the hand still pushing the container against his chest. “Ya brought this fer me?” He raised one hand underneath the container to hold it in place as Kiyoomi took his hand away. When their fingers brushed, Kiyoomi felt the chill of Miya's hands through his gloves. While Miya looked at the food in his hands as if it would disappear into thin air, Kiyoomi took his gloves off. 

The chill was immediate. He wondered how Miya could stand having his hands exposed to the frigid temperature for that long. "Here," Kiyoomi held his gloves in front of Miya. "Put these on."

Miya held the food close to his chest, his hands covering the container almost completely. "I can't." 

Kiyoomi scoffed, "I wasn't asking." He took the bento box from Miya again and replaced them with his gloves. "Put. Them. On." 

"Omi..." Miya stared at the gloves in his hands. "What about you? Yer gonna be cold instead." 

Kiyoomi thought about Miya standing with his nose buried in his scarf under the lamplight, shivering. "I'll be fine."

After giving him a long, sad look, Miya finally put the gloves on. Once he had them on, he held his hands out in front of them, turning them over. "These are some nice gloves, Omi." He looked at Kiyoomi with twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Still warm too." He wiggled his fingers with a smirk.

"That is revolting to think about, thank you." He handed the food back over to Miya with a little more force than necessary and stuffed his hands into his pockets. 

Miya turned to him and Kiyoomi’s skin erupted in goosebumps from the stifling weight of Miya’s gaze. It pinned him in place the moment they locked eyes.

In one second, Kiyoomi felt exposed, bare in every sense except the physical to Miya’s perceptive gaze, and in the next, Miya’s face changed, his features sliding from contemplative to the tongue-in-cheek default like it never happened at all. It was so fleeting in its existence Kiyoomi could be convinced he never saw that attentive stare in the first place. Whatever Miya noticed in him is not something he felt inclined to share because he seemed to drop it for the time being. 

He looked at the food, steam rising from it slightly. “Thanks, Omi. For this." He held up the food Kiyoomi brought him for a moment. "Hospital food really sucks.” 

Kiyoomi supposed it probably did. “You should eat while it's still warm.”

Miya patted the bento and walked towards the park without another word. Kiyoomi followed him dutifully, enjoying the effortless silence they shared. Miya reminded him a little of Bokuto and Hinata with how much space his personality took up. However, Miya always seemed to possess a well of thoughts that he never shared. He filled the space with a million things, but deep down, he was a bit of a mystery.

He never quite knew where Miya’s mind would take him next. He touched the ground lightly on every subject but was always quick to take off again. Miya Atsumu was a force of nature and quite hard to catch. 

They walked for a while, looping around the winding paths carved into the ground in the park until they found a bench. Kiyoomi nudged him to sit as the longer they walked the more Miya’s breath became labored. When they were settled, Miya opened the bento that Kiyoomi packed and began eating. Time had passed, although he wasn’t certain of how much.

“What do ya think of Supernovas?”

Kiyoomi grimaced at the sound of Miya speaking with his mouth shoveled full of food. The soft swell of his cheek, now bulging with tucked away food. “I don’t know, should I have thoughts about that?” 

Miya sent him a dubious glance, his cheeks puffed like a squirrel. “Ya never wondered ‘bout the universe, Omi?!” 

Kiyoomi was a pragmatic person; he never found much stock in thinking about things that he could never dream of finding within his own reality. “What’s there to wonder about? It’s not like we’ll ever receive answers.” 

Miya abandoned the bento box Kiyoomi brought, cleaning his chopsticks with a napkin before folding them neatly in the holder attached to the side. He imagined that Miya would have a rather voracious appetite, he certainly seemed the type. Yet, the bento that Kiyoomi brought wasn’t even half-eaten. “The deeply religious would disagree, I think.”

“Are you?” Kiyoomi wondered, idly picking at the dried skin around his nail beds. The winter was always harsh on his skin, he seemed to crack at the seams, tearing apart little by little from the cold. 

“Nope.” Miya held out his hand for Kiyoomi, “c’mon.” 

Kiyoomi cleared his throat, brushing Miya’s hand away as he stood on his own. His chest tightened with guilt a little at the way Miya’s face fell. So, he clarified, “I don’t…I don’t like to be touched.” 

Miya looked like he wanted to ask a million questions, but only asked one: “Why?” His tone was completely free of prejudice, like a young child’s innate curiosity for the world around them, they knew not the poison that was judgment. Maybe that was why Kiyoomi found it so easy to be honest. 

“It's hard to explain.”

“Try me.” Atsumu challenged, folding his arms over one another as he plops himself down on the grass opposite of the bench. 

Kiyoomi was sluggish to join him, but relented after some consideration. The grass tickled uncomfortably at his skin where he sat next to Miya, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Did you know there are around 10 million bacteria living on your hand?” Kiyoomi stared at his open palm with scrutinizing eyes before balling it into a fist, the blunt edges of his nails bit into his skin. “I don’t like that there's very little that I can do about that. There are some aspects of life that happen no matter how hard you try: Germs, sickness, death. I- I like to be in control. I like things to make sense, I like when there's an order to things." He glanced at Miya, expecting to see confusion, or exasperation. He didn't though. Miya’s face was completely open, curious, profoundly honest. 

Kiyoomi swallowed. “If I'm careful, if I am meticulous, I can avoid unnecessary chaos. Like getting sick.” 

“Is that why ya wear yer mask everywhere?” Miya gestured to him with a single hand, waving it lazily in the air. “'S like contamination right? Ya know if ya wash yer hands, and ya keep sanitizer on ya, yer in control. I get that. ‘S nothin’ wrong with ya fer having quirks.” 

 Irritation squirmed in his belly. “It’s not a quirk, it’s–”

“You. I know. And ‘m tellin’ ya that it’s fine. It’s fine to be the way ya are.”

Indignancy boiled in his veins. “It's not like it was my choice. I wasn't always like this. Not until-” Kiyoomi paused. The words catching in his throat. He hadn’t developed mysophobia until his soulmark appeared.

“Until…” Miya prompted.

“Nothing.” Kiyoomi’s voice was tight, sharp, “It’s none of your business.” 

Miya dropped it quickly, unaffected by Kiyoomi’s tone. “Okay.” The heat of his breath sent puffs of steam rising in the brisk chill. Kiyoomi watched it dissipate, feeling guilt stirring in his chest for shutting Miya down so quickly. He couldn’t know. Couldn’t tell Miya the truth, that he couldn't stand the thought of becoming ill because of his soulmark. The harrowing reminder of death etched upon his back. He couldn’t possibly describe his irrational fear to a man who was sick. 

Miya tucked into himself more, wrapping his jacket tighter around his chest before plopping down on his back, gazing at the stars above. His expression was one of reverence, the night sky twinkling in the reflection of his longing gaze. 

“Ya didn’t answer my question.” Miya stated. “D’ya know what a supernova is?” 

Kiyoomi rolled his shoulders. “A dying star?”

“Yup.”

“What about it?” Kiyoomi asked, uncertain of where Miya was taking this conversation. He lied down next to him, the fabric of their jackets brushing. It didn't bother Kiyoomi like he thought it would. The warmth radiating off his body felt good. He stared at Miya's profile as soon as his head touched the grass.

“Don’t ya think it’s pretty?” Atsumu mused, eyes crinkling as he spoke. “The last moment before a star dies, it bursts with life and color, like it just couldn’t be contained before succumbing to death.” 

Kiyoomi imagined what it looked like in his mind, the abrupt collision of energy, the color, the power. “It would be pretty,” he admitted.

“I want ta be like a supernova.” 

That grabbed Kiyoomi’s attention. His bemusement shattered, neck straining as he stared at Miya’s relaxed profile. “What do you mean?” He demanded. “The beauty would be fleeting, sure. But a supernova is still destruction, no matter how pretty it may be for the moment it explodes.” No matter what, it was still death. The death of a star. Nothing that dies could be beautiful, not to Kiyoomi. 

Miya grinned, nearly manic. “Isn’t that why it’s incredible? Life, beauty, love, it’s all fleeting. Nothing is permanent. Even the stars.” 

“I don’t see a point in enjoying death.”

Miya turned, cheek pressed against the grass, facing Kiyoomi. They were so close that their nose nearly brushed. Kiyoomi didn't pull away.

“You’d feel differently if ya were dying, I think." He searched Kiyoomi's face, eyes bounding from place to place. "What else is there to do, but enjoy the color while it lasts, even if it won’t stay, even if it’s ugly afterward?” 

Even though understood Miya’s point, it didn’t sit well with him. “How can you say that if the only thing that’s left after a supernova is a black hole. What is there to look forward to, after that?” Talk of life and death, of illness. It felt disillusioned for Kiyoomi to believe they were simply talking about stars.

Miya looked up at the stars again and his expression as he looked at the heavens was trapped between mystified and filled to the brim with sorrow. 

“Glioblastoma Multiforme, Grade 4.” 

Apprehension buried itself deep within Kiyoomi's chest. “What?” he asked quietly, still looking at the side of Miya’s face. 

Miya huffed a humorless laugh, “That’d be the fancy term for the fact that I’m dying, Omi. D’ya get it now?” 

He did get it. Kiyoomi looked at the same sky as Miya. When he spoke, his voice quivered. “I do.” 

He hadn’t known what else to say, not when Miya continued to stare at the sky above, nor when he sat up suddenly as if broken from his reverie. Not even when Miya hastily made his exit, muttering some excuse of it being late, or perhaps was it that he was cold? Whatever it was, he left Kiyoomi surrounded in a shroud of darkness in the middle of the park, the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders. His hands shook as he pulled out his phone, ice cold from being outside, and frantically typed the words Miya spoke to him into the search bar of his browser. 

It takes only moments for Kiyoomi to understand, for the air in his lungs to be sucked from him in a stuttered gasp. He clutched his phone to his chest with trembling fingers and sensation of pressure forming behind his eyes.

"Glioblastoma (GBM), also referred to as a grade IV astrocytoma, is a fast-growing and aggressive brain tumor."

He was such a fool, such a tasteless, naive, ridiculous person. 

Miya had terminal fucking cancer. 

🀦 

They didn’t speak after that, not for a while. The vulnerability obliterated them both. Kiyoomi couldn’t think of a single thing worth a damn to say, and he assumed that Miya didn’t know what else to say. For the first time in their blossoming friendship, the silence felt deeply uncomfortable. 

One day though, Miya decided to grant him mercy. 

From: Miya Atsumu [Received at 4:41 AM]

I have a cold  (TᴖT)

When Kiyoomi woke to that text, it felt like he could breathe once more. 

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 6:45 AM]

From the park? Why did you ask to go, knowing it would probably make you sick? Also you stole my gloves.

Kiyoomi pulled himself from his bed, his bare feet meeting the cold hardwood floor. The timestamp of Miya's message concerned him.

From: Miya Atsumu [Received at 6:46 AM]

worth it to see u

His reaction was visceral. He couldn’t tell if it was a joke, or if Miya had actually meant that becoming sick, compromised immune system and all, was worth seeing Kiyoomi. If that was the case, Miya was an even bigger fool than Kiyoomi had originally thought. Perhaps if Kiyoomi were a better man, a nicer man, he would let it go. Let Miya have his fun, but Kiyoomi hated that feeling. Hated not knowing where he stood. He’d always be the one to make the cut, when necessary. Kiyoomi never found it worth it to care before, to put effort into something that, in the end, would matter very little. Yet, all he could be mad about, the only person that he could blame, would be himself. 

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 6:52 AM]

What a deplorable waste of my time then. 

Kiyoomi pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his frustration to subside. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t Miya’s fault he was dying. 

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 6:55 AM]

Are you at least getting proper rest?

Miya’s response was instantaneous, almost like he was waiting for Kiyoomi to say something, anything else.

From: Miya Atsumu [Received at 6:55 AM]

They trapped me inside this damn hospital room and won’t let me out. All I do is rest!! Come save me Omi-Omi! PleAsE!

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent at 6:56 AM]

The gloves, Miya.

Also, I’m not coming near you if you’re sick.

Kiyoomi waited around for several minutes for a reply, but it didn’t appear like one was coming. He wondered if he struck a nerve somehow, though it didn’t make much sense. Miya knew of his aversion to germs, to being sick. He had told him. Kiyoomi was in the midst of typing out another text when his phone rang, Miya’s contact filling his screen. 

It only takes him a small moment to squander his surprise and answer. “Hello?”

“Omi!!” Miya sounded as cheerful over the phone as he always did in person, albeit a little winded. “I didn’t want ta keep on textin’ when I could just hear ya instead and not go through all the extra effort.” 

The choppy inhales that Kiyoomi heard begged to differ. “As charmed as I am by your herculean effort of pretending, why are you actually calling me?” 

Miya laughed, high and twinkly but bitter, the entire wrong shade of delight that Kiyoomi was becoming accustomed to hearing. “Always so perceptive, aren’tcha Omi-kun? Can’t ever get a thing by ya. I guess I should cut to the chase, huh?”  

Kiyoomi nods, forgetting that Miya can’t actually see him. The tinge of darkness laden in Miya’s voice made him wring his hands in his lap as he waited for Miya to continue. “Say…d'ya really not want ta see me anymore if I get sicker?” 

Clarity struck Kiyoomi.

“Miya. If you have a cold I don’t want to catch it, you know this. I can’t…” There wasn’t a more polite way to put it, yet he still struggled with the words. “I can’t catch what you have.”

There was an exasperated sigh on the other line before Miya’s voice filtered through again. “I know that, Omi. I just. What if I don’t remember what I tell ya? When I get sicker. What if I don’t remember that ya don’t like bein’ touched and I can’t remember what’s important?”

The technicality of what Miya deemed important was difficult to gauge. He would admit that he never thought of it that way, though it appeared that is all Miya had done since they last met. His heart clenched painfully in his chest at the idea that Miya would be fraught with worry over Kiyoomi’s boundaries.

He knew the struggles that Miya was going through; he had no reason to feel responsible for how his condition might affect Kiyoomi, and yet he did. And he did so without knowing much about Kiyoomi at all, other than the razored edged boundaries he put up between them. 

Heart in his hands, Kiyoomi desired to comfort Miya. “I’ll still see you. Even if you don’t remember, I will just remind you.” 

“What if I forget you?” Miya’s voice was small, fear creeping underneath his voice like a viscous riptide. It was the first time he’d heard that emotion from him and it tugged at him, sending roils of unease deep within his belly. 

“I will remind you.” Though Kiyoomi spoke with confidence, he wasn’t entirely certain as to where the bravado came from. It was entirely unlike him. They hadn’t known each other for long. If Miya’s memory was affected by his cancer, it shouldn’t matter all that much If Miya forgot him. 

“Pinky swear?”

“And how do you propose we go about that, given that we’re not even in the same room?” Smirking to himself, he adds, “also, I’m not touching you, even if we were.” 

He heard Miya’s smile as he spoke, “ain’t ya ever play pretend? Use yer imagination, Omi. Ya can’t have that big brain for nothin'.”

“I use my ‘big brain’ for more useful things, like reading, for example. Can you read, Miya?” 

“I can read just fine ya filthy bastard! Hell, I bet I’m more well-read than ya anyway.” Miya hollered, his voice steadily rising before giving out in a splutter of coughs. Kiyoomi heard him mumbling to himself, unable to catch more than a distinct expletives, possibly even a very weak and daringly affectionate sounding “Fuck you.” 

Despite his previous anxiety, Kiyoomi was smiling so hard it hurt his cheeks. "Alright, alright." He said placatingly. "I pinky promise."

Whatever Miya seemed to be looking for in this call with Kiyoomi, he found. After some huffing and no small amount of pouting, he let Kiyoomi go with a hum and a promise to bother him later. 

Of which he had always kept, from that day forward, to Kiyoomi’s utter dismay and unfortunate delight. 

He also never got his gloves back. 

🀦 

The days passed, fluttering by with vibrancy as Miya called him nearly every day. Sometimes it would be in the morning, just as Kiyoomi would be about to go for a run. He’d keep Kiyoomi talking while he ran, saying it was good for his breathing control to chat and run. Other times it would be before bed, late at night just as Kiyoomi was drifting to sleep, the shrill sound of his phone ringing jolting him out of the easy float into unconsciousness. He would answer, far less agreeable than any other time of day, but he wouldn’t ignore Miya. On those particular nights, Miya didn’t seem keen on talking either, they would sit in silence, only listening to the faint sound of each other’s breathing until one or both of them fell asleep. Kiyoomi liked these phone calls the most. It seemed to be quite good for Miya as well, as he would always tell Kiyoomi how much better he slept, knowing that Kiyoomi was there.

On very bad days, Miya would call him in a despondent mood, unable to console even himself. Kiyoomi imagined it took a lot of strength to look at yourself every day, to know you’re slowly losing a battle you never had a chance of winning. These days were his least favorite. Miya called, simply to pick a fight. He’d goad Kiyoomi, tease him or simply try to get under his skin until he inevitably snapped back, sending the call into a deafening silence that clawed at Kiyoomi’s conscience. Then he’d wait, telling Miya that he would call back when he’d had a chance to cool off. 

It happened often, and yet Kiyoomi never found himself willing to leave it when they did that; when they pick at each other’s wounds. He always called again, Miya apologized– he would too. He’d ask what was truly bothering Miya, and the man would stay dutifully quiet. ‘Just a bad day,’ he’d whisper. And only on those days, Kiyoomi found himself well and truly helpless.

At some point, well into April, like any other day, Kiyoomi hurried around his apartment, phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder as he tried to get out the door. He told Miya three times he had to go, that he had practice and he would call him later. Yet he was still, regrettably, listening to Miya babble about the ‘boring and headache-inducing TV programs the hospital has.’ 

“Miya.” He interrupted another long tangent, “I really have to go, right now.” Kiyoomi was now toeing his shoes on his feet and poking his arms through his jacket. He switched his phone from where it was pressed against his cheek to his free hand. “I have practice.” 

“Practice? What kind of practice?” Miya asked, as if Kiyoomi hadn’t mentioned that’s what he was doing a hundred times by now. 

Kiyoomi slung his gym bag over his shoulder and stepped out of his apartment. “Volleyball. I play professional volleyball.” He locked his door and turned to leave. He made it halfway down the stairs when he realized that the phone line was quiet. He checked to see if the call was still ongoing– it was– and pressed it against his ear once more, tentatively reaching out. “Miya?”

The resounding shriek had Kiyoomi jumping and pulling his phone far from his ear. “You WHAT?” Miya sounded hysterical, the crackle of his voice over Kiyoomi’s speakers was frantic as he continued to assault Kiyoomi with questions. “What’s yer position? What team d’ya play for? Why the hell haven’t ya brought this up before!?”

Kiyoomi stood dumbfounded, he hadn’t thought much of it at the time, and Miya never asked him what he did for a living anyway. “You didn’t ask.” He walked out onto the street and made his way towards the gym as he answered the rest of Miya’s onslaught of questions. “I play for the MSBY Black Jackals as an outside hitter.” 

When Miya was uncharacteristically silent on the other end, Kiyoomi felt a monumental sense of satisfaction to finally have rendered him speechless. “Why do you care anyway?” He asked with a wry grin. 

“Ah. I used ta play.”   

The longing in his tone pierced Kiyoomi’s heart and he wished he hadn’t teased him. Unknowingly or not, it was clearly a tender subject for Miya. He was not prepared for the sincerity and sadness of Miya’s voice. As if he sensed Kiyoomi’s plight, Miya let up, switching his tone to the usual song-bird pitch as he exclaimed with pride, “I’m a setter!”  

He thought of his own setter. He was good, he was a professional athlete after all, but he wondered what playing with Miya would be like. Surely, he would be an attentive and daring setter, his playstyle modeling closely to his personality: dangerous, unpredictable, and absolutely insatiable. Before he could think better of it, Kiyoomi found himself saying, "You should set for me one day." 

🀦 

To: Miya Atsumu [Sent 8:17 AM] 

Attached: IMG_0603

Hinata was sprawled across Bokuto’s back, one arm tightly wrapped around the man’s neck and the other arm flung towards the gym ceiling, his hand molded into the shape of a peace sign. Bokuto, on the other hand, looked just short of toppling over but still had an easy grin spread across his face as he held Hinata in position. Neither of his teammates questioned Kiyoomi when he requested that they pose for a picture before the start of practice. 

“Sakusa-san!” Hinata bounced over, his excitement nearly boiling over as he began flitting around Kiyoomi. “Did you get a good photo? Who’s it going to? Can we take more?” The red-head rattled off question after question, bouncing on his toes as he tried to take a peek at Kiyoomi’s phone. After sending the single photo off to Miya, he locked his phone quickly and pocketed it. He didn’t want to indulge Hinata’s questions because it would inevitably lead to more personal things that Kiyoomi would like best if kept private. He didn’t need the weepy and owlish blinks of sympathy from either of his teammates when he had to explain who Miya was.

He didn’t check his phone again until practice was over and he’s walking home.

From: Miya Atsumu [Received 8:20 AM] 

Audio Message

Raise to listen

Kiyoomi pressed play with his earbuds in and was immediately immersed in the sound of Miya's voice.

“Are those yer teammates?” They look so fun! I can’t believe a prickly urchin like ya could end up with such excitable people willin’ ta take a picture fer ya.” 

Kiyoomi scoffed at that, it’s not like he could choose his teammates, nor could they. He willfully ignored the fact that he tried out to play for MSBY, knowing who his teammates would be beforehand– but that wasn’t something he felt inclined to share with Miya. 

“–What’s their positions? C’mon Omi…Ya can’t just send me a photo of yer friends and not tell me anythin’ bout ‘em. The beef on that one guy makes me think he’s a wing spiker…but the little one, he ain’t a libero is he? Wha–” 

Miya’s perception stunned him, he could understand why he’d assumed Bokuto was a spiker. It was practically written across his forehead. If you couldn’t tell by his canon-sized biceps, then you’d get it within five seconds of talking to him. Hinata on the other hand, that was interesting. Anyone would assume the guy was a libero, with his height being the first thing most people notice. They tend to have the shortest players, but somehow Miya saw that there was more than meets the eye to his fiery teammate. 

From: Miya Atsumu [Received at 8:20 AM]

Audio Message

Raise to listen

“Shit. My thumb slipped and the message cut. I don’ really know how ta use this but Sunarin said it’d be easier fer me than textin’, which it kinda is, but s’annoying. Anywho. Can I meet ‘em? Oh! An’ who’s yer setter? I bet ‘m better.” 

It wasn’t that Kiyoomi was entirely opposed to Miya meeting those two. In fact, he’d venture a guess and say that the three of them would get along rather well. It wasn’t a concern if they’d like each other, with his teammates being the kind of people to befriend anything that moved, but if Kiyoomi wanted to allow Miya into his life like that. It was one thing to visit Miya when he had time, to meet up with him and indulge Miya’s erratic and disorienting sense of entertainment. It was a different thing entirely to welcome him into Kiyoomi’s life, to meet the people that Kiyoomi– whether he wished to admit it or not– deeply cared about. Something in the small hint of hesitation that he heard in Miya’s voice told Kiyoomi that Miya was well aware of what it meant. 

It was a step farther into a relationship with him, a relationship that Kiyoomi never intended. One that he had been adamant from the beginning that he would never allow. If he allowed this, he couldn't take it back. It meant that not only was Miya now involved in his life, but he was a large part of it too. 

When Kiyoomi really considered it, he realized that Miya had become a huge part of his life already, and meeting his teammates was unlikely to change that momentum in the slightest. With a long sigh, he held the microphone icon with his thumb and slid it up to lock it as he replied.

“Bokuto Koutarou, the ‘beefy one’ is an outside hitter, like myself. And, though I have no clue how you guessed, Hinata Shouyou- the human tangerine hanging off of Bokuto, he’s also a spiker. He plays Opposite, actually. I don’t normally indulge them with details of my personal life…However, if… If you would like to meet them, they’d be ecstatic.” He let out the breath he was holding, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He couldn’t believe himself, but it was too late now.

He added the last, most damning part. “I will probably regret this. But, you could sit in with one of our practices and meet the team.” 

He sent the message off, watched it sit until it was marked as delivered, and then seen.

🀦 

Somehow, Miya looked far more nervous than Kiyoomi felt. 

Ever since they walked out of the hospital doors, Miya was unable to stop talking. He rambled endlessly about nothing as they made their way to the train station Kiyoomi just came from. The hospital was out of the way, situated in the complete opposite direction of the gym and his apartment. It was mildly inconvenien, but the truth of the matter was he wanted to accompany Miya to the gym. It stuck in his brain– a persistent and uncomfortable nag that he shouldn’t arrive without him. So, despite the extra, likely needless train ride, they stepped onto the train together. 

It was relatively empty, late enough in the morning that the rush was over but early enough that no one was headed out for lunch. They easily found seats right next to one another. Miya occupied the space obnoxiously, spreading his legs wide, and knocking one of his knees against Kiyoomi’s. Every so often Miya’s leg would bounce and brush against his. The contact made his blood sing. 

He observed the man next to him. Hues of the morning light cast Miya in an orange glow that illuminated the dark lashes framing his eyes, turning them gold. Miya’s gaze was fixed on his lap, his hands playing with the bag strap perched there. “Are you nervous?” Kiyoomi asked, voice a hair above a whisper, though it still made Miya flinch.

He shifted in his seat and laughed a little, breathy and disingenuous. “How could’ja tell?”

Kiyoomi laughed a little himself, perhaps at Miya’s absurdity or his own. It was often hard to tell these days which one of them was the bigger fool. “Call it a hunch,” he mused, eying Miya’s fiddling hands in his lap. 

They sat in silence again after, with Miya jittering so badly that it jostled the bench they sat on. After several irritating moments, Kiyoomi attempted to console him. “You’ll be fine.” He said, “they’re much more nervous about meeting you than you are of them, and– despite your horrible personality–”

“-Hey!” Miya squawked. 

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, a fond smile fighting to break through. “-They could befriend a rock, so I have no doubt that they’ll fawn over you the millisecond they see you.” 

Miya raised a thick brow. “And why’s that, Omi ? Never brought anyone home before?” He blinked innocently at Kiyoomi with a sweet smile.

Kiyoomi wrinkled his nose, reaching up to flick Miya’s forehead. Miya batted his hand away with a laugh. The idea that he would bring Miya home sent butterflies swarming in his stomach. He wished he could stamp them out, drown them, or suffocate them as color rose high on his cheeks. “Shut up.” 

They got off at their station eventually and walked the distance to Kiyoomi’s gym. He and Miya walked through the halls side by side, the blond exclaiming various notes of appreciation or gasps. It fueled Kiyoomi’s ego, although he’d rather die than admit that. Quietly, he just appreciated Miya’s unfiltered babbling about ‘how nice the building is,’ and how he needled Kiyoomi for his guest pass, calling him a ‘big shot.’ He wouldn’t say so, but it was technically true. They all are, at least in the world of volleyball. 

He guided Miya to the open gym, the net already strung up on both courts, Coach Foster sitting on the bench overlooking it all with a ready clipboard and a stern but friendly face. He stopped just in front of Foster, and cleared his throat. “Coach, this is Miya Atsumu,” he gestured to the man next to him, “the…friend I told you about.” 

Coach Foster looked up in mild surprise, eyes widening just a fraction before he quickly recovered. “Ah, that’s right.” He stood from the bench, extending an arm to Miya, to which the blond eagerly thrusted out his own hand in return. Coach grabbed his forearm with a grin, “It’s nice to meet you, Miya-kun. It’s not often that Kiyoomi brings friends or family to practice, unlike the rest of my boys.” 

Kiyoomi flushed in embarrassment when Miya’s eyes slid to him, shining with mirth. A knowing grin plastered across his face. "Ah, guess ‘m lucky then. Omi-Omi hadn’t even mentioned ta me that he played volleyball until a couple days ago.” He said airily, waving his free hand in the air. “Such a private guy, that one.” 

Kiyoomi had imagined five different ways he’d kill Miya Atsumu since 7AM. He was about to disagree when the rest of the team filed in noisily, interrupting the scathing reply he intended to grace Miya with. Coach Foster gave the side of Miya’s shoulder a brief slap and stood next to him. The team lined up in front of them, side by side, eyeing them with curious and eager looks. 

Coach Foster cleared his throat and addressed the team. “Everyone, listen up. This,” he gestured to Miya, “is Miya Atsumu, a friend of Sakusa’s. He’ll be watching practice today, and possibly getting out there to play with you all.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes widened. He hadn't expected Coach Foster to allow Miya to play, he only casually mentioned the blond’s history as a way to explain the reason for his presence. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea, given his health. He shot an anxious glance over to Miya, but when he saw the glow of excitement on Miya’s face, his protests died on his tongue.

Miya’s face was split wide with a grin when Coach turned to him, “How does that sound to you, Miya-kun? Would you like to play a bit?” 

“I’d be honored, sir.” 

Foster clapped his hands together once, smiling gently. “Good. You boys go ahead and get changed. The rest of you, get to work.” 

Although that was a dismissal, no one moved. His teammates stood completely still, each and every one of them smiling something fierce. Meian stepped forward from the line-up first, directing his gaze at Miya. 

Kiyoomi’s stomach sank. 

“My name’s Meian Shuugo. I’m a middle blocker and the captain of this clusterfuck of a team, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

He would have liked to punch Meian for the unnecessary ‘finally’ he added. But Bokuto came next before he could seriously consider it.

In Bokuto-fashion, he rushed toward Miya and Kiyoomi mentally kicked himself. “Hey, Hey, Hey! I’m Bokuto Koutarou!” He splayed his arms wide, “I can’t wait to play with you! Say, are you the one Sakkun sent our picture too?” His wide golden eyes glittered with curiosity as he stood ridiculously close to Miya. 

Kiyoomi internally cringed but Miya only smiled, undeterred by their proximity. “Sure am, Bokkun.” He purred. Kiyoomi didn’t need to make eye contact with Miya to know what kind of face he was making. He knew this would be a mistake, although he shouldn’t have been surprised by how fast he realized it.

“Uwaaaahhh!”

And there came Hinata, bouncing forward like a child. “We’ve never met one of Sakusa-san’s friends before!” 

Kiyoomi willed the gods to smite him out of existence. He could feel his embarrassed flush glowing hot beneath his mask. He was in the midst of imagining new and curious ways of dying as Hinata introduced himself.

Barnes, bless that ridiculously large man, buried his hand in the orange fluff of Hinata’s hair and stilled him with a kind smile, “Oi, slow your roll, we don’t want to give Sakusa an aneurysm.”

Kiyoomi appreciated someone backing him up, except that now, all eyes fell to him.

Quietly swearing to himself, he ripped off his mask, and walked past everyone. He prayed the stain of a blush wasn't as evident on his skin as he felt it was when he walked by. “Can we start practice already?” He asked icily, sending a glare over his shoulder. “You can harass Miya later, I’d rather not waste more valuable practice time over this.” 

“Awwww, Omi-Omi. Are ya embarrassed?” Miya cooed, fluttering his lashes with faux innocence. 

Kiyoomi stopped in his tracks, shoulders hiking up to his ears. “That’s enough, Miya.” He hissed, nails digging into the meat of his palm in his enclosed fists. He turned to him, anger nipping at his skin in needle-like pricks. He was about to kick him out. Drag Miya back from whence he came, right through the front doors, when a snort poorly covered by a cough caused his anger to deflate.

“Omi-Omi,” Inunaki whispered, snickering underneath the cover of his hand. Horror zapped down Kiyoomi’s spine as he realized what Miya had just called him in front of everyone. 

“That’s so cute, Sakusa-san! Can I call you that too?” Hinata beamed at him. He was about to respond, that no he absolutely could not. That he doesn’t even want Miya to call him that, before the redhead directed a bright smile to Miya. “How’d you get him to let you call him that?" Hinata asked. "We can’t even get him to go out for drinks with us, and you get to call him a nickname!” 

Miya looked positively delighted, like he was some kind of unicorn gracing the presence of a bunch of plebians. No one was safe from Kiyoomi’s prickly and scathing personality, no one that they had ever known, not even his own cousin. Except now. Except for him. And now, Miya knew.

“Cause ‘m special, Shou-kun.” 

Something within Kiyoomi snapped at the smugness dripping off Miya's words. He’d been pent up all day, overrun with anxiety and paranoia. He’d finally had enough, and before he could think, he stomped over to Miya and reached for him. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I’m doing you a favor. You don’t need to be here, I don’t even want–”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Foster’s voice boomed across the gym, echoing against the walls and saving Kiyoomi from spilling vitriol that he could never take back. “That’s enough teasing for today, don’t you think?” 

Kiyoomi glared at Miya, breathing heavily. His hands shook where they were balled at his sides. Miya raised both brows and held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, Omi-kun. ‘M sorry.” He murmured, his voice low so as not to let anyone else hear. He rubbed the back of his neck, a light flush across the bridge of his nose. “I got a little carried away, I won’t tease ya anymore. I swear. Jus’ let me stay, would ya?” 

Even Foster waited for Kiyoomi's consent. He eyed them both warily for a moment before excusing everyone else to warm up. Fortunately, this time they listened. 

Kiyoomi scrubbed a pale hand across his face in frustration, gritting his teeth as he considered himself for a moment. He knew this would happen. It should be no surprise that his teammates acted like that. They were just as curious about Miya as he was about them and it’s no one’s fault but Kiyoomi’s in the end. He made the decision to bring Miya along and he would see this through, like he promised.

He conceded after a long moment with a sigh. “Fine,” Kiyoomi said, running trembling fingers through his dark curls, causing them to fan wildly around his head. He probably looked as strung out and insane as he felt. 

The tension that was strangling them unraveled all at once, Miya heaving a large sigh of relief. “Okay, cool. Yeah. Cool.” 

“Cool,” he parroted with a roll of his eyes. Kiyoomi nodded toward the locker rooms. “Let’s go change then.” He walked without checking if Miya had followed him, although he knew that he did. Thankfully, at a distance,

It was blessedly quiet, the only sound being the squeak of their shoes against the floor as they entered the locker room. Kiyoomi threw his bag on one of the benches as the occasional muffled slap of a volleyball against the floor echoed in the silence. He pulled out his set of clothes and undressed. His pants were halfway down his thighs when he looked at Miya, who was standing quietly in the same place Kiyoomi had left him, looking sucker punched. 

“Um.” Kiyoomi was about to offer one of the bathroom stalls to change in, if that made him more comfortable, when Miya slapped a hand over his eyes and wailed. 

“Can’t ya warn a guy? Sheesh, if I looked like that, I think I’d be a ripe ‘ol asshole like you too!” 

Kiyoomi’s eyes bulged. “E-excuse me?” He suddenly felt the urge to cover up like some scandalized maiden. Confused and irritated, Kiyoomi crossed his arms over his still-clothed-chest. “I don’t have anything you haven’t seen before–”

“-S’not that–”

“-Then, what is it?”

Miya was resolutely looking at the ceiling, the LED light fixtures surely scorching his retinas. “I don’t look like ya. I–I used ta, when I was still playin’ volleyball. But now… I…’S hard to feel good ‘bout myself when ya look like ya do. How am I ta change in front of ya… knowin’, ya know…” He trailed off weakly. 

Kiyoomi didn’t know. He didn’t understand what the deal was. Of course he had an athlete's body, it was literally his job to look like he did. He wouldn’t be able to perform at this level without being at the pinnacle of health. “Miya. We’re just going to practice with my team, not pose for Volleyball Monthly.” Kiyoomi stepped out of his pants, and into his shorts, snapping the elastic waistband over his hips. “It doesn’t matter what your body looks like, Miya. You're fighting a battle of your own. To even be standing here and able to play volleyball is incredible.” He yanked his shirt over his head and pulled his compression long sleeve on as he continued. “Being offensively pretty while you do it is unnecessary, though you seem to be having no issue that I can see.” 

“Ya think I'm pretty?”

Kiyoomi looked up, pausing in the middle of sliding on his knee pads. “Isn’t that fairly obvious? You know you’re good looking.” 

Miya shook his head, his skin paler than Kiyoomi had ever seen him. “A compliment like that has ta be some kind of miracle. But nah, I think ya’ve just not got yer head screwed on straight.” 

Kiyoomi slipped both knee pads on, then his socks, followed by his shoes and stood. Miya was still rooted in his spot, so Kiyoomi went to him. Once he was in front of him, Miya looked curiously up at him. He never noticed their slight height difference before, but Kiyoomi thought he liked it just a little. 

He leaned forward, letting a pale finger brush against the short dark hairs at Miya’s temple. A stray blond hair had drooped forward, brushing against the smooth skin of Miya’s forehead. Kiyoomi pushed it back with a light touch, fingertips on fire.

“Miracles aren’t necessary when you work hard. You don’t need me to tell you how amazing you are, your efforts speak for themselves.” He said quietly, watching Miya’s unreadable expression. Kiyoomi let his hand fall back to his side.

He turned and grabbed his duffle on his bench and placed it in his assigned locker, leaving the door swung open for Miya. He nodded towards his locker, then to the door. “When you’re done changing, you can put your things next to mine and meet me out there.” Kiyoomi was just about to leave when he glanced over his shoulder at Miya, who was still standing exactly where he’d left him, mouth parted and a light flush across his skin. Kiyoomi added, “They’re all waiting for you, so try not to waste too much time hiding in here.” 

Kiyoomi lost himself in drills, hardly acknowledging Miya’s presence in the far corner of the gym as he sat quietly next to Foster. Every once in a while, he’d look over to find him and Foster having a quiet conversation, Miya’s features shifting from his usual playful smirks to a contemplative, nearly solemn expression.

Then Coach Foster blew his whistle, and interrupted Kiyoomi from his trance.

“Spiking drills. Miya, you’re up!” He tilted his chin towards the court, giving Miya a gentle smile. Their official setter set up on the court farthest from the bench, while Miya took residence with a ball cart on the court Kiyoomi stood on. 

Himself, Bokuto, Hinata, and Tomas lined up in the corner, ready to make their run up.

As Miya spun the ball in the palm of his hands, the air around him seemed to change. The intensity of his gaze turned sharp, boring into the ball with a fierceness that had Kiyoomi’s fingers twitching by his sides, palms itching in anticipation. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was that had them all waiting with bated breath, but when Miya finally looked up, Kiyoomi noted that the entire gym was silent. 

Without further theatrics, Miya tossed the ball high for Kiyoomi and he followed it with a bump that flew perfectly above Miya’s head. 

Kiyoomi couldn't take his eyes off Miya as he waited for his set. When Miya called his name, it felt like lightning struck.

“Omi-kun!” Miya shouted, caressing the syllables of that stupid nickname with honeyed warmth. He set the ball high, in an arc so beautiful that Kiyoomi hesitated in his approach for a moment. It spun lightly in the air as it sailed towards the other end of the net, and into the flat of Kiyoomi’s palm with a satisfying smack. He twisted his wrist just before the ball left his point of contact, forcing his signature spin. The ball struck the other side of the court and bounced directly left upon impact. 

Kiyoomi landed gracefully, still staring at the spot that his spike landed with awe. Blood was rushing in his ears, and he wasn’t even sure he was breathing. No one was. Slowly, he turned, meeting Miya’s sparkling gaze and that smile. 

“Nice kill, Omi-Omi!” 

It was the easiest set he’d ever hit. The kind of set that left a sweet taste in your mouth: a little daring but smooth, easy to hit but not directive, and punctuated by pride. Miya’s set seemed to say, ‘You can get this, can’t you?’, and it left a fire burning beneath the skin of Kiyoomi’s palm. It was sensational. Addictive. So very Miya.  

Kiyoomi stared at Miya for another moment, the easy smile on the blond’s lips faltering slowly as Kiyoomi made no other move. All at once, the word begins to move again and so did he. Kiyoomi made his way to Miya slowly. As he walked forward, Miya backed away slightly, bumping into the ball cart. “Uh, Omi?” His gaze flickered warily between him and Coach Foster, like a silent plea for help. 

He stopped right in front of Miya, shoes squeaking sharply against the floor. Neither of them said anything. No one in the gym did either. They all waited for what was bound to be criticism from their notoriously picky spiker. Kiyoomi didn’t mind. But he didn’t tear Miya to shreds like he knew everyone was expecting. He just stared.

Confusion began to color Miya’s features, a bit wary, some amusement, and a fair bit of curiosity in those golden eyes. “Omi?” He whispered.

Kiyoomi reached across the divide between them, the cavern of space that protected his personal space, and grabbed Miya’s hand in his. The touch tingled. But it felt different from every other touch. Miya always felt so warm. He huffed a quiet laugh, followed by a smile. A small and tender thing. “Nice toss, Atsumu.” 

Kiyoomi was still holding Miya’s hand, which had gone limp in his hold. The blond’s lips part, his hooded lids widened in shock. Kiyoomi felt his own smile grow giddy as Miya stuttered over himself, a blush painting his cheeks, down his neck, to the tips of his ears. 

“T-thank ya. Omi– Wow. I–” 

He chuckled, releasing Miya. Kiyoomi walked toward his teammates and to the back of the line to wait for another one of Miya’s sets. As he stood there, he flexed his fingers where they rested at his hip, releasing the tension from his hands. The tingling sensation didn’t leave, but it dulled. “Don’t lose your head Miya,” he called, “or I might think that one was a fluke.”

“Hey,” Meian muttered, blinking owlishly at Miya from the other court. “Did Sakusa just touch you?”

That seemed to wake the rest of them, his teammates falling over themselves to rush up to Miya. Bokuto grabbed Miya’s arm, yanking it towards his face as he stared at his palm with reverence. Miya tried to pull it back, fussing at the man that he’d ruin it. He was in the midst of contemplating what exactly Bokuto was going to ruin when Hinata leveled Miya with the most serious face he’d ever seen the redhead make.

“You can never wash that hand now.” He said, his thin brows pulled down into a scowl.

Kiyoomi grimaced. “Ew.” 

Hinata shook his head slowly as if Miya were a child. “You can’t. No one has ever so much as gotten a high five from Sakusa-san.” Bokuto gave a sage nod of confirmation. 

No one was listening anymore. Not to him nor Coach Foster who had given up completely on trying to wrangle the team. 

The Jackals crowd Miya, offering encouraging slaps on his back while Meian slung an arm across his shoulders and Barnes ruffled Miya’s hair in brotherly affection. They begged Miya to set for them, asked if he’d come back, and whined about him not going pro. Kiyoomi thought about the fact that they didn’t know. They didn't know he was sick and they’d forget they ever met Miya with time. And still, warm brown eyes found his own, a silent request swimming silently in that gaze. 

He nodded once, slow and deliberate. 

Kiyoomi thought that, perhaps, Miya may be a little special after all. 

They practiced long into the day, taking a break for lunch, and resuming again well into the evening. When they’re back on the train, side by side again, a delicious soreness developing in their muscles, Miya was surprisingly quiet.

Kiyoomi tossed his head back, letting it knock gently against the glass window behind him. “You know, they’ll never let me live that down. They are going to be obsessed with you forever.” 

Beside him, Miya snickered. “I know, I have Bokkun and Shouyou-kun's numbers now. They’ve already texted me and asked to get drinks." Miya smiled broadly, exclaiming, "I don’t even drink!” Kiyoomi’s eyes crinkled slightly, his smile hidden underneath the fabric of his mask. “They’re idiots. But,” Kiyoomi let his head lull to the side, taking in Miya’s profile. “What is that phrase? Like begets like, and all that.” 

“Mean, Omi-Omi.” Miya whined, though he was still smiling, a dimple indenting his cheek. He hadn't realized Miya had a dimple and found himself wanting to turn Miya's head to see if there was a matching one on the other cheek. 

Instead, Kiyoomi shrugged, conveying his indifference with a small hum. 

Miya turned his head too, resting it gently against the back of the seat. They were close, mere inches from each other. If Kiyoomi hadn’t had his mask on, he’d probably feel the warmth of Miya’s breath against his face. One side of Miya’s mouth twitched upwards, Kiyoomi’s eyes drawn to the movement. He watched his red, bitten lips for a moment, the sudden urge to brush his thumb against the skin plaguing his mind. 

Kiyoomi eventually let his eyes rise to meet Miya’s waiting ones. He appeared unable to pick a focal point, flickering between Kiyoomi’s eyes and where his mouth would be behind his mask. “I’m a little jealous,” Miya whispered, the ghost of a smile still staining his expression. “Yer living the life I always dreamed of.”

The words held him hostage the moment they were shared. The movement of the train and the other passengers faded from view. He bit the inside of his cheek, the iron taste of blood heavy on his tongue. 

“Will you?” He rasped out. 

Miya made a questioning noise, “Will I what?”

“Will you play again?”

Miya’s expression crumpled. Kiyoomi hated it, that expression didn't belong on Miya. The doubt and fear edging its way across his face. 

“I don’t know,” he answered, his brows furrowed and eyes downcast. “I don’ know how I’ll be. You know, in the future.” Miya looked up at him, the depth of his sorrow darkening his gaze.

“I’m tired Omi, ‘M real tired…” 

Kiyoomi knocked the back of his knuckles against Atsumu’s sternum. “We have time.” 

They were silent the rest of the train ride and the entire walk back to the hospital. He and Miya stood in front of the sliding doors of the entrance of the hospital, the artificial light of the waiting room casting hollowed shadows against Miya’s face. Absent-mindedly, Kiyoomi thought the morning sun looked much better on him. 

“Thanks fer today, Omi.” Miya’s voice seemed loud against the silence around them. 

Kiyoomi shoved his hands deep in his pockets, eyes trained on the sidewalk. “See you around, Miya.” He turned to leave, sending one last glance over his shoulder as he walked back to the train station. Miya stood at the entrance of the hospital, staring at the doors, still firmly closed shut. 

“Something wrong?” He asked, halting in his steps. Kiyoomi nearly turned back around but he was quickly waved off. 

“Nah, ‘M fine. See ya ‘round.” 

Miya walked toward the doors. They slid open for him once he was a few feet away, and Kiyoomi watched as they closed behind him.

On his walk back to the train, he wondered how the length of time to a dying person was measured. How long, exactly, was long? 

🀦 

Kiyoomi accidentally let slip that he had invited a friend to watch his practice to Motoya one night over the phone, and predictably, Motoya did not let it go. His cousin latched onto the information tightly, and every single time they spoke after his slip-up, Motoya insisted that he needed to meet Miya.

Eventually, Kiyoomi got tired of being hounded and gave in. He brought Motoya to the hospital on their next free day. And s surprising absolutely no one, his cousin and Miya get along quite well. Too well. Like a house on fire.

Kiyoomi was not like his cousin, who returned Miya’s cocksure smiles with a bright one of his own and rosy cheeks. And Miya, ever the glutton, seemed to eat up the attention, putting on double his usual theatrics for Motoya’s airy giggles.

He knew that logically, it meant nothing. Miya would flirt with anything that moved, of that he was certain. But with his cousin? His own blood? The idea of it has anger boiling in his belly. Neither of them seemed aware of Kiyoomi’s discomfort and he felt mildly tempted to drag his cousin out by his hair as he smiled oh so sweetly at Miya for the 100th time. 

He lost track of their conversation some time ago, opting instead to stare boredly out the window. It didn’t seem like he even needed to be there, he thought, as he felt the mild throb of jealousy turn over in his gut. It had just been he and Miya for so long that he’d forgotten how captivating Miya was. How easily he absorbed every person’s interest. Kiyoomi considered that perhaps his cousin was more suited for this anyway. Motoya was a better conversationalist, by far. He outclassed Kiyoomi in charm and friendliness by miles. It would probably be better for Miya if his chronically optimistic and endearing cousin spent time with him instead of Kiyoomi. Though the very thought of it made him sour more. 

“So how old are ya anyway?” 

He didn’t realize anyone spoke to him until he looked up and found both pairs of eyes staring directly at him. 

“What?” He asked, a little wary of being thrown into a conversation he had no part of. 

Motoya wheezed, hiding his laughter behind his hand. “He doesn’t know how old you are, Kiyo? Seriously?” 

Miya gaped, eyes positively shining. "Kiy-"

"No." He pointed at Miya, stopping that trainwreck before it could develop. Miya's excitement wilted like a starved flower with a quiet harumph.

He couldn't handle Miya saying his given name. He really couldn't. Omi was more than enough. 

“How old do you think I am?” Kiyoomi mused, quirking a thin brow. Miya perked up again before his face scrunched together in thought, finger tapping against his chin. Then, before Kiyoomi could make fun of him, his face relaxed suddenly, eyes widening as the metaphorical light bulb went off.

“Thirty.” He stated, with all the confidence of an astute professor from Harvard. 

It was his turn to gape. 

Motoya howled in laughter behind him as Kiyoomi stood shock-still, mouth working uselessly as Miya was overcome with his own bubbling laughter. “Was I far off?” He giggled, the faint indent of that dimple marking his cheek. Only his left cheek. 

“Far off? Far off?” Kiyoomi scoffed. “You think I’m fucking thirty?” 

Miya didn’t answer. His laughter echoed in the tiny hospital room, mouth wide as he threw his head back, the long column of his throat exposed. He wiped a few stray tears from his eyes as he tried, and failed, to get his breathing under control. Motoya ended up answering him, “You do look a little seasoned sometimes, Kiyo.” He offered unhelpfully. Kiyoomi swiveled around to face his cousin, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You. Shut up.” 

Miya seemed to find his voice then, “So, yer, what, twenty-eight?”

He swiveled back around, raising his hands in the air before they fell lip at his sides. “No!” He shouted. Kiyoomi drew his right hand to his face, running his fingers through his curls with an exasperated huff. “I turned twenty-three in March.” He added, “March 20th.” 

“Oh!” Miya chirped, “we’re the same ag– Wait! I missed yer birthday?!”

Kiyoomi watched Miya’s features flick from overjoyed to horrified alarmingly fast. “How could ya not tell me?!”

In his opinion, he thought he had a perfectly reasonable explanation: they didn’t know each other that well back then. It was months ago, and their closeness had changed drastically since. For some reason, though, guilt began to gnaw at him. Miya seemed to get frustrated over things like that, things that Kiyoomi wouldn’t think twice about. A couple months is not technically a lot of time. Not in the numerical sense. 

To Miya though, it was everything.

“It didn’t seem that important at the time." Kiyoomi said mournfully. "I’m sorry.”

“Next year, we’ll celebrate it together.” Miya held out a trembling pinky, determined amber eyes fixed on Kiyoomi. “Swear it ta me.” 

Kiyoomi sighed, linking his own pale finger around Miya’s. He had no idea what Miya's obsession with pinky swearing was. He found it childish. He'd do it anyway, though. Miya never made him swear on anything that wasn't important, if only to him.

“I swear it.”

For a moment, he completely forgot that his cousin was with them until Motoya cleared his throat from behind them.

He was completely silent, nearly awe-struck, and Kiyoomi couldn’t figure out why until he looked down at his and Miya’s hands. He and Miya were touching, without him breathing a word of complaint or even a half-assed threat. Stricken by the realization, he yanked his own hand back, brushing it casually against the side of his pants. 

“Kiyo,” Motoya called, “Can I speak to you, privately, for a moment?” 

Kiyoomi winced, knowing what Motoya wanted to talk to him about. 

“Yes.” 

His cousin waved a casual apology to Miya before walking out into the hall with Kiyoomi in tow. He walked with his head hung and his hands stuffed into his pockets. Discomfort blossomed underneath his skin. He felt vulnerable and Kiyoomi didn’t like the knowing look in Motoya’s eyes. He had nothing to hide and nothing to feel as trapped by that stare as he did. And yet, when his cousin stopped him in the hall and leveled him with that quiet but perceptive gaze, he felt restless. 

“You care for him.” His cousin said. It wasn’t proposed as a question, just a plainly stated fact. Although he felt inclined to disagree, he couldn’t seem to voice his opposition. So he just shrugged. 

Motoya’s eyes widened, eyes glittering in a way that made Kiyoomi feel seen in ways he’d rather not be. Of course, Motoya could never just make it easy for Kiyoomi. 

"Kiyoomi, you know what that means, right?"

Kiyoomi wrung his hands together. He didn't even want to think it. He knew what his cousin was implying, and he couldn't stand the idea of it. "It doesn't mean anything, Motoya. Drop it."

Motoya sighed, long and worn, relenting. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Kiyoomi?

The question made him pause. He wasn’t certain, in all honesty. He couldn’t promise his cousin that he was. Kiyoomi’s protest stuck deep in the recess of his throat. He refused to lie, not to himself, or to his cousin. “I don’t know… but, can I really just leave after everything?” After all the time that Kiyoomi had spent with Miya, leaving suddenly left a bad taste in his mouth. 

“I love you, Kiyo. I really do. Know that I am only saying this because of that. But, can you live with staying?”

He didn't know. 

Motoya left with little else to say, only making Kiyoomi promise that he’d keep in touch. He walked the short distance back to Miya’s room and suddenly felt nauseous. He shoved that feeling down with a deep breath and opened the door. Miya didn’t turn when Kiyoomi entered, but he could tell that Miya was smiling as he faced the window. 

“Sheesh. It’s real ugly out today. Don’t ya think Omi?”

Kiyoomi followed Miya’s gaze to the large window in his hospital room, the grey skies casting a muted hue to the earth as rain pelted the window with fat drops. Rain wasn’t all that unusual for the summer months in Japan. It was a warm but short shower, only in the dying hours of the afternoon.

Kiyoomi hummed, “I don’t know. I kind of like it.”

Miya huffed a small laugh, looking at him through those long lashes. “Yer the gloomiest person I’ve ever met.” 

Kiyoomi simply shrugged, unable to refute him. To the personification of the sun, he could imagine he probably was a little dull in comparison. “How else should I be? Like you, then?”

Miya turned back toward the window again, a shadow of a smile on his lips. They never seemed to leave him: the smiles, the laughter, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. It seemed to be a permanent fixture on the man he’d come to know. “Nah. I like the way ya are.”

Kiyoomi stilled, the creep of a blush warming his face followed by the sinking feeling of guilt. He wanted to tell Miya to shut up, not to say things like that, not to him. Not when he didn't deserve it. “What’s your favorite weather, then, if mine is so terrible?” Kiyoomi asked instead.

“I’ll give ya two guesses.” 

He didn’t need to guess, not even a little. “Sunshine and rainbows?” Kiyoomi asked, tilting his head just so to catch the blond's expression. He was shocked to find that Miya’s expression is dull, nearly lifeless as he watched water drip down the window panes. Tentatively, he reached out, his fingers brushing against Miya’s cotton covered shoulder. “Miya?” 

He jolted as soon as Kiyoomi’s fingers touched him, like he was electrocuted. Miya blinked, clearing the storm fogging those honey brown irises and turned to Kiyoomi with the same magnificent smile he’d always seen plastered on his face. It would be a great smile, if it were a real one.

On the outside, nothing obviously changed about Miya in the time Kiyoomi had known him. He was always so full of life, fitting for a man who loved sunshine. And perhaps it was Kiyoomi’s imagination… but, he seemed to snap, just a little, like he suddenly remembered the burden that he was shouldering. Miya seemed to remember all at once that he was dying. His silence was terrifying. 

When Miya talked, he talked like he breathed: fully, easily, and without thought.

In silence, Miya scared him. His silence was always harrowing because the things that followed always stole Kiyoomi's breath. 

“Hey, Omi.” 

Kiyoomi held his breath.

“Yes?”

Miya shifted off his spot on the bed, legs swinging down off the edge as he turned his entire body in Kiyoomi’s direction. He leaned forward, curious amber eyes locking with Kiyoomi’s unwavering stare. It was hard, Kiyoomi thought, maintaining eye contact with Miya when he got like this. But Kiyoomi was nothing if not competitive, so he stared right back, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

“Do you have a soulmark?”

Kiyoomi shrunk back, in horror, in surprise. It felt like being doused in cold water. Kiyoomi wasn’t expecting that question, Miya had never spoken a single time about soulmates, not since they met. Kiyoomi figured it was a sensitive subject and glaringly similar to his own issue. It was unspoken, neither of them are willing to damn themselves by saying it out loud.

Until now.

He wasn’t prepared to give Miya an answer. Kiyoomi didn't want to. Miya waited for him patiently to build his own courage.

“Yes," Kiyoomi whispered. "I do.”

The answer left him feeling rubbed raw. It felt intimate. And even though it was the truth, it felt so wrong. Miya looked rubbed raw too, his usual upturned lips were stuck in a flat line. He appeared to be in deep thought, like he wasn’t expecting Kiyoomi to answer him.

Kiyoomi felt the sudden urge to comfort him. He wanted to tell Miya that he never even wanted to know his soulmate. That he didn't care, it meant nothing to him. Yet when he tried to turn that thought into words, it felt poisonous. The words weighed far heavier on his tongue knowing what he did. Knowing Miya. 

Kiyoomi had never regretted his complaints about Miya’s unending chatter more than he did then. All that filled the stifling silence in the air was the gentle beep of Miya’s heart monitor and the patter of the rain. 

“What–” Kiyoomi wasn’t sure where he was going with this. How to carry them after this. His throat clicked as he swallowed. “What about you? Do you have a soulmark?”

The millisecond the words left his mouth, he wished he could stuff them back in. Kiyoomi realized all at once that he didn't want to know the answer to his own question. He could bear the burden of this uncomfortable silence in trade. No matter what answer Miya gave, it would damn them both. If he had a mark, it meant that there was a person waiting to meet him, a person that wasn't Kiyoomi. It hurt, badly. However, it was unequivocally better than the alternative. The one that made Kiyoomi want to hide, the one that Kiyoomi spent the entirety of his life wishing wouldn't be the case. 

The one in a million chance that Miya Atsumu was his, the other half of his heart and soul, and he was dying. 

Only, Kiyoomi had never been that lucky, and to his horror, Miya’s face turned defeated and crestfallen. He looked down at his hands, the same ones that sent the most perfect set Kiyoomi has ever seen. Miya spoke quietly, so gently that the rain nearly drowned him out. “I don't have any flowers, Omi-Omi, and maybe that’s a blessing. Time has always eluded me.”

They sat together, unmoving and silent, for so long that the rain cleared to a light drizzle. Then the clouds parted and sunshine broke through. Yet Kiyoomi was still sitting in the exact same seat, not having spoken since he made the mistake of asking Miya about his soulmark. Kiyoomi used to love the quiet.

It was grounding, it felt like coming home. Here in the tiny corner of their universe, the silence was suffocating.

He excused himself, a whisper of an excuse on his lips as he tore down the hallway and out of the building.

🀦 

Game season started, and sometimes Kiyoomi had to be away. In another city, still under the same sky, but far from where he wanted to be. With Miya. On those days Kiyoomi was hardly able to talk to him. The only word he got from Miya was always at the very end of the day, when Kiyoomi was settled into bed. Win or loss, Miya would send him a small thumbs up. A curt, and sometimes inappropriate display of support that signified that Miya had watched him play.

On rare occasions, he’d have the single emoji and a slew of follow up voice notes filled with comments on his performance. They’d argue, Kiyoomi would vehemently disagree with Miya’s critique, but on the days they did agree, when Kiyoomi felt off his game, he’d tell Miya so.

As expected, Miya was extremely perceptive, often giving Kiyoomi sound advice and a fair amount of teasing, which was always to be expected. He and Miya, their conversations, his voice notes. Before Kiyoomi could stop it, they’d become routine.

On his free days, he always met Miya at the hospital. It wasn’t ideal for either of them, he’d rather not spend an abundance of time there, and Miya was like a bird with his wings cut: trapped, defeated, and utterly imprisoned by circumstance. He wasn't designed for captivity, but he was forced into it. 

On a particular free day in August, Kiyoomi found himself in Miya’s hospital room once again. It was decorated, which Kiyoomi supposed would be normal for a long term patient. Bits and pieces of Miya’s personality were scattered around the room: brightly colored pillows thrown carelessly against the empty chairs; small figurines of various characters that Kiyoomi didn’t recognize lined on the window sill; many, many plants bringing an ambiance of warmth and chaos to the room. 

Miya’s hospital room looked exactly like the man that occupied it: chaotic, charming, and so, so warm. For Kiyoomi too, it felt a little like home. 

It looked lived in: every available flat surface was spread with scrawls of paper, ink scribbled on crumpled cardstock. Miya would draw (badly in Kiyoomi’s opinion), or sometimes, he'd journal. Those, Miya tucked away in a folder he slid under his mattress when he thought Kiyoomi wasn't looking. He made Kiyoomi pinky swear he’d never touch them. He swore begrudgingly with a flat look on his face, but said nothing more. It was Miya’s private thoughts after all. Kiyoomi wouldn’t want someone reading his diary if he had one, or anything worth writing. He told Miya this and got an affronted pout, Miya muttering to himself about how it isn’t a diary. Kiyoomi thought it was all the same. 

He’d been in this room for a couple hours, Miya on his bed and Kiyoomi poised in the adjacent seat. He listened when Miya talked about everything and nothing. He babbled listlessly to Kiyoomi and after the third rant about his brother, Kiyoomi’s eyes started to glaze over. 

Rinse and repeat. Around and ‘round they always went. There was comfort in the monotony but after the umpteenth time he shifted in his seat, Kiyoomi found an opportunity to interrupt Miya.

“Miya, let’s take a walk.” He was itching to get out of that godforsaken chair and stretch his legs, for a couple minutes at least. He rose, his joints creaking in protest as he stood. “Come on.” He gestured for Miya to follow him.

Some time ago, the doctor had urged Miya, thusly Kiyoomi since they spent so much time together, that it’d be good for Miya to continue to exercise. He’d lose his strength rapidly, and thus the ability to walk. So, now whenever Kiyoomi was there, they’d walk together. As the months went by, Kiyoomi noticed how quickly Miya tired. At first, he kept up with Kiyoomi’s pace easily, and then at some point, it was Kiyoomi that was slowing to match pace with the lethargic scuff of Miya’s steps. It was the first thing that got chipped away. The first real sign of just how quickly things would change. All until he changed so much that Miya would be unrecognizable. He would change until he was gone, and Kiyoomi couldn’t walk with him ever again.

Despite being interrupted, Miya was unperturbed. He followed easily, sliding off the bed without complaint and shoving his feet into his slippers. 

That's just how Miya was, too. Even when he was exhausted and sweating profusely, he never asked to stop. He never complained. He would just walk until Kiyoomi decided to stop. He admired Miya's strength. He was incredibly fierce and he never gave up. It made Kiyoomi's own cowardice stark in contrast. He was always so bright. Always smiling and laughing as if he wasn't rapidly losing his life in front of their very eyes. 

Kiyoomi reached to slide the door open, just as someone opened it from the other side. He came face to face to a mirror reflection of the man bouncing behind him. It took Kiyoomi a moment to process, he stamped down the urge to whip his head around and confirm that Miya was still behind him. He knew that he was, so this man, with slate gray eyes instead of caramel brown, and dark hair parted in the opposite direction, must be Miya’s brother. His twin brother. 

Behind Miya #2 was arguably the prettiest man that Kiyoomi had ever seen, in an irritatingly intimidating way. He was a hair shorter than the man in front of him, but built far more gracefully, with delicate features, dark hair, thin brows, and intelligent blue eyes that gleamed like sapphires. 

“Samu!” 

Miya pushed his way past Kiyoomi, who still stood motionless at the threshold. Miya’s bony elbows nudged his ribs to get Kiyoomi to move aside. He stepped away from the door with a wheeze as Miya swarmed the new people. The other Miya seemed to be shaken from his surprise as well, his features sliding into an eerily familiar smirk as his brother invaded his space. “Sup, scrub. I brought ya somethin’.”

The cadence of his voice was different, but the accent was all the same. The other twin had a plastic bag slung across one arm, and the other hand carrying two bottled drinks shoved between two thick fingers. The pretty one behind him gently slid past Miya #2 with a delicate hand against the bulk of the man’s arm. He cleared his throat, peering at Kiyoomi through long, dark lashes. “So,” a curious smile graced his face. “You must be the beloved Omi-kun that we’ve heard so much about.” 

His eye twitched irritably at the nickname, but he’d already reconciled with the fact that he’d never be able to get Miya to stop, nor Hinata or Bokuto now either. He could only pray that these two individuals had more sense. 

Kiyoomi felt every pair of eyes on him, searching, waiting. “My name,” Kiyoomi shot an acerbic glare at Miya, standing casually to the side, who avoided his gaze with a low whistled tune, “is Sakusa Kiyoomi.” 

“Ah,” the dark haired boy lifted one of his delicate brows. “I figured we weren’t getting the entire truth there. A generous gift from Atsumu, I presume?” He offered a polite bow, which Kiyoomi returned. 

“Akaashi Keiji,” he introduced himself, and Kiyoomi immediately liked him. Akaashi rested a fair hand against the other Miya’s chest, “and this is Osamu, my husband.” 

Osamu, was apparently not a man of many words, evident in the way he eyed Kiyoomi from his place at the door, and offered only a curt nod in acknowledgment before shoving his brother backwards and ignoring Kiyoomi’s existence entirely. “Where d’ya think yer goin’ hm? Last I recalled, the doctor said yer dumbass is on bed rest. Since ya worked yerself so hard when ya know ya were s'posed ta be takin' it easy."

He blinked, realization sinking in. He hadn’t known– Miya didn’t tell him. Akaashi sensed his panic from next to him. “Don’t feel bad, he wouldn’t have told you even if you tortured him.”

“No, he–”

“-I can handle myself, ya fuckers. I know my own limits!” Miya seethed. He shoved his brother backwards, Osamu only swaying slightly, but it sent the bag still hung on Osamu’s arm careening backwards, the contents nearly falling out as the bottles in his other hand clattered to the ground. 

“Clearly ya don’t!” Osamu shouted back, stepping over the bottle he’d dropped. “It’s yer doctor, ‘Tsumu, it’s literally his job ta know!” Kiyoomi could have sworn he caught the glimpse of steel colored eyes on him, but when he turned to look, he didn't see any evidence that Osamu had taken his eyes off his brother.

Miya fisted the collar of his brother's shirt. “I told ya that ‘m not gonna stop livin’ my life jus’ because I'm dyin'!” His voice broke over the words as he leveled Osamu with a blazing stare. Kiyoomi had never heard Miya so angry before, it made anxiety stir restlessly in his gut.

The fight that surged in the dark haired twin wilted as quickly as it blossomed, Osamu’s broad shoulders sagging with the weight of resignation. Kiyoomi empathized with him, knowing a lost battle when he saw it. Miya would not give up the things he loved just because he was sick. It didn’t mean it was easy. Oh no, It was excruciating as much as it was awe-inspiring.

But it was who Miya Atsumu was to his very core. To know him and to love him meant watching Miya fly with the knowledge that you couldn’t catch him when he fell. He’d plummet, hard, fast, and ruthlessly.

It was all one could do to appreciate the milliseconds he still spent in the air, beautiful as always, before reality sent him toward his end.

Osamu leaned down to pick up the drinks that rolled on the floor, a persistent scowl darkening his features. “Ya don’ deserve my gifts, 'Tsumu. Also,” he tilted his head to the side, sending his brother a withering glare. He gestured to Kiyoomi and Akaashi standing side by side by the door still, watching the twins silently. “Ya trying ta’ say somethin’?” 

Akaashi covered his snort with his hand as Miya stared pointedly at the wall, “Dunno what yer talkin’ bout, Samu.” 

Osamu heaved a sigh that foretold the many, many years he’d dealt with his brother. “Sure, Tsumu, sure.” 

Watching Miya’s family made Kiyoomi suddenly feel like an outsider. Like he didn’t belong and had no right to exist in the same plane of existence as these other, far more important people. Kiyoomi was nothing in comparison. Fragments of moments to be shared and cherished before the inevitable came and knocked him right back into his meaningless place of existence previously.

He had no right to share the space of fear and grief as Miya’s twin and his brother-in-law. Kiyoomi could never measure up. He was never meant to be more. 

It was a funny sort of bittersweet. Kiyoomi knew that Miya was the type to be loved dearly, constantly surrounded by others, and it felt wrong to miss the time he’d spent with Kiyoomi alone. It was selfish, and Kiyoomi couldn’t help hating himself for it. He couldn't help but hate the burn of jealousy that he wasn't as important. If he could be more, they didn't have the time. 

“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you two.” He nodded at both Akaashi, who inclined his head with a small nod, and Osamu, who didn't even bother to look at him.

No one watched him leave, so without another word, he slid the door firmly shut behind him. He walked down those familiar halls, with florescent hospital lights that shone brightly on all the cracks in Kiyoomi’s mighty armor. 

🀦 

The next day, instead of going to visit Miya, Kiyoomi decided to binge a K-drama and have a selfcare day.

He was quite enjoying the peace when his phone suddenly rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone to call. Motoya knew better than to call after 9pm, and there was literally no one else that would bother him at this time of night.

Well, there was one. 

He grit his teeth and picked up his phone from his coffee table. Sure enough, Miya’s contact was glowing brightly on his screen with a request to video call. Kiyoomi stared at his phone, debating, until the screen went black again and a notification popped up that he missed a call. If it was important, Miya would call back. He waited, phone in hand, but Miya didn’t call again. 

That was that, then. He resumed his drama and sipped his tea. It was self care night, he was busy. Kiyoomi was relaxing. 

He lasted an honorable five minutes.

Miya answered the phone after the second ring and his face popped into view under the flickering fluorescent lighting of his hospital room. It washed him out and highlighted his puffy under eyes and the slight hollow of his cheek. Since the day they met in February, Miya had changed. He looked exhausted constantly. His entire demeanor sagged with the crushing weight of it, and no amount of sleep could take it back.

The only thing about Miya that hadn’t wilted was the warm brown eyes that crinkled into near slits as he smiled. “Omi!” 

Kiyoomi felt something deep and painful shift inside his chest, stealing his breath. “Hello.”

Miya’s smile turned to a smirk as he scanned Kiyoomi. It took only a short moment for Kiyoomi to realize he still had his face mask on, his entire face painted green.

“Oh god. Yer really so cute, Omi. I don’t think my wee little heart can handle it!”

Kiyoomi hung up. 

As he was washing his face mask off, he could hear his phone ringing non stop from the living room. When he was fresh faced, sans mask, he answered the call again. 

Immediately, Miya whined. “Omi-Omi! How could ya just hang up on me like that! All I said was how cute ya were! Is that a crime?!” 

“You saw nothing.” 

Miya lifted one of his thick brows. “Yer still wearin’ yer headband.” He pointed to his own head. “Extra cute by the way, the hair clips are everythin’.”

Kiyoomi cursed while he tugged the white bunny eared headband that Motoya gave him as a gag gift off. He pulled the clips out too, cursing his cousin and swearing that upon his death he’d haunt Motoya. “What do you want?” He asked, untangling the last clip from a stubborn knot in his curls. 

“I was bored.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “You mean lonely?”

Miya’s smile was strained as he laughed. “Probably a lot of that too. Samu just left.” 

Kiyoomi wasn’t sure how to respond, or what was appropriate. He was only kidding, but sometimes Miya’s earnestness took him by surprise. Kiyoomi checked the time again.

“He was there late,” Kiyoomi commented idly, picking at the pilling fabric of his comfiest sweatpants. “Does he usually stay that late?” 

He propped his phone against the book on his coffee table about Feng Shui and pulled one of his throw pillows into his lap. There’s some shuffling in the background as Miya does the same. The phone fell a couple times and it made Kiyoomi snort. 

When they’re finally settled, Miya explained. “Yeah, ‘Samu always stays with me.” He sighed, adjusting his position so that he sat with his legs crossed.  “I try to tell ‘im ta go home, but he won’t. He needs ta spend more time with Keiji-kun. I tell ‘im, but I think he’s worried ‘bout me, and it’s not like I can fault him fer that.” 

Kiyoomi wondered if he might feel the same, if it was his brother. Although, given that his siblings and him were decades apart and didn't speak, he figured he probably wouldn’t. “It must be hard,” he said.  

Miya smiled again, a little more warmth in it that time around. “Nothin’ we can’t handle.” 

He thought about how close Osamu and him are. How a loss like that would be like losing a limb. They lived in a world where there was a person designed for everyone; a soulmate, given to them by birth alone. But Miya had a twin, they’d had a person to share their soul with the moment they’d left the womb. It frightened Kiyoomi a little to imagine what it would be like for Osamu once his brother was gone, even if he did have Keiji. It wouldn't change that the other half of his person was gone and would never come back. 

“Can I ask you a personal question, Miya?” Kiyoomi asked. 

“Ask me anythin’.” 

He’d be skeptical of that, if he didn’t know Miya as a person. Not many people truly meant it when they said they were an open book, but Miya always was. It was a strange feeling to know that Kiyoomi could trust him to be authentic, to tell the whole truth as it was, even if it was ugly. Miya never cut corners, he didn’t soften the blow. He was exactly who he was and he never apologized for it. It made asking what he wanted to just a little easier, knowing that Miya would tell him if he crossed a line.

“When were you first diagnosed?” He tugged on the edges of his sweatshirt, feeling compelled to explain himself. “It’s just that, Osamu seemed so unphased, so I guess I just wondered how long it’s been for you guys. From what I read…” He trailed off, unable to bring the words to fruition. From what he’d read, Miya Atsumu shouldn’t be here. Unless he was first diagnosed, and from the sounds of it, he’d been sick for a while. 

“Ah.” Miya ran a hand through his wild blond hair. “Yer real smart Omi-Omi, ya know that?”

Kiyoomi hummed noncommittally.

“It’s not a pretty story, Omi. Ya sure ya want to hear it?”

He gave a derisive snort. Kiyoomi couldn’t imagine it would ever be pretty, being diagnosed with cancer. “I would never be foolish enough to believe something like that could be anything but horrific and tragic. You don’t have to pretend it’s pretty.” 

Kiyoomi settled back into the couch upon realizing he was sneering as he leaned towards the camera. He didn’t know why it irritated him, Miya’s propensity to make light of such horrible things. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have to pretend that he was fine for everyone else’s benefit. He should be allowed to grieve for himself too. 

Miya blinked several times, mouth hung open slightly, before his face splits into an enormous grin. “Ya make me so happy, Omi.” 

Kiyoomi tensed. “That’s a pretty low bar you have, then.” 

“Nah.” Miya disagreed, shaking his head slightly. “I ain’t the smartest guy in the world, but I know a good one when I see one, and yer it, Omi-Omi. Trust me.” 

He wanted to argue, but he knew that Miya wasn’t going to change his mind and Kiyoomi wasn’t even sure why he felt the need to dispel whatever good pretenses that Miya had about him. “You haven’t answered my question.” 

Miya’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ in mock surprise. “Ya caught me.” He cleared his throat, and Kiyoomi watched Adam's apple jump downward and back up. 

“I was 17.”

Kiyoomi felt a wave of nausea hit him so hard he felt his mouth begin to pool with saliva. Seventeen?  He was– Miya was just starting to live. Every single moment that he mourned for himself when he developed his soulmark seemed cheap. How could he have ever thought that his problems could be so bad when someone like Miya found out that he was dying at 17.

Forget being attached to a person that might die, or was already dead. Miya walked with death, and has since he was just a boy. 

“I don’t know what to say.” His voice sounded foreign, even to his own ears. 

Miya panicked, waving his hands in front of the camera like he didn't know what to do with him. Kiyoomi felt shame so poignant he was disgusted with himself. This wasn’t about him, it never had been. So why couldn't he pull himself together?

Miya’s expression went from panicked to utter horror as he looked at Kiyoomi. “Oh, Omi! Please don’t cry!

Kiyoomi blinked, surprised to feel a tear drip down his face. He felt it the moment it dropped from his face into his lap. He rubbed furiously as his own cheeks, eyes ducked. He shouldn’t have been crying. He hadn’t even known that he was. “I–” 

 “–I was– I’m fine. I mean, ‘m not technically, but it’s old news, it’s okay!”  

“Shut up.” Kiyoomi snapped. “Stop saying it’s fine when it isn’t. Why– god. Why do you do that?” He asked, voice breaking. “Why do you try to protect other people from yourself, like you’re doing them a favor by pretending that you’re okay when you aren't.” 

“Omi. I am–”

“No. I see the way your face falls when you think I'm not looking. You don't have to keep pretending, especially not for my sake.”

Miya laughed. “But I am, Omi.” 

More tears well in Kiyoomi’s vision, blurring Miya’s worried face. “How?”

“Omi,” Miya said, more affection in his voice that Kiyoomi personally felt he deserved. “It’s been a long time. I’m 23 years old now. I had time. I came ta terms with the fact that ‘m not meant to last any longer a very long time ago. Frankly, I never should have made it this far. No one is more surprised by that than me.” 

Kiyoomi sniffed, rubbing at his eyes with his fists. 

“Omi!” Miya cried, his voice thick. “Ya gotta stop, yer gonna get me cryin’ and nobody needs ta see that. ‘M a real ugly crier.” 

Kiyoomi lets out a wet laugh. He doesn’t believe him. “I bet you are.”

“There he is.” Miya smiled. “My prickly Omi-Omi.” 

Guilt crept up Kiyoomi’s spine as his tears dried. “I’m sorry.”

Miya waved him off, “Nah. Don’t go apologizin’ ta me. It feels good, I’m a little numb to my situation, I guess. So you remindin' me that I’m allowed to be angry feels nice. Ya make me feel like it’s okay to not be okay.” 

“It is,” Kiyoomi insisted. He needed Miya to know that it would always be okay.

“Yeah.” Miya agreed, “It sure is.” 

Kiyoomi started to feel his pulse throb behind his eyelids. This is why he hated crying. He picked up his phone, carting Miya off with him as he went to his freezer. He picked out his favorite cooling under eye masks, and set Miya down against the fruit bowl on his kitchen counter. His embarrassment left some time ago, though he wasn't sure when. He was unpackaging the gel patches when Miya laughed. “The hell is that, Omi?”

He scoffed at Miya's ignorance. “It’s an eye mask." He wiggled one of the light green patches in front of the camera and it sent Miya into another fit of giggles. "If I wake up tomorrow and my eyes are puffy, I'll have to enact revence and throttle you.”

Miya sighed wistfully. "Ya won't. But even if ya did, that'd be a great way to go, Omi-Omi."

“Yeah, well. At least I'll age gracefully.”

He realized what he’d said a little too late. Before he could backtrack, Miya garbled a surprised laugh. “Yer makin’ jokes now? Well, I’ll just have to trust yer right cause I won’t see it.” 

“I didn’t–” Kiyoomi tried, feeling ashamed. 

“-Don’t be a baby.” Miya admonished. “It’s good to take life a little less seriously sometimes.” 

“You’re an asshole.” 

Miya winked. It reminded Kiyoomi of the first day they met.  “Takes one ta know one, darlin’.” 

Kiyoomi stuck the eye patches on the tender skin underneath his eyes without another word. 

“Hey, d’ya think ya could bring me somethin’ like that the next time you visit?” Miya asked. “I’ve never done a face mask, so I really wanna do one with ya.” 

Kiyoomi considered it for a moment. “No.”

Miya pouted. “Why not?”

Kiyoomi put his pack of eye masks back in the fridge when he asked, “What if we go to a spa instead?” 

He didn’t have to be looking in Miya’s direction to know that the man was excited. The sound of his squeal said more than enough. “D’ya mean it Omi? I haven’t ever been to one before!” 

Kiyoomi did mean it. “I’ll have to get permission from the hospital.” He shot Miya a meaningful look, of which Miya has the decency to look a little ashamed. “But,” he continued, “If the hospital is fine with it, I will take you.” 

Miya cheered, “They’ll say yes! I know they will, they love me.” 

“Not if you can’t follow simple directions.”

“I can follow directions jus’ fine! I swear ya have no faith in the Miya charm.”

Kiyoomi hid his smile underneath the palm of his hand, “You’re right. I do not.” 

Miya waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Ya really should. Especially since it works so well on ya.” 

Kiyoomi spluttered, tripping as he walked back to his living room, a blush riding high on his cheeks. “It does not.” 

Miya laughed at him, his voice dripping with smugness. “Ya don’t hide a blush that well, Omi. 'Specially when ya don't have that fancy mask to hide yer pretty expressions.” 

An indignant noise escaped his throat. “I don’t–” Kiyoomi argued, “I do not –”

Miya slapped his knee, sending the phone tumbling, as his howling laughter echoed in Kiyoomi’s ears. “Wow, Omi. ‘M kiddin’.” He was certain that if he wasn’t blushing before, Kiyoomi certainly was then.

“I’m going to sleep now, if you don’t mind.” 

Miya was still snickering quietly as Kiyoomi hung up on him. 

Kiyoomi got the last word, and yet it feelt like he didn’t win a single thing. He went to bed chewing on that thought and woke up with it still needling in his brain as he researched onsens close by. 

🀦 

It took some groveling, but Kiyoomi managed to convince Miya’s care team to let him take Miya to an onsen. 

He came armed with pamphlets of the onsen he chose and handed them to Miya's lead physician. At first, Dr. Hikashi was completely against the idea, with how Miya overexerted himself the last time that he left the hospital. But Kiyoomi assured the doctor that no such thing would happen. Not under his careful observation. It’s a literal spa, the only thing that they were capable of doing is relaxing. 

Eventually, the doctor agreed with the promise that Miya would be returned the exact way he left. No one needed to mention that Miya Atsumu could turn a funeral into a rave and no one, not even Kiyoomi, was capable of stopping him. 

That was a conversation for a different time. Perhaps, a time like now, as they sat on a long train ride together.

“I haven’t even done anythin’ ta deserve this!” 

“Shut up– No. You need to listen to me.” Kiyoomi poked the tip of his finger into the fat of Miya’s cheek. “You. Will. Behave.” 

Miya scoffed, bumping Kiyoomi’s hand away. “I’m an angel Omi-Omi. Dunno what yer even talkin’ about.” 

Kiyoomi squinted at him. “Or else.” 

An unsaid challenge was hidden deep within the look Miya gave him before he relented with a sigh. “Alright.” Miya threw his hands up in defeat. “I dunno why ya don’ trust me, but it’s fine. I get it. I’ll be a real good boy fer ya.” He punctuated his rant with a wink and Kiyoomi couldn’t decide if throttling him would be worth the prison time.

“You're such a nuisance,” Kiyoomi said dryly. 

“Yer not gonna even try ta deny it?!” 

Kiyoomi was overcome with the need to touch him just then, so he pinched the skin on Miya’s arm instead. “Don’t be so loud.” He looked around, catching the eyes of a few annoyed passengers and whispered harshly into Miya’s ear. “You’re already causing trouble and we haven’t even made it out of Osaka yet!"

Miya pouted, sinking into his chair. “Alright. Sheesh.” His brows were furrowed, pinching together to form a deep wrinkle. He looked genuinely upset and Kiyoomi felt a little bad for snapping at him. He did start it, after all. 

Kiyoomi leaned back, pressing his spine into the padded back of the bench they shared. He wasn’t good at this. He didn’t know how to interact with Miya without it swinging from flirting to fighting faster than he could track.

Out of the corner of his eye, Miya shifted, pulling his body further away from Kiyoomi and pressing flush against the metal arm rests. “Sorry.” Miya bit out. 

Kiyoomi spluttered, sitting upright so fast his back cracked. “Don’t–”

Miya’s long sigh interrupted him. “I won’t cause trouble fer ya anymore, I swear, okay?” He crossed his arms in front of his abdomen, fists balled on either side of his waist. He turned his head to the side, looking down the long train car, away from Kiyoomi. “Leave it ta me to ruin somethin’ good.” He muttered, the words faint as they weren’t meant for Kiyoomi’s ears. 

Kiyoomi’s throat tightened, guilt sinking heavily within his chest. “You’re not a problem, Miya, and I do trust you,” Kiyoomi said, nearly pleading.

Miya still refused to acknowledge him and desperation curled inside him. There were so many eyes on them both, Kiyoomi can feel them like daggers on his skin. Everything itched. He found himself uncomfortably aware of every contact point between him and the chair he occupied. The distance between himself and Miya.

He didn’t want to fight with Miya, he wanted to get closer to him. Yet somehow, Kiyoomi always said the worst possible thing to him and the distance between them became impossible. 

Scorching pain shot down his back, like each point of his soul mark was branding him again. He didn't know why he was so bad at this. He didn't know why he was so incapable of loving someone. “I’m. I don’t–” He stuttered.

When will you let someone love you, Kiyo? 

He couldn’t do it. It suddenly felt uncomfortably hot in the train and the prickling moisture beading on his scalp made him want to rip each and every individual one of his curls out. Miya was finally looking at him, scrutinizing him, or perhaps that was pity deep within the wells of his eyes. Kiyoomi couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“Omi?” Miya asked, softly, a near whisper. It felt like static when it reached Kiyoomi’s ears. He wondered how he must look to Miya, to everyone sitting on this train watching him collapse. But he couldn’t think of that. He couldn’t think of anything, except the hundred of thousands of people that have shared this exact seat with him. He only had the flimsy protection of the material of his jeans between him and contamination. He gripped the fabric, willing the swimming sensation in his head to disperse. Kiyoomi squeezed his eyes shut so hard that bursts of light colored the back of his eyelids. 

I just don’t want you to be alone. 

Motoya, his mother and father, his siblings. All of them knew how to love. It was so easy for them. Not Kiyoomi, though. Kiyoomi was difficult. He hadn’t realized his ears were ringing until a warm hand pressed between his shoulder blades and forced the world into silence. 

“Omi. Can ya hear me?” 

The touch, the heat of it, should have burned. It should tingle like the unbearable forced contact that it was. But it didn’t. It was warm. So warm. It traveled, engulfing him within the weight of it, the press of a wide palm against his back.

He’d memorized the size, shape, and line of every petal of the spider lilies that cascaded across his back. Miya’s touch felt like a balm to the burn of those poisonous flowers. The force of Miya’s tender care parted the tide, soothing the panic with the shape of each press of Miya’s long fingers. When Kiyoomi blinked his eyes open, the first thing he saw was swirling pools of honey, framed by long dark lashes; beautiful brown eyes blown wide in concern. 

Kiyoomi watched Miya’s lips move, shaping words that Kiyoomi couldn't hear. His brain felt sluggish as he tried desperately to catch up. He watched that same mouth tilt down in a frown. Warmth engulfed his hand this time. Kiyoomi looked down to find Miya’s hand wrapped tightly around his own. It should have bothered him. All he felt was the release of air, the breath that was caught in his throat finally dispelling. 

Kiyoomi finally heard him. “Ya with me?” 

He took a deep breath. Another. “I’m with you.” 

Kiyoomi tensed again, coming back to himself. He couldn’t feel the sharp gaze of everyone else anymore. He realized that Miya was crouched in front of him on the floor of the train. Embarrassment sent a new wave of heat across his body. Why was it that Miya Atsumu always witnessed him in the most embarrassing situations? 

Miya didn’t ask but Kiyoomi knew he was waiting. “I’m fine.” Kiyoomi assured, despite the fact that he didn’t feel fine.  

Nothing on this planet could have prepared him for what Miya was doing to him. He thought he had everything under control. He thought he'd live his life in the calm, complacent, and structured way that he had always done. Then, Miya waltzed into his life, demanding everything Kiyoomi was terrified to give by the sheer profoundness of his existence. Kiyoomi wanted to know him. He wanted to like him, to be with him. He wanted to love him. 

He, to his utmost displeasure, had been so deeply intertwined with this man. With his twinkling laughter, the haughty upturn of his lips, and the ever twisting flicker of emotion that he wore so plainly on his face. If Kiyoomi were a poet, he’d imagined that is what he’d write about. About Miya. 

Miya didn't have his flowers. It felt like he did, it seemed undeniable. But he didn't. Kiyoomi wasn’t a poet and he was strikingly aware of his own fate. 

“I’m real sorry, Omi.” Kiyoomi looked up, searching Miya’s guilt stricken face as he continued. “I don’t know how I always seem ta make a mess of everythin’ I touch, even when I try not ta.” 

Miya was always doing that, always apologizing for the things that he couldn’t control. Apologizing for things he never needed to. Kiyoomi couldn’t bear it another time. He pulled Miya toward him, their bodies colliding hard. The crash of their chests forced the air out of Miya’s lungs with a wheeze. 

Kiyoomi wrapped both arms around Miya’s middle, using the strength of his core to pull Miya closer and squeezing him tightly. He inhaled the scent of him; the faint smell of coconut and clean laundry filling his lungs. 

He spoke into the cotton of Miya’s shirt, where his face was buried in his shoulder. “Don’t say things like that.” He couldn’t stand it. “You’re not perfect, but you’re good. That is the only thing that has ever, or will ever matter.” 

Miya sniffed, his arms tightening around Kiyoomi. “Thanks, Omi. For everything." He held Miya tightly, feeling the sharp bones of his shoulder blades against Kiyoomi's arms.

After a moment, Miya awkwardly disentangled himself from Kiyoomi’s grip.

Kiyoomi helped Miya back into his seat with a sheepish grin. “On a scale of one to Elton John, how gay did we just look?”

Miya bursted out laughing, slapping a hand over his mouth to smother it as several passengers turned to look at them with furious glares. “Dunno, Patroclus." Miya whispered. "What d’you think?” 

Kiyoomi shook his head with a laugh of his own. “I’m not a Patroclus.” Achilles was a legendary hero, and as flamboyant as he was proud. Miya was all of those things, and probably more. But in Kiyoomi’s opinion, Achilles was deeply selfish; the very thing that cost him Patroclus. His Philtatos. In Kiyoomi's opinion, Miya could only ever be Patroclus, as he didn't posses a selfish bone in his body. Kiyoomi was the one with the chip on his shoulder, the one with Achilles' heel. His selfishness. 

Miya gave him a sidelong, curious stare. Kiyoomi only smiled ignoring Miya’s prompting gaze. Instead, he counted the stops left and is mildly pleased to find that they’ve only got a little while left until they arrive. “Get some rest while you still have time.” He said, still looking at the digital screen above.

“Okay, Omi. Keep yer secrets.” Miya rested his head on Kiyoomi's shoulder and was asleep in minutes.

This time, the piercing gazes of others didn’t seem so bad with the armored weight of Miya’s smile wrapped around him. 

🀦 

When they arrived at the onsen, the embarrassment of the train ride was very easily replaced by giddiness. He couldn’t tell if it was coming from Miya, himself, or the both of them combined. 

He carried both his bag and Miya’s to the front desk and checked them in. When he booked the room, he decided to reserve only one room and requested a spare futon. Kiyoomi wanted to keep a close eye on Miya for the trip and the easiest way to do that was to never let Miya out of his sight. The prospect of which, Miya was absolutely delighted to hear. 

From the moment they got their keys and a staff member guided them through the facility, Miya kept making crude single bed trope' jokes. It only stopped when they were shown to their room with a polite smile and there was an extra futon lying against the wall. 

“Just so ya know, Omi-Omi, I’m a cuddler.”

Kiyoomi dropped their bags, surveying the room before opening the sliding doors to their private balcony. “If you have a decent imagination, you can pretend your pillow is me.”

“Oh,” Miya cooed, “I’ll be imaginin’ things, alright. Lots. I have a wild imagination, Omi.”

Kiyoomi unzipped the front pocket of his bag, where his sanitizing wipes were stowed as he replied. “I do as well, such that I will be imagining that you’re not even here. It will be blissful.” 

He wiped down every flat surface while Miya stuttered and whined about ‘mean ol’ Omi-kun.’ Kiyoomi felt a little better that he forced a flu mask on Miya before entering the suite. The onsen had the highest ratings on cleanliness, but Kiyoomi didn't want to take any chances. Once their room was properly aired out, sanitized, and safe for Miya, he finally allowed him to remove the mask. 

“Sheesh, Omi. I dunno how ya wear this thing all the time,” Miya dangled the mask off one slim finger. “It’s uncomfortable!” 

Kiyoomi stared at him blankly, his own mask still donned. “I don’t know, Miya. Maybe because it’s the only way I feel comfortable being out in public?” 

He poked out his tongue in disgust. “Yer probably smarter for it, people are gross.” Then Miya let out a wistful sigh, “I just feel bad that no one gets ta see ur pretty face most of the time.” 

Kiyoomi threw the sanitary wipes at Miya which hit him directly in the stomach with a winded ‘Hurk,’ as they bounced off Miya and onto the floor. 

The symphony of Miya’s laughter lifted the weight of worry off Kiyoomi’s chest. They’d be alright here. 

 🀦 

The first night they were there, they didn't do much.

Traveling had worn Miya down. Though he refused to admit it when Kiyoomi pressed, he was well aware that Miya was exhausted. He couldn't stand very long by himself, using Kiyoomi or a sturdy object as a crutch to move around their tiny space. He had dark circles under his eyes that were almost always there but looked worse after a busy day. Despite Miya's protests, he nudged him onto the futon and demanded that he stay there while Kiyoomi unpacked all of their belongings. 

When he finished, each of their things tucked neatly away, he joined Miya on the futon. He scrolled through TikTok with Miya leaning on his side, head nestled between his neck and shoulder until sunset.

They don’t end up sleeping on different futons. In fact, Kiyoomi pushed both futons together in the center of the room so that they’d have more space to cuddle. Per Atsumu’s insistence, of course. 

"I get real cold at night, Omi! Don't be cruel, I just need ya to be my human furnace."

They lie there, in the dark, in complete silence. Kiyoomi listened to the sound of Atsumu’s steady inhales and pretended that there wasn’t an inescapable tension in the room. It felt like they'd crossed some unmarked threshold on the train. Kiyoomi knew that nothing had actually really changed, but he felt different. They felt different. Perhaps it was building for a while, perhaps Kiyoomi may have always known. 

He liked Miya. He liked Miya a lot. 

It didn't feel like this realization was sudden, it didn't feel wrong either. He thought falling for someone would feel like free falling from the sky: full of panic, fear, and and the unsettling knowledge that it couldn't be stopped. 

But falling for Miya just felt like living. It felt like every other day. 

In every other circumstance, maybe in a different life, he'd let this feeling rise with ease, without panic or fanfare. Like the passing of clouds, or the change from day to night, these things just happened. Except, Miya was still sick, he would still die, and Kiyoomi was still terrified.

The only thing that had moved them was the ferocity of affection between them. It was exigent, despite Kiyoomi’s best efforts to keep everything simple. Life was never that simple, though.

Kiyoomi sighed, turning to face Miya who was steadfastly pretending to be asleep.

“Hi.” Kiyoomi whispered.

Miya smiled, although he kept his eyes closed. “Hi,” he whispered back. 

In the absence of the light, Kiyoomi felt a little more comfortable in his own vulnerability. He could only make out pieces of Atsumu’s expression. "What now?" He asked, still whispering, though the walls were thick and their room was private, so it wasn’t really all that necessary. 

He could still make out the glimmer of white teeth as Atsumu smiled, “I can think of a couple things.” 

He flicked Atsumu’s forehead in response. “Get your mind out of the gutter. You ruined the moment.” Kiyoomi said, amusement disguised amongst the acerbic tone of his voice. He turned again, lying on his back and huffed. “How did I end up this unlucky to have met such an insufferable piece of work?” 

"Okay, Kettle." Miya said.

Kiyoomi took a deep breath and settled his own hand on top of Atsumu’s. He said into the darkness, “I'm scared to lose you.” 

He felt the hand underneath his twitch but Miya remained quiet.

"I can't do this, Miya."

"Okay." Miya pushed up onto his knees, and switched the lamp on. The light illuminated them both; their flaws, their fears, their beauty.

His words were gentle, overwhelmingly composed with the utmost sincerity. There was no hint of resentment or malice, just acceptance laid bare. Something that Kiyoomi felt he did not deserve, he did not deserve the kind look in Miya’s eyes as he regarded him. 

“Okay, I won’t stop ya. You don’t have to be here. I want ya, and I know that’s selfish… and I’ll miss ya.” Miya smiled, his pale skin illuminated by the soft glow of light. “But, yer choice matters. I just needed ya ta know that. That I do want ya.”

“Why?” Kiyoomi couldn’t quite disguise the incredulity in his voice as he asked, it made no sense to him. Of all the things that could matter, why of all things, was Miya concerned about his choice? Why would his choice matter more than Miya’s? Why would Miya want him, after everything?

Miya seemed bemused by Kiyoomi’s internal struggle. “When I was first diagnosed, I was pissed. I mean, catatonic with rage. I couldn’t see straight. I felt like life was pulled out from under me and my own body turned against me.” Miya waved a hand towards himself, “I knew this disease would kill me one day so I thought, if I couldn’t decide when and where, I wanted to have the chance to decide how.”

Kiyoomi’s breath caught in his chest at the implication. 

Miya’s gaze turned hard, his eyes steely as he recalled his history and listlessly put it on display. “I thought if I could choose, it’d make the pain of knowing that I’m dying just a bit easier ta swallow.” He laughed, hollow and empty.

“Why didn't you?” Kiyoomi asked, parroting the exact question he asked previously. He knew it wasn’t appropriate to ask that, nor was it kind, but he had to know. 

“When I think about dying, about leaving the world on my terms, I can’t seem ta picture anything but ‘Samu.” Miya’s eyes softened as he spoke of his brother. “His face, the way he talks ta me, the way he took care o’ me when I was hurtin’...” Miya breathed, “It ain’t right.”

He shook his head, his blond hair glittering in the lamplight. “I realized I’d take any amount of sufferin’ if it meant that me an’ ‘Samu had more time.”

Kiyoomi listened, enraptured so wholly that his hands shook. “Even if it’s brutal, and I know ‘m gonna hate every single second. It’s moments that I can’t get back, not if I don't fight fer them. And I will, I can do it ‘cause it’ll be worth it in the end.” He looked into Kiyoomi’s eyes, peering into his heart with a beseeching gaze.

“So, I can’t tell ya what you think this’ll be worth fer ya. That’s somethin’ you’ll have to feel on your own. Know I won’t ever hold it against ya, and I haven’t. Whatever it is that you decide, I won’t be mad at ya, not fer this.” 

Kiyoomi sat motionless in front of him while his heart beat in double-time against the frail cage in his chest. The weight of his grief hollowed his insides. He could feel the destruction split him at his core, sending fissures of pain amongst the stone that was his resolve. 

“We both know what’s gonna happen ta me, and it would be crazy ta think after, what, nine months of knowin’ I even exist to commit to watchin’ me die?” 

Kiyoomi opened his mouth to protest, but found that he hadn’t had anything to say to prove Miya wrong. The fact was that he didn’t intend to stick around at first. Miya was right to assume the worst of him.

“Trust me,” Miya said hoarsely, “doin’ all this, it ain’t easy. I’ve watched my brother completely fall apart over the expanse of years we both thought I didn’t have. ‘S real this time, Omi.” The crystalline tears began to fall, and Kiyoomi was helpless to stop them. He sat up and tried to brush them away with the pad of his thumb, but Miya wouldn’t allow it. 

“I’m really gonna die this time." Miya cried, choking on his inhale. “And it won’t be pretty. It ain’t gonna be like the movies. It’ll be ugly and I don’t know what kind of wires are crossed in my brain ta want ya there for it. There’s somethin’ real wrong with me if I want ya to suffer seein’ that just ta be with me.” 

In a world of such color, all vivid and too much for Kiyoomi’s particular taste, he felt remiss to go back to his neat shades of gray. 

Before Miya could protest, Kiyoomi threw himself at him, wrapping both arms around him and guiding his trembling form close. He held him like that for a long time, and for a long time, Miya simply cried. He cried and cried, unable to stop. Kiyoomi held him until the sobs turned to hiccups, and then to sniffles. Kiyoomi didn’t stop holding him until Miya's breath evened out and he slumped against Kiyoomi like a taut string of a violin that had just been cut.

When silence had blanketed them once again, Miya's shivering form cradled in his lap, Kiyoomi finally allowed himself to consider Miya's words. The long haul wasn’t simple; it wasn’t just a serious relationship, it wasn’t as simple as promising to love him, to forsake the fact that Kiyoomi had a soulmate and Miya didn’t. 

It was a promise to witness Miya Atsumu’s death. A promise to grieve. There was a permanence in that, that not even death could take. To know Miya, to love him, and to make promises with him was, in Miya's eyes, a curse. 

Love had always been Kiyoomi’s curse, though. At the very least, Miya made it worth something to bear it. 

He realized then, what a fool he was to ever have believed himself capable of walking away from Miya for even a moment. He looked at him and knew, through the good, the beauty, and the vicious, he’d stay with him. Right here. For this, even if the moments were no longer than the soft beat of the wing of the butterfly, he wouldn’t miss a single second of it.

Kiyoomi pressed his cheek against the top of Miya's head. "Miya?"

He felt the vibration of Miya's hum of acknowledgment against his shoulder, signaling that he was listening.

He ran light fingers up and down Miya's spine as he spoke. "I'm scared. I think I always will be. I don't know if this is the right thing to do, I don't think I'll ever know."

He was still every bit of the coward that Atsumu should bat him away for. Yet, he never did, he always drew him in, held him closer, whisked him away to the beat of his own drums. It wasn’t easy, Atsumu never said it would be, he simply asked Kiyoomi to be certain. It was the certainty of what Kiyoomi knew would become of him, knowing Atsumu was impermanent. No, it was not easy, nor was it simple. But it was his. 

His choice.

"But," he said, voice quiet in the tranquil space of their shared room. "I don't think there is a world in which I could know you and still walk away."

Maybe he wasn't Kiyoomi's soulmate but that didn't mean he wasn't special. It didn't mean he wasn't important. 

Miya leaned back, pushing away from where he'd rested against Miya's chest. Their eyes locked and the expression on Miya's face stole the breath from Kiyoomi's lungs. Miya was always stunning but he was especially beautiful then. With wet, dark lashes and glittering eyes. A bright red nose and rosy cheeks. 

Miya was so very wrong. He wasn't an uglier crier at all. 

He cradled the soft skin of Miya's cheek with his hand, thumbing the delicate skin with the pad of his finger.

Kiyoomi watched Miya's lips move as he spoke. "Do you mean it, Omi? Ya won't leave me?"

There was a plea in those golden irises. 

They shared a breath, then another. Kiyoomi tilted his face down, pressing his forehead into Miya's. Everywhere they touched felt like lightning zapping at his skin. 

"No, I won't leave." 

Miya pushed a hand into Kiyoomi's chest, all five fingers splayed against his sternum. His voice was thick but he could still hear the smile. "Pinky promise?"

He tilted his head, pressing closer, wishing to stay in the fragility of this moment. His nose pressed into Miya’s cheek as he held his jaw between his hands, carefully, as if he were shattered glass. The skin of his hand cold against Miya’s immense warmth.

It was stifling, but he didn’t want to let go. He wished he could spend an eternity feeling the breath they shared against his lips before he broke. 

“I swear, Miya.” Kiyoomi whispered against his lips. 

“Atsumu,” Miya corrected. Kiyoomi felt his smile against the sensitive skin of his own mouth.  

At first, it was a light brush. Their lips touching, slight and gentle. Atsumu’s were slightly chapped but so, so warm, like the rest of him. He couldn't tell if he was breathing or not as he pressed closer.

The second time was much more firm, more certain, as his affection burst from his chest. It felt all-consuming as Atsumu responded in kind, clutching at Kiyoomi’s wrist like life preservers keeping him from being washed away by the tide. He could feel him everywhere, in his chest, in the tips of his fingers, everywhere they collided, he felt completely swept away. He slid one of his hands towards the nape of Atsumu’s neck, tilting him upwards to receive Kiyoomi’s worship. He wrapped his other arm around his back, anchoring their chest together as he pressed his whole self into the kiss, adorning it with desperation. 

Kiyoomi swept his fingers across his back, exploring the ridges of his spine through the cotton of his t-shirt. It was only when he could feel Atsumu’s grip on him become rigid, that Kiyoomi pulled away. 

Atsumu’s chest was heaving like he had run a marathon, the apples of his cheeks were swathed in red, his skin blotchy and shining with sweat. Kiyoomi imagined he probably was in no better state, except for the slight tremble in Atsumu’s movement. It was sobering how little Kiyoomi deserved this. He pulled farther away to look at him, the flutter of Atsumu’s dark lashes, the paleness of his skin, he recognized the fatigue beneath the scorched surface of Atsumu’s blush. 

The sight of him make Kiyoomi feel weak. He rested his head in the shallow dip where Atsumu's collarbone met his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He whispered into Atsumu’s skin, the flutter of his breath against the tender skin causing Atsumu’s breath to hitch above him. He felt fingers on his neck, tracing gentle lines like little wings beating against his skin before those nimble fingers tangled into his dark curls. 

Atsumu snorted. "Only you would apologize after kissin' the daylights outta someone." 

Kiyoomi laughed, lifting his head and fixing his gaze back on Atsumu. "I may have gotten a little carried away." 

"Ya don't say." Atsumu said, voice dripping with smugness. He playfully shoved at Kiyoomi's shoulder. He went down without a fight and reorganized the blankets before slipping inside. 

"Goodnight." He rolled over and flicked the lamp off.

"Good-" Atsumu squawked, batting at the lump that was Kiyoomi's legs with a fist. "Goodnight?! Jus' like that? Yer gonna rile me up like that and then just goodnight me?!" 

"Yes. Now, shut up and get in the bed, Atsumu." 

All at once the blankets were ripped off of him, and Atsumu flopped next to him on the futon with a huff. "Bastard." He said as he wiggled backwards until his back was pressed to Kiyoomi's chest. "The least ya can do is cuddle the shit out of me." 

Kiyoomi sighed, smiling into Atsumu's nape. "Okay." He tucked them both in with the blankets that Atsumu had flung and wrapped his arms tightly around Atsumu's frame. 

He hadn’t remembered falling asleep, he didn’t dream. He’d only realized he slept at all when the darkness lifted, unveiling the crisp morning light. It was a new day, a new promise. One that Kiyoomi intended he’d always keep.

When he stared at the peaceful expression on Atsumu's face as he lay there sleeping, somehow having shifted to lay diagonally on the futon, Kiyoomi promised that he’d never let Atsumu cry like that again. 

🀦 

On the very last day of their trip, Kiyoomi finally got Atsumu to agree to join him in the onsen. 

Every time he had asked, it was a resounding and stubborn no. Whatever Atsumu had against the idea, was rather freshly developed, as he was ecstatic about being at an onsen just days before their trip. Kiyoomi specifically booked a room with a private bath just to make them both more comfortable. 

He had gone every single evening since their arrival, and Atsumu stayed in their room and did god knows what. 

He was close to dragging the man to the bath, as it was the entire point of going in the first place, but fortunately, he didn’t need to. Atsumu had finally agreed to go with him.

Atsumu was all nerves the moment the stepped into the bathroom to rinse before heading to the baths. It was just like when he had taken Atsumu to the locker rooms to change and Atsumu stood there sourly until Kiyoomi had finished changing. 

This time around, Kiyoomi wasn’t going to allow all that.

“Seriously, Atsumu. There’s stalls. If you’re truly worried about your modesty, please feel free to protect your purity in any of those,” he pointed to a vacant changing room, “lovely and available rooms.”

He was halfway undressed, shirt folded neatly in one of the lockers and having this argument with Atsumu, again. 

He rested his hands on his hips, and leveled Atsumu with his finest, most unimpressed, stare. “I can even turn around for you.” He made a show of it by turning around as he said he would, and covering his eyes. “See?” 

Atsumu scoffs, “Fuck you, Omi. Ya don’t get it.” 

He’s right, Kiyoomi didn't get it. There isn’t a single part of Atsumu that he doesn’t like, and he doesn’t know how to make that much more clear. “Really, Atsumu. I can out-wait you. Patience is not a virtue that you possess, but it is one of my only good ones.” 

He heard Atsumu shift from foot to foot. “What if ya think ‘m ugly?” 

Kiyoomi’s lip twitched. “Are you ugly?”

“Well,” Atsumu paused, “I don’t think I’m ugly…” 

“Congratulations, I don’t find you horrible to look at either. Now can you change? I’m half naked and getting cold. It’s not a great look to be a man, cold, and naked.” 

Atsumu laughed. “Right, ya bastard. Like ya don’ know yer one of the hottest people I have ever seen in real life standing ‘front of me like some kind of underwear model.” 

Kiyoomi raised a brow. “Thank…you?” Though it didn’t feel like Atsumu was giving him a compliment. Suddenly, he thought of an idea that might work. He began to strip the rest of the way, still not facing Atsumu, and placed the rest of his belongings in his locker without looking. “I am going to get in the onsen, like we came here to do, and relax the way we also intended to do.” He said as he wrapped his towel around his waist. 

He finally turned back around to Atsumu who was red in the face and frowning still. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” He jabbed a thumb toward the open door behind him, “I’ll be waiting.” 

The steam of the onsen hit him first when he walked out, sending goosebumps erupting all over his exposed flesh. He padded to the edge of the pool, where he tested the water with one foot, and winced as the scorching temperature engulfed his foot. He placed the same foot back in, slowly, and then the other. Then, he walked towards the deeper end of the pool, where the water now reached his thighs. He removed his towel from his waist and folded it, placing it on the rocks closest to the edge of the pool. 

He continued to walk, taking deep breaths and letting the steam open up his sinuses. When he was fully submerged up to his chest, he cupped the water, bringing it up to his chest, and letting the water run across his chest, down the hollow of his sternum, and cascading over his abs and navel. 

He’d nearly forgotten Atsumu’s impending presence until he heard him from across the pool. 

“Can ya close yer eyes again, please?”

Without protest, he covered his eyes, a slight smile on his face from Atsumu’s rather uncharacteristic display of bashfulness. With a splash and a small hiss, Atsumu entered the pool on his own. Kiyoomi’s back was to him and his eyes still closed, so he had no idea that Atsumu was anywhere near him until he was speaking very close in proximity to Kiyoomi, “Yer allowed to open yer eyes now.” 

Kiyoomi dropped his hands and let his eyes blink open. When Atsumu came into full view, Kiyoomi suddenly felt a little faint. 

The water covered most of Atsumu below the waist, as it did Kiyoomi, though he didn’t dare look anywhere near that area, lest he send Miya Atsumu into cardiac arrest. However, from what Kiyoomi did dare to look at, he was absolutely enamored by. 

From the sweet way Atsumu’s skin was warmed from the heat of the onsen, his shoulders pink but the same shade of caramel everywhere else. His skin glowed under the warm light and it made Kiyoomi’s gut twist pleasurably. He was slighter than Kiyoomi by a fair bit now, with delicate collarbones and a slender neck. Atsumu’s waist was thin and narrow, rather than the bulk that Kiyoomi possessed.

It was harder to tell how much weight he’d lost when he disguised it with baggy clothes. Now that Atsumu was bare, it was apparent. He could see why Atsumu would be nervous, but to Kiyoomi, it didn’t diminish how beautiful he was in the slightest. 

As Kiyoomi took him in, letting his eyes freely roam over every inch of available skin he could find, Atsumu laughed nervously. “Geez, Omi. Can ya not look at me like that?” 

“You’re beautiful.” 

Atsumu spluttered, furiously trying to cover himself. “Omi!” 

He splashed water at Kiyoomi as repayment for flustering him and Kiyoomi found himself splashing Atsumu back. Soon, there was a small war going and eventually they were both soaked head to toe, nerves forgotten. 

After being properly doused, Kiyoomi suggested they follow the onsen rules and actually sit for a while. Once they’d found a place to be, they sat close to one another. 

Kiyoomi’s skin prickled along the edges of his arms, the sensation of just being a breadths width apart from touching his bare skin with Atsumu made a warm feeling sink in his belly. His face flushed with embarrassment, but the heat of the onsen hid it well.

Kiyoomi loathed small talk a great deal, but in that moment he wished that Atsumu would say something to distract him from their proximity. He watched a slow drop of water roll down the column of Atsumu’s neck and pool in the hollow of his collarbone before he realized that Miya was indeed trying to say something to him. 

“Omi? Omi. Stop starin’ at me like that. Ya look like yer gonna eat me.” 

Kiyoomi cleared his throat. “Sorry.” 

Atsumu awarded him with a flat stare. “Are you?” 

Kiyoomi looked up at the sky, smiling. “Not at all, actually. You were saying?” 

Atsumu is silent for a long time, and Kiyoomi thought he never intended on saying anything at all. But when he looked over, he found golden eyes staring at him already. Except, Atsumu wasn’t staring at his face, he was staring at a spot on his shoulder, eyes hazy and unfocused. 

“Atsumu?” Kiyoomi sat up, he worried that the heat was getting to him. He was about to reach for him when Atsumu’s head shot up. He flashed Kiyoomi a quick smile before he grabbed one of the washcloths and laid it over his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Kiyoomi asked, worry saturating his tone. Atsumu lifted one end of his washcloth and shot him a look.

“‘M fine, Omi. Just a little tired, I guess.” 

They sat together in a comfortable silence again, underneath the stars once again. Kiyoomi thought about the first time they hung out together. In a real way. It was at the park, in the middle of the night. Kiyoomi had no idea why he had agreed to meet Atsumu then. It was so extraordinarily unlike him. He supposed that even then, he was completely enthralled by the man he met. 

Atsumu was unlike anyone he’d ever witnessed before in his life. He was different than anyone Kiyoomi had ever known, and yet so familiar it seemed strange. He had contemplated more than once that Atsumu was his soulmate. It seemed right, it felt wrong that Atsumu wouldn’t be his one and only. Part of the incentive of bringing him to the onsen was that he could truly see if he had no mark at all. 

Kiyoomi was willing to believe that perhaps they just had special circumstances. Like Kiyoomi and his abnormally large and painful mark, he thought that perhaps Atsumu couldn’t see his own. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to believe.

He’d hoped that when Atsumu saw him, there might have been something, anything, that gave away Atsumu’s ability to see his mark. But there was none. Atsumu didn’t act as if there was anything out of the ordinary, and true to Atsumu’s word, Kiyoomi didn’t find a single mark on him. 

Kiyoomi was not an optimist by any means, but he still had hoped, even just a little.

He was wrong, though. Somehow, they really weren’t meant to be. 

“Omi?” 

Kiyoomi’s attention was snapped back to the present, hyper aware of the chill on his wet skin now that he’d been sitting for a while. “Yes?” 

“Are ya afraid of dyin’?”

When he thought about it, it wasn’t death that he was really afraid of. He thought that death was the easy part. It was everything that came afterwards. He didn’t think a lot of people would miss him, but maybe a fair few that he was particularly close to. He thought about all of the technical aspects of what happened after someone died, and wished that there wasn’t a business aspect to a person’s death. He wished that people could grieve naturally, without having to consider wills, the paperwork, fees, and financial toll of a ceremony. So when he answered, he told the truth.

“It’s not death itself that I’m afraid of, but everything that happens afterwards. I think the world moving on without me is what scares me the most.” He didn’t say that being forced to move on without Atsumu is what really hurt him. 

Kiyoomi thought about the bleeding red, poisonous flowers tattooed across his entire back. A constant reminder that nothing is permanent, not even love.

“I think it’d be alright, though. If someone was a little afraid of dying. I think most people are.” Kiyoomi lifted his hand above the water, examining the way his fingers were starting to prune from the constant moisture. 

“Well,” Atsumu shrugged. “I’m not afraid.” 

That didn’t surprise Kiyoomi all that much. After all, Atsumu has had a lot of time to reconcile with the fact that he was going to die. It didn’t make it easy, though. Kiyoomi thought that he purposefully always left that part out. Atsumu was brave, but he was still human. 

Miya continued, swiping his bangs from his face. “In fact,” he said, “I think I’m ready.” 

Kiyoomi gawked at him. “How?” he asked, bewildered and a little upset. How could Atsumu be ready. It was one thing to come to terms with dying, for some reason it felt differently to know that Atsumu was also ready. 

“It’s been a long time, Omi.” He said. “And I have everythin’ I’ve ever wanted. What else do I need?” 

The idea that Atsumu didn’t even consider the privilege of a long life was preposterous in Kiyoomi’s brain. “What about living a long life with the person you love, how are you just okay with that not even being a possibility. How do you already have everything you’ve ever wanted?” 

The look Atsumu gave him was one of pity. 

“The possibility of a long life died a long time ago, right about the same time I found out that I wasn’t gonna make it to my 18th birthday.” Atsumu’s hands dropped back into the water with a splash. 

“And then, I did. I also made it to my 20th, then my 21st, and my 22nd. Omi, I’ve had five birthdays I never thought I’d live to see.” 

“But–”

“-Omi, every day that I get is a chance of a lifetime. Who cares if I don’t make it to 25? I shouldn’t have made it past 19. I’m happy, I’ve done enough, I spent as much time as possible with the people I love, and I–” Atsumu stopped, swallowing the last of his words as he placed the towel back on the ledge of the pool.

Kiyoomi wanted to hear the rest, so he asked. “And you what?” 

Atsumu shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “And nothing, Omi. I’ve been real lucky in life, I can’t tell ya how I know, I just do. Can ya just believe me when I say that? Just this once?” 

Kiyoomi sighed. “Care to share the luck with the rest of us poor souls? I feel like I need a little help in that domain.” 

“Ah, but you’re the luckiest out of the two of us, Omi.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Atsumu chuckled softly, “You’ll experience love far longer than I ever will. Isn’t that lucky?” 

Kiyoomi thought about grief. He supposed that was just the same. To grieve was to love. To love was to accept that he must grieve. He didn't even consider falling in love after Atsumu a remote possibility.

“I’ve never thought of it that way.” He admitted. 

Atsumu hummed, “Ya know what they say: no time like the present!” 

“Atsumu, do you think you’ll get your soul mark before you die?”

He stilled for a moment, as if rattled by the question. Atsumu’s momentary discomfort dispelled as quickly as it appeared, faster than Kiyoomi could find the words to ask him about it. “I dunno. Maybe if I'm lucky.” 

Kiyoomi considered what Atsumu’s luck was from the moment they got out of the bath, to lying down next to him in bed. He thought about it again when they got up in the morning, and some more on the train ride home. 

He thought about Atsumu’s luck a lot. He never considered a dying man to be any sort of lucky. He thought, in his own humble opinion, that Atsumu had some of the worst luck he’d ever heard of. 

But, then again. Perhaps Atsumu was lucky, and Kiyoomi was even luckier. After all, two people with the worst luck in history somehow found one another in the cacophony of chaos that was life. Even if they weren’t soulmates, Kiyoomi thought that they were still pretty damn lucky.

🀦

Time passed far quicker after that than Kiyoomi would have liked after they got back. They spent so much time together that Kiyoomi lost track of it all. Long days turned to weeks, and before he knew it, Kiyoomi was at the hospital all the time.

He was there in the mornings before practice and the evenings immediately after. He slept there, ate there, and every attending nurse on Atsumu’s schedule knew Kiyoomi by name. It struck him as soon as he saw the leaves wilt from shades of green to orange, then brown, then to a satisfying crunch on the sidewalk, that time would continue forward regardless of Kiyoomi’s fears. 

He never asked Atsumu how long he was actually given, and the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to know. At first, he thought it might be good to prepare himself, so he could do research and track approximately when things would turn for the worse. In all the research he’s done about GBM since meeting Atsumu, it’s consistently said that the turn for the worst happens fast; all at once, debilitating and insatiable until the person was gone, completely devoured inside and out as the cancer progressed from within. 

Once he’d realized what staying meant to him, to Atsumu. The choice was easy. He’d take everything day by day, moment by moment. For better or for worse, he’d be there the moment the tides changed and ripped them from the safety of the shore. 

It didn’t mean it was easy, though. Deciding that he’d do it was one thing, but being present for it was an entirely different ordeal. 

After his impromptu 'meet the family,' he saw Miya Osamu all the time. And they still didn’t talk. Not for the lack of Kiyoomi's effort either.

Every time he and Osamu were together, the tension in the room seemed to crack open the chasm of awkwardness even wider. Now, Kiyoomi could not be called an excellent conversationalist, but he did at least try. He’d offer a respectful greeting, chime in on conversations sometimes, but mostly he kept to himself; banishing himself in the farthest corner of the room. 

No matter what he said, or didn’t say, Osamu still glared at him with the same incredulous stare. His effort meant nothing, and the creeping vines of anxiety constrained him a little tighter. 

Atsumu noticed too. The longer Osamu’s silence drudged on, the more frantically high-pitched Atsumu’s voice got in the presence of them both. At first, Kiyoomi assumed the man was naturally reserved. His basis for the thought wasn’t unfounded, with how he acted with most people except for Atsumu. With time, he thought it would pass. Perhaps Osamu was simply protective.

Then more weeks passed. Nothing changed. 

It was ominous; Kiyoomi always left the hospital wound so tight he woke with headaches the following morning. So, in all fairness, something had to give eventually. He was expecting it, nearly begging for it. 

Whatever Osamu had to say to him, Kiyoomi wished he’d just go ahead and speak, instead of leaving him captive within that hardened, scrutinizing gaze. 

And although Kiyoomi dreaded every time he saw Osamu, he was grateful for the other twin’s eerie timing. 

Atsumu once said that being a twin gave him a sixth sense; able to detect when one of them was being a “proper scrub,” or when they were desperately needed. And, according to Atsumu, they’d never been wrong. 

So when the door to Miya’s hospital room slid open with a violent thwack, and Miya Osamu strolled in, an enormous bento box tucked under his arm, Kiyoomi was relieved. 

Atsumu was in a bad mood today. He got like this sometimes, and nothing, and no one seemed to help.

Except Osamu. 

It wasn’t as if Osamu handled his brother with care or even sensitivity. It was brutal, the way they forced each other to take hold of their sorrows. Where Kiyoomi was always a little hesitant, not wanting to get the hand he reached out to be bit off, Osamu’s hands were littered with scars. He had no qualms about taking his brother by the skin of his nape, dragging his twin kicking and screaming while he forced them both to endure.  It was often crass and violent, but it was the way they worked. 

Naturally, the first thing out of his brother's mouth as he set down the food he brought was mean. 

“Tsumu, ya look like hot garbage.”

Kiyoomi winced. He did, but he didn’t think Osamu should have told him that.  

He didn’t dare say anything though, as Osamu's tolerance of his existence had nose-dived from jerky nods to greet him to absolutely nothing at all. As if Kiyoomi was merely a decorative fixture in Atsumu’s hospital room. 

In response, Atsumu gave his brother a tasteful middle finger, which made Kiyoomi smile. 

“Yer not allowed ta say that to me!” 

Osamu ignored him. He set the bento box on the side table next to his brother's bed before leaning over and pinching his brother’s nose in between his thumb and forefinger. “I brought ya food, fucker. Ya should be grateful fer me.” 

Atsumu grabbed his wrist with a snarl, face pinching into a child-like pout. As he watched, Kiyoomi was struck suddenly by a deep sense of fondness.

Then, Atsumu whined, high and nasally, and Kiyoomi’s adoration fell flat.“Omi’d bring me food!”

Osamu held his brother's gaze for a meaningful moment before side-eyeing Kiyoomi from his position.

“I wouldn’t.” Kiyoomi confirmed. 

Osamu pushed his brother by his face onto the bed and hit him with his own pillow, satisfied. “Hah.” He snorted “I knew it.” 

Osamu watched his brother with a smug grin as Atsumu rolled around in his bed, writhing like a roach and twisting the sheets around his body. “S’not fair. Ya can’t gang up on me like this. Have some class! I’m dying y’know.

Those words fell from Atsumu’s mouth easily, like it is as mundane a notion as the weather. It was a fact; true and plain as day. The force of it sucked the air out of Kiyoomi’s lungs.

Osamu on the other hand, didn’t even blink. Kiyoomi supposed he's heard it all before. Probably more than anyone. “Yer not dead yet, which means I still have time ta put ya in yer place. Sakusa, ya know ya don’t have ta take his bullshit–” 

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen at being addressed for the first time. 

“—Yes he does!”

“–Tell ‘im to fuck off when he’s being a scrub.” 

“I wasn’t bein’ a damn scrub! I just told it like it is. Ya know, the god honest fuckin’ truth. I seem ta be the only person willin’ to say it, so I did.” 

His twin furrowed his brow, for the first time in all of his brother’s antics, Osamu seemed disturbed. He looked to Kiyoomi with an indiscernible weight in his gaze. “What’d he say?” He asked.

Miya answered for him. “At the onsen,” he roared. “I told ‘im that it was real this time, that I wasn’t gonna last long and that i’m a selfish bastard.” Atsumu looks at Kiyoomi, who sat there horrified and unable to speak. “Sound ‘bout right?” 

Kiyoomi wasn’t certain what Atsumu gained by picking a fight about it again. He knew they weren’t the same after their trip to the onsen. Something broke after they got back, and he wasn’t sure how to fix it. 

“Atsumu…” He says weakly. He didn’t want to fight about this again, especially not in front of his twin. 

Osamu looked furious. He couldn’t seem to decide who to glare at, Kiyoomi or his own brother. Finally, Osamu decided. “Sakusa, would ya mind steppin’ outside for a second? There’s somethin’ I wanna ask ya.”

He left without another word, sliding the door quietly behind him. Kiyoomi and Atsumu exchanged worried looks, before Kiyoomi resigned himself to his fate and stood up. He wasn’t going to make Osamu wait any longer. To prolong it was to make it ten times worse, anyway. 

Osamu never breathed a word to him, hardly ever looked in his direction and yet he made an impressive figure in front of Kiyoomi. Cutting right to the heart, Osamu asked, “What are ya doin’ here?” 

Kiyoomi blinked. He’d been certain that Atsumu shared everything with his brother, including all the minor details of his life. But especially the important ones about Kiyoomi. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why are ya here?” Osamu gestured to their surroundings, the empty hallway, chairs lining the wall for people to sit in and wait for their loved ones. 

Deja vu flips in his stomach. 

Kiyoomi realized he was scared. Scared that he’d say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Nothing about this was easy, there wasn’t a manual on how to fall gracefully in love with a dying person at the library. 

“Well?” Osamu prompted. 

“I…don’t. I don’t know.” He said, finally, parroting the exact words he said to his cousin what seemed like years ago. The moment the words left his mouth, Kiyoomi wished he could stuff them right back into his mouth because Osamu’s expression turned unflinchingly cold. 

“You should probably figure that out. Don’t ya think?” His voice was exceptionally quiet given the scorching sound of rage laced in his tone. 

Anxiety tore at his throat, making the words he tried come out as a croak. “I know this isn’t–He, Atsumu. He’s…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, not to his own brother who knew better than he ever would what he’d lose, who.  

“Dying?” Osamu challenged, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he grit his teeth in anger. “See, my dumb brother is not the type ta have ‘casual friends’ or people that spend time with ‘im fer the sake of it.” He said, his face as blank as stone. Kiyoomi had always thought that Atsumu was the more expressive twin, yet the ferocious rage that swirled in the depth of Osamu’s iron colored eyes beseeched him to reconsider. “As ya can tell, ‘s just me here. So if ya think that you bein’ here doesn’t mean anything ta him, yer wrong.” 

Kiyoomi wanted to interrupt, to say that he knew that. He wasn’t around just because. Atsumu meant something to him. But Osamu stepped daringly forward, encroaching on the careful space Kiyoomi kept between himself and others, shattering it completely. 

“If ya think that it won’t change him, yer wrong.” He poked a finger into Kiyoomi’s chest, making him flinch back like he was shot in the chest. “And if ya think that it won’t change you, then you’re a fuckin’ idiot.” 

He could hear nothing except the rush of his pulse in his ears, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Kiyoomi thought of the glamor of Miya’s enormous personality and the one-of-a-kind smile. Tremors gripped him. It would change him, Miya Atsumu would change him, indefinitely. 

He already had.  

“I won’t have ya playin’ house with ‘im when he cares fer ya and you don’t even know why yer here.” 

He wanted to disagree, to fight Osamu on this, scream that he’s wrong. But everytime Kiyoomi tried to collect himself, his thoughts seeped through his begging hands like water. 

He felt hollow to the core. 

Kiyoomi felt his frustration at his own ineptitude bone deep. His regret sent a throbbing ache down to the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t even look Osamu in the eye. He stood silently, brittle and trembling, like he was waiting for the executioner to land the axe on his neck. He would not cry, but the pressure behind his eyes was blinding. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t allow it to uproot him. Kiyoomi took a steadying breath. “Osamu, wait.” 

He looked up to find that Osamu was already long gone. 

Kiyoomi stood there panicking longer than he felt he should have. He didn’t know if it was best to chase Osamu, to demand that he listen, or to prove it. If he were Osamu, he wouldn’t feel inclined to trust him either, He couldn’t even blame him for judging him. 

He didn’t feel like he had the right to ask for Osamu’s trust. Not when he had already tried to leave. He wondered if Osamu had known that, if Atsumu had told him about their conversation, or if this was an eruption of tension that was just a long time coming. 

He suspected it was likely both. 

Kiyoomi didn’t know whether he should stay or go. He didn’t know what the right thing was. Atsumu may have told him that it didn’t matter, so long as it was what he wanted. As long as it was the choice he wanted to make. However, the longer that he stood there, chewing on the words that Osamu left him, the less worthy of Atsumu’s adoration he felt. 

He sat in one of the chairs against the wall with his head in his hands. 

Kiyoomi thought he was ready, he thought he would be okay with it. Then, in the face of the person that cherished Atsumu more than he could fathom, he found himself failing. 

Kiyoomi tried not to lie, even to himself for the sake of complacency. He knew the moment the question was raised that he couldn’t give Osamu or his cousin the answer he wished he could: that he would be okay. 

He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t be certain that he was as prepared as he thought to endure the collateral of Atsumu’s death. If wanting him was enough, then they’d have been soulmates. But they aren’t. 

Atsumu gave no sign that he saw Kiyoomi’s mark. It meant that Atsumu wasn’t meant for him. So how could Kiyoomi do this to Atsumu when there was someone out there that was meant for him, and it wasn’t Kiyoomi? What if Kiyoomi was the reason why Atsumu couldn’t meet them?

Although he knew he made the right choice, he couldn’t shake how inexplicably bad it felt. His mother once told him that was how he knew he did the right thing. None of it felt so clear as it did when he was a child. 

Death lingered like a shadow everywhere, grief clinging to people like a fog. There was a reason why Kiyoomi had been careful, and spent his entire life ensuring he wouldn’t succumb to any illness for the risk of being hospitalized. When he got his mark, it was a blaring warning etched into his skin that the only person that would ever truly get him, connect with him in a way that transcends logic, would hold the flag on a march of death that would cross Kiyoomi and leave him barren. More than illness, larger than the threat of death, Kiyoomi was petrified of grief. Yet, here he was, staring it in the face every second that he spent with Atsumu. 

His disappointment was insurmountable when Atsumu didn’t see his mark. The only one in the word he wished could. And he didn’t see it.

It would hurt him to let him go and it would hurt him to stay. No matter what he did, he was ruined from the moment they crossed paths. It might have been worth it, if Atsumu had been his soulmate. It was the one thing he wanted to avoid, but if it was him, Kiyoomi wondered if he could withstand it. 

Slowly, without notice, Atsumu had carved himself within Kiyoomi’s heart. He loved him, so fiercely that it hurt. Nothing about it was fair, and it made him sick with it. 

The reason why he was there wasn’t complicated at all. It was laughably clear in the cage of isolation that Kiyoomi built around himself. 

He stayed because he wanted to. Because the fleeting beauty of Atsumu’s eager smiles and vivacious fits of laughter was enough for Kiyoomi. More importantly, he didn’t have a reason not to, not one that wasn’t born out of fear. He spent his entire life in the shadow of his fears, and how could he still continue to do so in the face of the bravest person that he’d ever met. 

Kiyoomi didn’t have the luxury of time to be ready. No one did. He would never be ready to lose Atsumu.

Kiyoomi was considering how he’d explain himself to Osamu when someone sat next to him. 

“Those boys have quite the temper, don’t they?”

He looked up, finding the brilliant irises of Akaashi.

Kiyoomi hesitated. Akaashi must have heard everything. He looked at his hands again, speaking directly to the ground. “You heard.”

Although Akaashi’s features were soft, he felt the same intensity that he did when Osamu cornered him. “Why didn’t you tell Osamu how you really felt?”

Kiyoomi shook his head meeting Akaashi’s stare. “Would he have believed me?”

Akaashi sighed, picking at his fingers. He seemed to quietly mull something over, his delicate brows pulling slightly downward in thought. “I don’t disagree with Osamu, " he said, his solemn gaze flicking to Kiyoomi, pinning him in place. “But Atsumu doesn’t see it that way. He feels that you’re entitled to decide for yourself what you want, without the burden of a heavy conscience. He feels that he’s put an impossible decision on your shoulders,” Akaashi clarified.

Kiyoomi’s heart clenched painfully in his heart, constricted tightly until his breath seemed to leave him in a stuttered gasp. He wanted nothing more than to gather Atsumu into his arms and shake sense into him. 

“I chose to keep coming back. If he blames himself for that, he’s an idiot.” 

Akaashi smiled warmly. “I’m inclined to agree with you on that.” 

They sat in silence for a while, only their even breaths filling the stillness casted over the eerily lit hallway. It felt like he’d sat there for hours, but when he looked at the clock on the wall, only two minutes had passed. 

After a while, Kiyoomi asked. “Why are you here if you think Osamu is right?” 

“Atsumu deserves to believe in something and I could tell how badly he wanted to believe in you. There is no sense in stealing that joy from him, when he is so often in immense pain.” Akaashi said, pausing for a moment. “Besides, I wasn’t even wrong. Was I?”

He didn’t know what to say anymore, not in the presence of the two people that acted as iron shields against anyone who dared to venture too close to that burning star.

Kiyoomi said the only thing he could think of, the only thing that felt worthy enough to say. “My flowers are spider lilies.” 

He hadn’t known why he said it, only that it felt like the first breath of fresh air after drowning. 

Not one to beat around the bush, Akaashi merely asked, “Does he know?”

Kiyoomi looked at him, willing himself to speak steadily. “No, and I do not intend to tell him.”   

Akaashi looked a little surprised, but didn’t say anything except: “I understand.”

It was good enough for him. He trusted that Akaashi was a man of his word. The tension from his body bled from him all at once, “Thank you.” Kiyoomi whispered. 

Akaashi stood suddenly, facing Kiyoomi with that careful gaze. “What will you do now?”

“Punch your husband?” 

A startled laugh escaped Akaashi, which he covered quickly with his hand. “If I may,” he said, clearing his throat. “I would request that you do not start a fight with Osamu, he’s quite scrappy and even if you did get a good punch, I happen to like his face quite a bit.” 

Kiyoomi smiled. “What should I do then? Osamu won’t listen to me no matter what I do or don’t say.” 

When Akaashi smiled, he was again struck by how beautiful he was. He thought briefly that Osamu was indeed a very lucky man. Akaashi was a saint. 

“Show up.” 

Kiyoomi frowned. “That’s…not helpful, Akaashi.” 

“How do you think you got Atsumu to trust you? Osamu may act quite differently, but they are cut from the same cloth. You show up.”

Akaashi left him alone with his thoughts after that. 

After some time, he made the slow walk back to Atsumu’s hospital room. He knew that Atsumu would be waiting for him, and if Akaashi was there, he would be too. He could only pray that the gods were merciful and Osamu had left the hospital after their conversation. 

When he slid the door open, slowly, with his nerves in his throat. The only person that greeted him was Atsumu. 

“What are ya doin’ here?” He sounded as if he’d been crying and it nearly broke Kiyoomi.

“I’m sorry, Atsumu.” 

When Atsumu didn’t move, Kiyoomi tried again. “Atsu-”

“If yer gon’ leave, then I suggest ya just go ahead and do it. Leave me.” 

Dread sank in Kiyoomi’s stomach. He had hoped that Osamu wouldn’t have told his brother about their conversation just yet. He had hoped that he’d have a moment to explain, before it got back to Atsumu and hurt him.

“Atsumu, please. I don’t. Listen, I am not leaving. Osamu, when he confronted me, I panicked. Okay? I just-”

“What’d Samu say ta ya?” 

“He,” Kiyoomi swallowed. “He asked me why I was here, what I had been doing. He had every right to be skeptical of me-”

“Fuckin’ bastard!” Atsumu tossed the blankets off his legs, “Samu should have just minded his business, we were fine. Then he had to go pokin’ his nose in shit he didn’t belong in an’ he spooked ya.” 

Kiyoomi walked closer to Atsumu’s bed, and caught one of his flailing hands. “Atsumu, it’s not your brother's fault. He loves you, and he just wants to protect you.” 

Atsumu pressed his face into his shoulder, wiping away the tears that had started to pool as Kiyoomi continued, “I’m not ready to lose you, but we don’t get a choice in the matter.” He squeezed Atsumu’s hands and pressed a kiss to each finger. “I’m not your soulmate–” Kiyoomi’s voice cracks over the words.

“-Omi, I–”

“-Please let me finish, okay?”

Atsumu stilled, closing his mouth with a click and nodded. 

“I know that you said it didn’t matter to you. I know that, but it matters to me, okay? I hate the idea that I am possibly stealing time from you that you could give to someone more worthy, someone better than I am.” Kiyoomi took another deep breath, steadying his will. “I know i’m not what you deserve, I know that I’m not good enough. However, I am a deeply selfish man, and I want your time. I want to spend this time with you, I want you, if you’ll let me.” 

Atsumu sniffed, his tears falling freely now. “What about your soulmate, Omi? Don’t ya want them?” 

Kiyoomi smiled, a fragile and delicate thing. “I never wanted my soulmate, not until I met you, and wished that it would have been you.” 

Atsumu crumbled, his body falling forward with a choked sob. “‘M real sorry Omi, I never wanted it to be like this.” 

He kissed Atsumu’s temples, the short hairs of his undercut tickling the tip of Kiyoomi’s nose. “I could never have asked for more. I’m lucky as is, just like this.” 

They didn’t speak again for a long time, and Kiyoomi was truly okay with that.

🀦

Kiyoomi was still in Atsumu’s hospital room when his brother returned, and with Kiyoomi’s unfortunate luck, Osamu strode in without his darling soulmate. He felt his skin prickle on the back of his neck and the hairs on his arms raise when Osamu locked eyes with him. 

“The fuck are ya doin’ here, Sakusa? Thought ya’d of scrammed by now.” Osamu moved toward them both with sure, angry stomps. 

Kiyoomi rose off the bed, heart in his throat. “Osamu-”

“-Samu, shut up!” 

“Stay out of this, ‘Tsumu. Seriously, ‘m gonna kill this guy.” Osamu cocked his fist back, grabbing Kiyoomi’s collar and hauling him forward. 

“Let go.” Kiyoomi snarled, fisting a handful of Osamu’s shirt and shoving him. He didn’t want to fight Osamu, but he wasn’t about to get his ass handed to him. He threw Osamu off just as Atsumu was lunging towards his brother. 

Osamu caught him with a grunt and they crashed to the floor. 

“You fuckin’ dumbass!” Osamu swore, sitting up from where he had been previous sprawled on the floor. Kiyoomi stood dumbfounded and trying not to laugh as Osamu tried desperately to catch Atsumu’s flying fists at the same time he was furiously trying to check him over for injury. “Stop–Tsumu–Ow!” 

Atsumu, though, clearly had no intention of stopping. “Samu yer a Grade-A piece a shit, and I hate ya. Should have swallowed ya in the womb when I had the chance!” Atsumu screamed, sending a flurry of slaps and punches.

“Okay! Godammit. Oka–Would ya please stop tryin’ ta hit me, asshole.” Osamu finally pinned Atsumu with his chest heaving and sweat beading at his temples. However, Atsumu was looking much worse. He looked like he was about to pass out.

“Okay…” Kiyoomi said, after a long moment. He felt like this was his entire fault anyway. And really, Atsumu should not be trying to toss people around like that, as funny as it was. “Are we done with that now? Can we speak like civil, functional, and mature adults?”

Osamu got up with a sigh, and held out his hand for his brother. Atsumu batted it away with a snarl but Osamu dutifully ignored him. He simply hauled his brother up with a hand under each armpit, and shoved him on the bed. Atsumu went down like a cat being dunked in water. “The fuck, ‘Samu!” 

Osamu ignored his brother and stared at Kiyoomi, still fuming. “I’ve got nothin’ ta say to ya that I haven’t already shared. So why don’t ya walk her pretty ass out on yer own before I hafta make ya.” He eyed his brother, “Tsumu’s opinions of ya be damned.” 

"I think my pretty ass will be staying right here, thank you."

"Get. Out.” Osamu hissed. 

“You get out.” Kiyoomi spit back, kicking the side of his leg. He took great pleasure when Osamu cursed, clutching at his leg with a scowl that dripped with hostility. 

The sound of jubilant laughter filled his ears. A couple snorts, turning into barely contained snickering that erupted into howling laughter. It was bright and sweet, making warmth bloom at the tips of his ears. 

Kiyoomi turned to look at Atsumu who was bent forward, shoulders trembling as he cackled wildly. 

Both he and Osamu were speechless as Miya laughed and laughed.

He turned to Osamu, laughing at himself a bit. Whatever tension they’d had earlier had lost its bite. He smiled at Miya #2 easily, mirth spreading all the way to his eyes. 

“I’ll do this again, for as long as it takes. I don’t have a reason to give you. It’s not honorable, or cool.” He said, dusting himself off. “I can only tell you that it’s what I want, and I don’t think there will ever be a logical reason for that.” 

Osamu surveyed him for a moment, sizing him up. Eventually he relented, “I still don’t trust ya.” 

“That’s fine,” he said. It really was, as long as he could stay just like this.

🀦

It got colder eventually, and that made things much, much harder on Atsumu. His body was starting to fail him and the warmth of his own body seemed to sap from him even with a space heater blowing directly on his bed. Effortlessly, over and over again, the changes piled up. Their walks outside turned to strolls down the hallways. Osamu's bento boxes started downsizing into small containers of food. 

His headaches were more frequent too. When they first met, it was a couple times a month. Now, he had one at least once a week. It scared Kiyoomi to watch. It was agony, but he made a promise. He wouldn't be anywhere else. 

So, it cooled down more and then suddenly, it was Atsumu and Osamu’s birthday. They turned 24 this year.

The hospital room was crowded with party decorations and streamers, and himself, Osamu, Akaashi, and the entirety of the MSBY Black Jackals were present. He wasn’t too sure about asking his team to come, as Atsumu's immune system was incredibly fragile. Kiyoomi always took the proper precautions when visiting, but that many people seemed like a bad idea.

They all knew Atsumu was sick. Kiyoomi never told them, but Atsumu had told Hinata and Bokuto about it some time ago. They'd been dying to see Atsumu again, but Atsumu was always a little too exhausted. It was different for his birthday. Kiyoomi wanted Atsumu to feel as cherished as he was. His entire team wanted to be there for him, and who was he to deny how badly he wanted to see Atsumu sit center stage as he was always designed to be.

While it was certainly a lively affair with the entire crowd of Jackals stirring up trouble, he felt the tension surrounding Atsumu like a knife to his gut. To everyone except his sweet, oblivious, and excitable teammates, this day was a harrowing reminder. 

It would be Atsumu’s very last birthday ever. Of that, Kiyoomi was certain. 

The sun had always loved Atsumu. It was apparent, his skin glowed with warmth, staying a shade of bronze even as he was forced to stay inside as he got sicker. The sun loved him and it stuck with Atsumu for as long as it could. His golden skin, loved by the heavens and bright sky, was gray now. Ashen in place of pink, dull and lifeless instead of brimming with vibrancy, pulling taut over frail bones and gaunt angles.

He couldn’t flush the way Atsumu always did; the apples of his cheeks used to always be a dusting pink; the colors of an autumn sunset while Kiyoomi was porcelain, like a doll: Stiff and pale.

Atsumu looked like life in motion. He was beautiful. So, so beautiful, even then. Even as cancer tried to rip it from underneath his skin. Little by little, day by day. It smothered him mercilessly, depriving him of his own light. 

Kiyoomi wonders just how long he has to admire the flicker until it’s gone. 

 🀦 

The seasons changed again, Kiyoomi did not. He was steadfast, like he promised. He was there. Atsumu, though. He did. He changed.

At first, it was just little snappy comments, or his already small amount of patience dwindling faster than usual. Kiyoomi knew he was hurting, every so often he’d have headaches that would turn into migraines that caused him to dry heave. 

His attitude, that was a little new. Kiyoomi hadn’t noticed because it was directed at Osamu first. Each and every time the man would show up, Atsumu would snap at him, shove his food away, or pick at Osamu’s nerves like it was his personal goal to rile him up. It wasn’t necessarily unusual, sometimes that’s how they were. However, Osamu’s reactions became more frightening. He’d give as good as he got for the first several weeks, but eventually he’d say nothing back. He’d let Atsumu insult him over and over again and Osamu would stare blankly at a random point on the wall with a far away expression. Kiyoomi had asked him about it, about why Atsumu was acting like that, and Osamu simply replied that he didn’t know but he didn’t like it. 

But it seemed that Osamu was the only one that received Atsumu’s unprompted ire. Kiyoomi spent many days thinking of ways to convince Atsumu to lay off his brother. However, he felt that even if he had the weight with Atsumu, he didn’t have the kind of sway that could tell him what he could or couldn’t do with his own brother. Only people like Akaashi, who pointedly stayed out of it, had the ability to separate the twins. 

Just like that, as randomly as it started, it stopped too. The next time that Atsumu saw his brother, he was welling over with tears and sobbing into his brother's chest. He’d cry over and over again at the sight of Osamu, unable to be consoled. In time, Osamu started to look a lot like his brother: exhausted, sleep deprived, and pale. Eventually, he pulled Kiyoomi aside. 

They stood in the same brightly lit hallway, nearly in the exact same position as before. Except Osamu was trusting him with the most important thing in his life instead. 

“I need ya to look after ‘im fer me for awhile.” Osamu said. He took off his baseball cap and ran a shaky hand through the short hairs underneath. He sincerely doubted that Osamu was walking out on his brother, but times were desperate and Osamu looked worse for wear.

“I’m not…I won’t– Dammit.” His voice was hoarse and breaking, his typical stony expression breaking into anguish. The tears didn’t come, for that Kiyoomi’s grateful. He didn’t think he could handle it if Miya Osamu cried, but it seemed a near thing as the man collected himself. 

“He’s real sick. And I know I was real hard on ya about staying for all of it, I feel pathetic even askin’ ya ta hold the fort fer me. But,” Osamu took a long, slow breath. “I need a break.” He pleaded, the grey hues of his eyes glistening. 

He couldn’t blame Osamu, he wasn’t even sure if Atsumu’s rage was something from his illness or an effect of watching his twin, the very face that matched his own, brim with health and vitality. Atsumu had always been mercurial on the best of days, but perhaps he was struggling more with this than he’d ever let on. Since Kiyoomi met him, he’d been a beacon of positivity about his own death. He refused to believe that his end would be anything less than spectacular. On some days though, Kiyoomi watched the brightness drain as fear took root. On those days, he was often the meanest to Osamu. 

“I understand, Osamu.” 

And that’s all that really needed to be said. Kiyoomi watched in real time as Osamu’s shoulders sagged in relief. He promised Kiyoomi that he wouldn’t just disappear without explaining to Atsumu why he wouldn’t be around as much, but he couldn’t promise that Atsumu wouldn’t be angry. 

Predictably, Atsumu was. 

They got into a screaming match that nearly busted Kiyoomi’s eardrums and Osamu got kicked out of the hospital when Atsumu’s heart rate spiked to dangerous levels. Kiyoomi didn’t doubt that they’d recover, although he didn’t act like it at the time, Atsumu understood why Osamu needed time. Grief was not so linear a thing that it took shape in the most digestible of ways. 

Being a loved one of a person that was sick is torture in itself, it was the very reason why Kiyoomi was so scared in the first place. 

He was still scared, especially now as Atsumu changed faster than the seasons could keep up. 

🀦 

Kiyoomi and Atsumu took up knitting. 

For Atsumu’s birthday, Akaashi got him a kit that had every size of needles imaginable and an enormous wicker basket full of yarn to go with. The two of them learned together and they fought about it a lot. Atsumu was better with his hands although Kiyoomi’s grandmother told him once that he had the fingers for it. 

They knitted everything from scarves that had random gaps in the stitching, to gloves that somehow missed a finger, eventually progressing to making hats, so many hats. None of which either of them could wear because they realized far too late that measuring tape was a useful tool to have. 

Kiyoomi accidentally made a hat that could only fit the width of a babydoll's head and he had absolutely no idea how he did it. Atsumu had laughed so hard he started choking and had to be given an oxygen mask to calm down. They decided to make each other’s Christmas gifts this way, although it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

Atsumu insisted it was better because it was made from love, and probably a lot of swearing. 

They got the hang of it just in time for Christmas and even had the time to make things for their friends and family too. He’d made coasters for Osamu and Akaashi, every single one of them looked different from the last. Not because it was designed that way, simply because he still sucked at knitting. 

He made his cousin the world's largest scarf with a width the size of a human head because he accidentally casted on too many loops when he started. He would have tossed it in the overflowing bin in Atsumu’s room that had their many failed attempts stuffed inside, but Motoya insisted that it had character. So, that’s what he got. 

Atsumu was much, much better. In the months it took Kiyoomi to make a single decent looking hat, Atsumu had graduated from ill-fitting gloves to sweaters and that is what he gave every single human being that he knew. Sweaters. 

Except Osamu.

His brother got a blanket. It was stitched in the softest yarn Kiyoomi had ever felt and it was thick. It weighed heavily as it draped across them both when Atsumu was making it. The blanket was so large that you could fit an entire family underneath it without problem. When he gave it to his brother, Kiyoomi realized that was the entire point. 

Osamu and Akaashi had been soulmates since high school. They’d gotten married soon after they graduated and Osamu had moved across the country to be with Akaashi as he went to college. They’d always made a place in their home for Atsumu and Akaashi had been present for Osamu through everything. They were the balm that soothed each other’s souls. 

Kiyoomi imagined that Atsumu’s gift to Osamu was the only thing that meant anything anymore: his permission to continue life without him, to build a home, and a family.

A life. 

🀦 

December 31st, 2018

He held Atsumu close; hands intertwined as Kiyoomi guided them through the dregs of people swarming around them. New Years is a grand event in Japan. The sheer amount of people made his skin crawl, but the look of wonder on Atsumu’s face fluttered in his chest so often that the prickle of discomfort faded into a faint thrum in the light of that gentle, contented smile. It was real pleasure; a true, extraordinarily rare, display of Atsumu’s happiness. So tender and ever so rare these days. He was not loud but always present in an unmistakable way. It was a little funny that Atsumu’s authentic joy was so quiet: a flash and a tiny pull of his lips, before it was gone, leaving only the hint of warm cheeks behind. 

When Atsumu was well, and truly pleased, the warmth from such a small smile was immeasurable.

Atsumu’s hands had become worryingly thin. They were always warm, even as Kiyoomi’s frigid hold embraced him. Kiyoomi’s hands were bigger than his now. He tried not to think about it, how Atsumu’s hands were once large; wide palmed with long, but strong fingers. Kiyoomi always thought himself to be a little gangly, so he liked how much Atsumu’s hands swallowed his own. As he looked down at their swinging hands, palms pressed tightly together, Kiyoomi’s pale hand completely dwarfs Atsumu. He remembers thinking how strange it is; how incorrigible. 

They walked slowly through the crowd, Atsumu leaned heavily against his side, a thin sheen of sweat coated on his pale skin, despite the frigid winter night. Every once in a while, the fatigue would hit Atsumu all at once and he would stumble, losing the strength in his legs momentarily. Kiyoomi would support his weight, keeping his feet under him, and guide him wordlessly to the nearest stall to sit for a little while. Atsumu never liked when Kiyoomi pampered him, treated him like he was ill. Though he was, Atsumu never wanted to ‘act like a dying man.’ Instead, Kiyoomi would feign discomfort and ask Atsumu for a moment away from others. 

It was their little dance, their secret: Atsumu wasn’t sick and Kiyoomi wasn’t scared. 

At one of the benches, secluded from the bright lights and bubbling noises of the crowd, Kiyoomi and Atsumu sat together. They’d purchased Takoyaki from a stall minutes ago, and they’d sat so close that Kiyoomi could smell the faint scent of Osamu’s laundry detergent wafting off the fabric of Atsumu’s Yukata. It was cut by the sharp scent of the food and it made Kiyoomi wrinkle his nose. Atsumu poked at the rounded, sauce-covered snack with a toothpick and he only watched quietly.

Atsumu held up the Takoyaki, sauce dripping back into the basket, gesturing for Kiyoomi to take a bite from the toothpick. He held up his hand, dismissing the offer with a wave of his hand. “I don’t like Takoyaki.” 

Atsumu’s brows furrowed deeply, the skin between his brows creasing as he wrinkled his nose up at Kiyoomi, “Who doesn’t like Takoyaki? Yer a weird one, Omi. I tell ya.”

Kiyoomi smoothed a thumb over the wrinkle between his brow, grazing his thumb over one thick brow. He thought about how full Atsumu’s face had been mere months ago as he stared at the sharp angle of his cheekbones. Atsumu’s face slackened with surprise at his gawking before giving way to melancholy. 

He turned his face away, letting Kiyoomi’s curious touch fall away and turned back to his food with a sigh. “Don’t stare so much, Omi. Y’know I don’t like it.”

He straightened the collar on Atsumu’s navy blue Yukata, brushing his cool fingers over the nape of Atsumu’s neck. It was simple in style, with silver Koi dancing languidly at the hem and traveling up from the width of his billowing sleeves. The belt tied around his thin waist was the same silvery color as the Koi, it danced with light when the lanterns hit it just right. The contrast of the deep colors of his Yukata against his pale skin, and light hair was exquisite. Kiyoomi was well read, and oftentimes well spoken. In times like these, however, he never felt so inept.  

Atsumu was truly breath-taking. Though he could never find the right words, Atsumu always understood him anyway. It wasn’t near enough, but it was fine for now. He kissed the tip of Atsumu’s ear, silently asking for forgiveness. Atsumu always obliged, and Kiyoomi felt comfort in the wake of their shared silence. 

After several long moments, Atsumu leaned back, holding his stomach and groaning, “I can’t eat anymore!” The cardboard container was still more than half full, Kiyoomi wanted to comment on it, to ask him to eat more. He didn’t want to upset Atsumu and he knew he probably ate far more than he wanted to for Kiyoomi’s sake anyway. 

“Alright.” 

Kiyoomi rose, collecting their trash and depositing it in the nearest waste bin. He walked back to where Atsumu sat waiting for him, holding out his hand again. “The fireworks should start soon. Did you still want to watch them?” Atsumu grasped his hand, and Kiyoomi pulled him upwards, steadying a hand on his waist as Atsumu swayed for a moment. Concern bubbled in his chest, “It is late, so we could also go back.” He commented idly, hoping it seemed casual enough. 

Atsumu was undeterred, standing tall after a moment, “Nah, I wanna see the fireworks with you.” 

He nodded his head once, “Okay. Let’s go find a spot then.” 

Hundreds, if not thousands of people all stood clustered together in the field, tall trees on either side encapsulating them in. The field spread wide and long, dropping off at the edge into a steep slope. Some people had blankets that they sat on, surrounded by friends and family, and couples–young and old. Everyone chatted idly as they waited for the show to start. He and Atsumu arrived towards the end, just five minutes before the fireworks were supposed to start. Their spot, because of that, was towards the back, against the tree-line, tucked away from everyone else. They still had a decent view, the both of them being tall adult men. It mattered very little where they stood, nonetheless, Kiyoomi still appreciated the privacy that their spot afforded them.

He stood with his back against the nearest tree with Atsumu sidled up to his side, leaning the entirety of his weight against him. At first, it was hard to imagine Kiyoomi would ever enjoy the proximity. He finds it hard to believe that, months ago; just shy of a year, a brush against his naked skin would send the hairs on the back of his neck standing, like a cat with its hackles raised. It seemed so far from now, with the comforting scent of Atsumu’s shampoo luring him in, calling him closer until he had his nose buried in his blond locks. He felt pulled into orbit, unable to escape the desire of being just a breadth width from Atsumu. He wanted to touch him all the time, to press his body into his until there was no certainty of where one of them ended and the other began. Until their souls merged, their hearts beat in a singular melody, until there was no part that didn’t belong wholeheartedly to one another. He dug his fingers into the fabric of Atsumu’s yukata, tugging him impossibly closer. 

He hadn’t noticed the sudden growing excitement of the crowd as the countdown began. Atsumu mumbled with them, starting from ten and slowly lowering in volume as he whispered the number one. The first explosion of fireworks startled him. He saw the colors burst to life against Atsumu’s complexion, the fireworks sending scatters of color that reflected on his golden hair. There was palpable excitement everywhere, every person was celebrating, shouting their excitement into the night sky.

Only Kiyoomi kept his gaze downward, fixed on Atsumu. He watched the excitement split his face into a wide grin, every now and then, Atsumu’s gaze would shift from the sky to Kiyoomi, ensuring that he was watching. He smiled at him, pointing at the sky, positively vibrating with excitement as he called to Kiyoomi over the commotion, “Omi! Omi! Look!” 

Mournfully, he let his eyes drift from Atsumu’s face and upwards, to the illuminated sky. Fireworks crackled against the stars, the faint smell of gunpowder wafting through the air. For some reason, his mind drifted back to the night he and Atsumu first laid under the stars together at the park. When he told him about his cancer, when he asked about Supernovas.

Kiyoomi thinks he can understand now, watching the fireworks paint themselves across the sky. They were only there a moment, if you blinked, you could miss one. That’s how fast they burst to life and subsequently faded. In mere fragments, the power of its beauty struck you breathless. Holding you captive as you waited, pleading for another glimpse. 

It made little sense to him then, the man that he was at the time. He’d never been the kind of person to sit amongst thousands of other people just to marvel at a show of light that lasted only minutes. He could always think of better things to do with his time, than stand aimlessly staring at the sky. He wondered why people would waste their own time in such a way, for just moments of pleasure. 

Moments that made no difference, had no plausible reason for existing, no meaningful impact than simple entertainment. 

Kiyoomi had always been selfish, always been a callous and unforgiving person. He saw little worth in sentimentalism, found no interest in pretending it had any place in his life at all. He was still selfish, still callous and unforgiving, he still struggled to see why others felt so sentimental about things that seemed worthless to Kiyoomi. Perhaps he’d never grow out of that, he may never change that about himself, like a stubborn root; Kiyoomi would withstand the tests of time. He’d remain, no matter what changed, what grew above him, he’d burst through the concrete unchanged. 

As light burst above him, surrounded by insurmountable joy, Kiyoomi could find no reason to believe he was ever right. It was worth it, the fleeting moments and the silence that would follow, when people walked home with wonder in their eyes. It was the sparks of laughter that made life worth living, no matter how short they seemed to last. No matter how impermanent, or brief the effect. Stealing moments like these, collecting them and carving them into his soul made all the world of a difference in his heavy heart. 

Atsumu could not have forever, but he could have this moment. It was his, every single second, every minute, hour, or day that Kiyoomi could give him. It had been since the moment they met. Kiyoomi would watch dutifully from the ground as Atsumu’s light tore up the sky. 

🀦 

January 17th, 2019. 

New years was the last time they’d leave the hospital. It was silly now, how much Kiyoomi wished he put in a little more effort, stayed just a little longer so that Atsumu could absorb it as much as possible. He wasn’t meant to be trapped; like a dove with their wings cut, he only fell deeper into despair once his freedom was robbed of him. 

Little by little, Atsumu died.

When they first met, they were of a similar build. These days, Atsumu was so thin he feared that one minor fall would snap his bones. He wasn’t weak by any means, but he was, for the first time Kiyoomi had ever seen, incredibly fragile. Kiyoomi could tell how much it weighed on him. He’d often pull at the hem of his t-shirts, once fitting snugly around his figure, now draping loosely around him like a tablecloth. It swallowed him whole; peaks of a protruding collarbone at the neckline, the sleeves drooping around his arms, seams swallowing his shoulders instead of pulling tightly against the bulk of him. 

No matter what, Kiyoomi always found him beautiful, especially now, but it was hard for Atsumu who prided himself on his looks. He was flamboyant; with confidence to rival gods. And, oh, how he crumbled from such a height. He had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, yet every day Kiyoomi watched him curl in on himself just a little more. There was little Kiyoomi could do to convince him otherwise, no words to be spoken, no comfort to be given. It was the reality of which Atsumu lived, he knew it would come. It would be inauthentic to pretend it wasn’t important, that it didn’t change anything. 

The only thing he could do was stand by him, no matter how the tides threatened to drown him in misery. 

They did not speak much anymore. Kiyoomi was never much of a conversationalist and Atsumu filled the bulk of the silence with endless stories and quips. He listened intently, laughed harder than he’d ever before – mostly at Atsumu’s expense, and sat starstruck at the wild nature of Atsumu’s character and his overwhelming passion. 

Their language, though hardly ever spoken anymore, was still filled to the brim with love. Kiyoomi did not speak, but he was there. That, more than anything else, seemed to soothe the constant ache rattling deep inside both their hearts.

They argued as they always have, but their arguments were different now. 

“Stop being stubborn.” He said, holding Atsumu’s waist as he guided them both to the bathroom. 

Atsumu ignored him, dragging his feet behind him and throwing his weight backwards so that Kiyoomi had to pull him. Atsumu hadn’t bathed in four days and he was in desperate need of one, however, Atsumu refused the nurse's help. He wouldn’t allow anyone to see him, not even his own brother. They had tried to convince him, even bribe him. Nothing worked and Atsumu was resolute that he’d do it himself or not at all. Naturally, he could not make it to the bathroom, or anywhere for that matter, without help. So, he refused. 

And while Kiyoomi loved him a lot, he didn’t love him quite that much to let him stew in his own filth simply because of his wounded pride. 

He got them to the bathroom, sitting a pouting Atsumu on the toilet seat while he started the shower. Fortunately, there was a bench inside and the shower head was detachable. It would make this entire ordeal go much faster. 

“Alright,” Kiyoomi sighed, he looked at Atsumu, who refused to make eye contact with him at the moment. “Clothes off.” 

“No.” 

He wrinkled his nose at that. It was the first thing Atsumu had said to him today. “If you don’t do this yourself, I will make you. You cannot sit in your own filth like this.”  

Atsumu glared at him for a long moment before replying a very sweet, “Fuck off, Kiyoomi.” 

If this is how he wants to play it, sobeit. 

Kiyoomi stepped towards him, looming above him with a scowl. He bent down and grabbed the collar of Atsumu’s shirt with one hand and fisted the other at the hem. He pulled Atsumu’s shirt off and over his flailing limbs and petulant huffing with a ridiculous amount of effort. Once he was shirtless, Kiyoomi raised an unimpressed brow at Atsumu’s stink eye. 

“Pants too.”

When Atsumu didn’t move, Kiyoomi kneeled in front of him. “Fine. My way again.” 

He reached for the drawstring of Atsumu’s sweatpants and was slapped— hard. The sting made goosebumps raise on his skin, and his jaw ached. He was sure if he looked in the mirror, the mark of a handprint would be reddening on his skin. 

Kiyoomi winced as he pressed a hand to his stinging cheek, looking at Atsumu with wide eyes. Atsumu had never laid a hand on him. Sure, he got into many brawls with his brother, but they were a mutual effort. Kiyoomi had never reacted violently, or even threatened Atsumu before. He felt the air in the bathroom grow thick with tension as Kiyoomi made eye contact with Atsumu from his position on the floor. 

He looked just as shocked as Kiyoomi, wide brown eyes growing watery. “I told ya, don’t touch me!” Atsumu yelled, a few tears slipping from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. 

“Atsu,” he whispered, raising a hand towards Atsumu’s face. 

At the sight of Kiyoomi’s hand, Atsumu flinched back, snapping his head to the side and away from him. He wiped his own tears hastily with a closed fist. “Leave me alone.” 

He wrapped arms around his midsection, hugging himself tightly as he drew his knees up to his chest. “I don’t want ya here. Leave.” Atsumu muttered, face pressed into his knees. 

“I won’t.” 

Kiyoomi laid a gentle hand on a safer zone. He rubbed soothing circles on Atsumu’s forearm. “We have to do this, Atsumu.” He pleaded. “I know you don’t want to, I wish there was another way, but you won’t let anyone else touch you.” Kiyoomi’s voice felt loud in the echo of the bathroom despite the fact that his voice was hardly above a whisper. 

“It’ll be over before you know it, I’ll be quick.” He promised. Atsumu’s hair was thick with grease, laying flat over his skull like it was wet. His clothes and body smelled of sweat and body odor. Kiyoomi tried not to think about it as he continued to massage the wiry muscles on Atsumu’s arms, hoping to comfort him enough to let Kiyoomi take care of him. 

They sat together for a couple minutes, Kiyoomi wasn’t sure how long before Atsumu spoke again. His voice was muffled and breaking as he whispered, “I don’t want ya to see me. I don’t…I’m not.” His arms tightened around his knees and he let out a shaky, wet breath. 

Kiyoomi squeezed his arms, trailing his fingers up over his shoulders and the back of his neck. He understood what Atsumu was scared of. He'd always been shy with Kiyoomi. Atsumu was always so, so proud. His body, the way cancer ravaged it, was something that Atsumu could never quite grapple with.

His own eyes prickled with unshed tears. Kiyoomi dragged the blunt edges of his nails across the short hairs at the base of Atsumu’s skull. "It is not the state of you that matters, Atsumu. Just you, I just care about you." 

Atsumu’s shoulders trembled, body wilting. “I hate it, Omi” He sobbed. “I hate this.”

Kiyoomi kissed his temple. He pulled Atsumu’s body forward, resting his legs gently on the floor as Kiyoomi squeezed himself behind him, his back digging into the tank of the toilet. He gathered Atsumu in his arms, holding his body firmly against his.

Kiyoomi spoke against the fragile skin of Atsumu’s neck and shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

They both knew that Atsumu needed this, whether he wanted it or not. Whether it was painful or not, Atsumu needed to be taken care of right now. Kiyoomi would take his ire, his fists, or his tears, but he would not abandon him. Even if Atsumu told him to. He would wait, for hours, minutes, even days. But he would not give up on him. 

“I’m sorry fer hittin’ ya.” 

Kiyoomi smiled against the nape of his neck. There he was. “I’m sorry too. You weren’t ready and I was too forceful.” 

Atsumu sniffled, encircling a bony hand around Kiyoomi’s. “I think I’m ready now.”

Kiyoomi gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before slowly sliding the fabric of his sweatpants down Atsumu's thighs. Atsumu pressed his weight into Kiyoomi to lift his hips up, and Kiyoomi pushed his pants down the rest of the way. They pooled on the floor and Atsumu kicked them away.

Kiyoomi removed himself from the way he was plastered against Atsumu’s back and turned the shower on. He waited a couple moments for the water to heat up before he started removing his own clothes. 

“W-wait.” Atsumu held both his hands up, covering his eyes, a bright blush warming his cheeks. “What are ya doin’?”

Kiyoomi shrugged in reply, although Atsumu couldn’t see him. “I’m not letting you do this alone.” He explained, before continuing to disrobe himself until he was left in his briefs, similar to Atsumu. 

Steam rose around them, heating up the bathroom and fogging the mirror. Kiyoomi waited until the mirror was completely fogged over to place a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. “Are you ready?” He asked. When Atsumu refused to answer and resolutely kept his eyes covered, he laughed. 

“All that flirting and the moment you have the opportunity to see me nude, and you won’t look at me?” 

“‘S different!” Atsumu squawked, his entire face becoming a hilarious shade of red. He looked everywhere but at Kiyoomi, seemingly finding particular insterest in the grout underneath his feet. 

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. Atsumu had seen him in various states of undress now, though the fierce blush never seemed to dim. “You don’t even know what I look like naked." He stated, thumbing the waistband of his underwear. "I could have a micropenis.”

That startled a laugh out of Atsumu. 

“Don’t be rude, you’ll hurt my feelings.” Kiyoomi let the band snap back against his skin. He kneeled in front of Atsumu again, bare knee pressing hard into the tile. When Atsumu finally looked at him, Kiyoomi offered a small smile and held out his hand. “At the same time then?” 

Atsumu nodded, keeping his head down as he stood. Kiyoomi turned away, pushing his fingers past the waistband of his briefs. He only turned to face Atsumu again when he heard the soft thump of fabric hitting the floor.

Keeping his eyes trained on Atsumu’s face, they stood bare before one another. He’d spent many years at this point, in various locker rooms, standing proud in his vulnerability amongst the other men in the room and yet, before Atsumu, he’d never felt more shy. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, concern bleeding into his voice. 

“Yer a dirty liar, Kiyoomi.” 

He snorted. “I didn’t say I had a micropenis, just that it was a possibility.” Kiyoomi opened the shower door and stepped inside, testing the water temperature, and poked his head outside of the stall. “You coming?” A wry smile formed on his lips as Atsumu wobbled toward him with a scowl. 

The shower was rather large– thankfully. It easily accommodates two large, grown men over 6 feet tall. He situated Atsumu on the bench across from the shower head and detached the head, adjusting the water pressure, and gently started rinsing Atsumu down. He started with his shoulders, across his chest, and down his back. He was quiet through all of it but the silence was that of comfort, rather than tension like before. 

After he was thoroughly doused, Kiyoomi tilted his chin up. He kissed both of Atsumu’s cheeks and a light one on his forehead before he shielded his eyes and wet his hair. It was a chesnut brown now, instead of blond. Though Kiyoomi fell in love with a blond, he adored the warm brown just as much. It made the golden flecks in Atsumu’s eyes look bright, like pools of sunshine. Kiyoomi recalled fondly of the day Atsumu let him cut his hair. He did a lot of sweet talking just to get it done. Osamu had even given it his stamp of approval. 

After hooking the shower head back on the wall, he poured a pile of shampoo directly on Atsumu’s head and massaged it gently into his scalp until his hair was foaming and sticking straight up into the shape of a mohawk. He was careful to keep the shampoo from running down his face or getting in his ears as he slowly dragged his fingers through Atsumu’s hair. Kiyoomi studied the serene look on Atsumu’s face, the thin skin of his eyelids, the way his lashes clumped together when they got wet or he cried, the straight slope of his nose, to the bitten skin of his pale lips. He’d meant it when he said that Atsumu was gorgeous. He had always been, which Atsumu knew of course, but here amongst the sound of the shower washing their fatigue down the drain, he is especially stunning. 

He went on to wash Atsumu’s body next, and he felt the weight of those eyes on him with every glide of the washcloth across Atsumu’s skin the most. Kiyoomi took his time, using the opportunity to worship every dip and hollow, caress each protruding rib. He traced the lines of Atsumu’s body with a featherlight touch. It felt so intimate and deeply moving to be allowed to see him like this, so incredibly vulnerable. 

His throat felt strained as he swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. He’d never imagine a world like this, in which touch wasn't terror, but unadulterated love. The cultivation of how much Atsumu trusted him to be kind. 

They’ve not said such a thing yet, he was still a coward. Kiyoomi wanted to believe he’d have more opportunities to get over himself. Or at the very least, just one more. Except that he’d asked the universe for one more chance too many times. 

He handed the washcloth over to let Atsumu clean his more ‘private areas’ who took it from him with an unimpressed look. 

“When’s it gonna be my turn?” Atsumu asked as he shamelessly spread his legs to clean himself, apparently losing all his modesty from ten minutes ago. 

Kiyoomi met his gaze and raised him one with an arched brow and replied, “when you’re done with that.” 

True to his word, he did let Atsumu return the favor. He followed the pace that Kiyoomi set, starting with his hair, moving to his body, of which he did with a ridiculous amount of whistling and suggestive eyes, and then rinsed him off. 

They stepped out of the shower in a far happier mood than they went in, and Kiyoomi is grateful for that. Normally, when Atsumu looked this tired, he was in the foulest of moods. Nearly nonverbal. The words he did speak were acidic, and if the doctor hadn’t warned them of the potential of personality changes as his cancer progressed, Kiyoomi would have been heartbroken at the vitriol that Atsumu spat at him. 

After their bath, they cuddled in bed together for the remainder of the evening and had dinner. Or, Kiyoomi had dinner and Atsumu had a bite. 

Kiyoomi feared for the days that would come forth with much more painful experiences and he prayed that for Atsumu’s sake, he wouldn’t hold onto them very long. 

That night, Kiyoomi held him in his arms bare for the first time. They rocked against each other and whispering sweetly into one another’s ears. It felt like a rapture, in between this world and the next. It was just them, Atsumu and Kiyoomi. 

Kiyoomi had found a place amongst the heat of Atsumu's body a thousand times. But never like that. He’d never held him like that before. It felt like love steeped in grief; an apology for Atsumu’s departure. 

Every day they got a little closer; emotionally and physically. And every day, Atsumu became less and less of himself. 

🀦 

February 19th, 2019.

The cafeteria was not far from Atsumu’s room. He’d not been there many times as Atsumu preferred food brought by Osamu and Osamu alone. Otherwise, he’d refuse to eat. To save everyone the time, including themselves and the staff, they opted to go along with this whim of his. They were assured by Atsumu’s doctor that it wouldn’t hurt much–in other words it mattered very little. Still, Dr. Hikashi requested that they keep him on a clean diet. 

Unfortunately, as Atsumu got worse, and his health issues surged relentlessly in these past few weeks, Osamu had very little time away from the hospital to make Atsumu food. He tried as often as he could, but like Kiyoomi, he practically lived at the hospital. And even if he could leave, he didn’t want to. 

Most days they sat quietly together as Atsumu slept. There was little that they could say to one another, every single thing they talked about would somehow loop right back into a conversation regarding Atsumu’s rapidly declining health. Neither of them, despite knowing it would happen, felt prepared to watch Atsumu’s fate unfold. 

The silence was not comforting, but it was a near thing. At least when Atsumu was asleep, he was not suffering from crippling migraines that had him vomiting up everything that he had consumed or seizing so violently that Kiyoomi was certain he’d die from a snapped neck instead. He’d held him through many, many episodes and the frequency in which they occurred climbed from once in a while to every day, multiple times a day if it was a bad day. 

And Atsumu, his love, had many bad days recently. 

So, cafeteria food it was. 

Kiyoomi built him a tray with several heaps of fresh rice and a large bowl of miso. It was bland and certainly Atsumu would complain about it, but he knew from experience that Atsumu could stomach this food. He also snagged his favorite jell-o cup flavor (mango) as an apology.

He carried the tray back out of the cafeteria and to the elevators. When he arrived in front of Atsumu’s door, he balanced the cream plastic tray in the crook of his arm to slide the door open. 

“I’m back,” he said, sliding the door shut behind him. 

Osamu stood to take the tray from him and set it on the table next to Atsumu’s bed. The man in question stared wordlessly, eyes glittering, right at Kiyoomi with an undecipherable look on his face. He prepared himself for the whine that would inevitably leave Atsumu’s mouth but it never came. Instead, his perfectly shaped lips opened and spoke Kiyoomi’s personal nightmare. 

“Yer beautiful,” he said breathless and slightly awed. “What’s yer name?” 

No one moved a muscle. Atsumu was still blinking prettily at him, a blush high on his cheeks. Kiyoomi couldn’t speak. He couldn’t feel. He swallowed the lump in his throat only for it to return stronger, choking him with terror. He wasn’t gone for more than five minutes.

“‘Tsumu…” Osamu said slowly, sitting down across from him once again. He didn’t seem to know what to do either, he looked fleetingly at Kiyoomi before returning to his brother, silver eyes tracking all over his frame. 

His pulse thundered in his ears as Atsumu paid little mind to his brother. Those golden eyes he loved so much bored straight through him. “Are ya shy?” Atsumu asked, a small smile curving on his lips. 

It was so innocent, so genuinely curious it stabbed violently at Kiyoomi’s heart. He hurt with him, for him, for himself. Although Atsumu warned him this could happen, told him that it was the one thing he feared; to lose himself and forget the people that mattered. In the face of it, the promise that he made, it felt impossible. 

He collected himself as much as possible, encouraging himself with one foot in front of the other and steady, albeit shaky, breaths. He approached Atsumu’s bed, praying that he kept a blank expression. 

“Sakusa Kiyoomi, but you can call me Omi. That’s what my friends call me.” Miya Atsumu was not just his friend, but it didn’t matter. He’d kill to hear that loving nickname once more. 

“Oh. Are we friends?” He asked, confusion etched into his voice. “I can’t…why didn’t I…” He trailed off, his gaze pointed at the floor. 

Panic rose inside Kiyoomi suddenly, making him dizzy with the force of it. “No, no. ” He lied. “We’ve never met before. This is the first time.” 

The sadness cleared from Atsumu’s expression like a storm swept away by the wind. “Okay, Omi-kun. Ya can call me Atsumu.”

“Great,” he breathed. “It’s nice to meet you, Atsumu.”

He stayed with them for a while longer, allowing Atsumu to ask him questions about himself, of which he already knew. He did not know if his Atsumu would ever come back, the one that loved him. The one that knew his favorite color or what brand of sanitizer he thought was best. The Atsumu that kept Kiyoomi’s Itachiyama jacket in his closet for when he wasn’t there.

There was evidence of his existence everywhere in Atsumu’s life and now it meant nothing, Kiyoomi meant nothing. He knew what could happen, he always knew. It did nothing to quell the visceral pain. 

 🀦 

March 20th, 2019.

“Here. He got ya a gift.” Osamu held out a white envelope with the characters of Kiyoomi’s name scrawled over it in a way that screamed of Atsumu. 

Kiyoomi felt his jaw work as he clenched his mouth shut. He nodded, afraid that if he spoke he wouldn’t be able to keep the scream waiting in his throat at bay. 

Atsumu remembered very little these days. He would peak through sometimes, like rays of sunshine on cloudy days. Like fleeting breaks from a vicious storm, the wilted flowers of Kiyoomi’s heart tipping upwards to absorb as much of the available light as possible.

He opened the envelope in the bathroom at the hospital. He didn’t trust himself to do it in front of Osamu’s knowing stare. 

It was a birthday card with the ugliest drawing of a fox he’d ever seen, holding a balloon with “Happy Birthday” written in english on the bottom. It was a really strange blue-gray color with little swirly sun doodles drawn all over. 

It was just the thing that Atsumu would pick out.

He opened the card to read the message when a slip of paper fell out and onto the floor. He stared at it for a moment, contemplating if he really wanted to pick that up from the bathroom floor. He didn’t. 

He did it anyway. Kiyoomi read. 

My Dear Omi,

Happy Birthday!

His eyes burned the moment he read the first few lines. It was surreal, how much affection he could feel from the excited flick of Atsumu’s handwriting. He felt the pain he’d held so heavily inside himself unfurl the moment he laid eyes on Atsumu’s terrible penmanship. 

When this reaches you, I don’t think I will be able to celebrate with you. 

By the time your birthday rolls around, I don't think I'll be there. 

I'm sorry about that, I really am. 

When you told me several months ago that I missed your birthday, I made Samu run out and get me a birthday card. When you have an expiration date like I do, silly things like that matter more than you think. 

I know it’s technically your birthday, so by all rights, you should be the one making wishes. But, I want to tell you mine: I really want to see you laugh. Not just any will do, you know how I am. I want to see you utterly lose it. Full belly laugh. A cackle. I bet that it’ll be the best thing I’ve heard in my 23 years of life. 

I hope that I get to see that before I go, and maybe even before you read this. It was my goal from the moment I saw you sitting in that chair in the waiting room. You looked so unhappy. 

I want to see you overwhelmed with joy before I go, at least once.  

Samu used to tell me that nobody would fall in love with me if I kept being so selfish. He’s right, I know he is and I’m gonna trust you to not tell him I said that. I know it isn’t fair. I never wanted to hurt you.

I can see it in your eyes. I hate it because you’ve always had pretty eyes. I don’t like knowing I’m the reason there’s pain in them when I look at you. 

If I am still there, if I'm that lucky, I hope you can forgive me. I won’t be the same; I won’t be myself. Like I said, I’m a selfish guy, Omi. So, even though I know you’ll be hurting, there’s a large part of me that’s happy that I was given more time to spend in your life. 

You deserve better. But I’m not strong enough to let you go, not until I really have to and even then, I really really really don’t want to. 

It’s always been you, Omi. 

Thank you for allowing me to know you. For giving me the opportunity to fall in love. It’s a luxury in my world. I have loads of regrets, and when I was first told of my future, it was all I ever thought about. But now, I think I might just be the luckiest scrub on the face of the planet. 

We live in a world where soulmates exist. It’s always been a crazy concept. Someone destined for you from the moment you’re born. I didn’t really believe it, especially not after I got sick. Because how cruel could the gods be, to make someone suffer a fate like mine; A soulmate bond destined to break. 

But after the day we met. I feel a little more certain.

I was so, unbelievably, stupidly wrong. I may not have the flowers, nor the time to receive it. But I know beyond a shadow of doubt that you were meant for me and I for you. 

And I’ll hang on to that for the rest of my life, however long or ugly it might be.

I promise you that. Pinky swear and all. 

Love,

Your Atsumu

He saw, more than felt, the tears. They dropped onto the paper he held, tipping the world over on its axis. His screams were animalistic, shredding his throat so much he could taste the blood in the back of his mouth.

He couldn’t stop, not with the press of the cold tile against his forehead where he was crumpled on the floor, paper still clutched against his chest. 

Not when the doors of the bathroom slammed open, several pairs of hands touching his back, urging him to breathe. It hurt.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. He can’t stop. He can’t. Can’t. Hurts.

“I know. I know, ‘M sorry. ‘M so sorry.” He knew that accent. It was so achingly familiar, so painfully comforting, but it was all wrong. The voice was all wrong, it was missing its teasing lilt. It wasn’t the voice he loved. The one he heard in his dreams.

“Ya gotta help me, Kiyoomi. C’mon. Ya hafta breathe.”

Distantly, he knew what the burn in his lungs meant. Someone pushed against his chest, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, guiding him upright. His neck felt like he’d been burned the moment the contact was made. He didn’t know if he was still screaming. If he was, the ringing in his ears wouldn’t allow him to hear it. 

He felt like his head was under water, his vision fuzzing at the edges. Blackness encroaching on him, eager to take him under. 

The hands disappear for a moment. Kiyoomi thought he might actually pass out now. It was alluring, the peace that it might give him. Just a moment, however small, he could escape this hell. Then suddenly he was choking, coughing violently as he gulped lungfuls of air. His back stung, right between his shoulder blades.

“There we go.” A tight, warm grip on his shoulder. “Yer okay. You’ll be alright.”

He’d thought how suffocating such a lie like that could be that he was surprised Osamu didn’t choke on it as it came out. 

🀦 

April 3rd, 2019.

“Have you lost weight?”

It shook Kiyoomi to the core every time. It shouldn’t be the least surprising, they both knew it was coming. Everyone did. So when the weeks trudged by, where Atsumu couldn’t remember much of anything, Kiyoomi always prepared for the worst. He always treated every time Atsumu would come back to him as the last time he’d ever do so. 

Funny moments like these always seemed to chase away the darkness encroaching on his spirit. All things considered, Atsumu should not be able to keep track of something as significant as Kiyoomi losing a couple pounds. But, that’s just how Atsumu is. He doesn’t remember his favorite season, his favorite flowers, or even his own birthday. Somehow though, deep in the recesses of Atsumu’s mind, when the sun peeks through and his memory comes flooding back, it’s the minor details that Atsumu notices the most. His grasp on himself is so fleeting and yet Atsumu tracks Kiyoomi’s form with scrutinizing tired eyes, assessing him with worry. 

“Have ya been eatin’ properly?” 

Words crawled up his throat the way that unshed tears forced pressure behind his eyes. He was not a crier, he never had been. However, these days, he felt himself drifting in a sea of unfamiliar emotions. No, Kiyoomi wanted to say.

“I’m fine, Atsumu.” He said instead. 

The lie burnt him the moment it left his lips but if he had to choose between telling the truth and tainting the blessing of Atsumu coming back to himself, he’d choose the latter every single time. 

It was obvious that Atsumu didn’t believe him, he regarded him silently for a moment, mulling over what he wanted to say as he worried the fragile skin of his bottom lip. Thankfully, after some silence, he said nothing. They couldn’t dwell in the past, of what might have happened if Kiyoomi opted to tell him the truth. They didn’t need the memories, they didn’t have the luxury of time to comfort them. Every moment mattered more than the previous. In the infinitesimal moments of Atsumu’s startling clarity amongst the haze his illness.

They didn't have a moment to waste on arguing the way they used to. 

Kiyoomi counted the moments, scorching the moment the light would reach Atsumu’s eyes again into his memory. He counted the seconds, holding his breath. There was no telling how long his light would stick around for before he faded once again. If he had the time, he’d scream at Atsumu again. He’d bicker endlessly with him, enjoying the furrow in his brows and the sneer of his lips when he was well, and truly angry.

If he had the time, he’d throw himself into his grief and anger with abandon. He’d take hold of Atsumu and refuse to let go, shaking the man as he tore into him for his hurt. Why? He’d ask. Why did you make me fall in love with you?  

It would be a useless fight, one that they’d unspokenly had before. Kiyoomi chose to stay. He would do it all over again, despite the fact that it may just kill him to do so. If he just had time, he’d beg Atsumu to tell him that he loved him, just to feel the sensation of warmth overtake his body as the words fell from his lips. If they had the time, he’d probably tell Atsumu that he loved him too. 

But life was not that way; it was messy as much as it was unfair. They didn’t. They never would. 

Kiyoomi was being selfish, he knew that. He just couldn’t say it. For if he did, he was afraid of how it might break him. What it meant, truly, to be so deeply, irrevocably in love with a dying man. It was cruel. It was what it was.

They didn’t say it and Atsumu wouldn’t ask him to. 

Kiyoomi shifted closer to Atsumu on his bed. He couldn’t recall the last time that he slept in his own apartment, on his own bed. Away from Atsumu. The doctors and nurses at the hospital took pity on him and never asked him to leave, so he just didn’t. Every week or so, Osamu would bring him a duffel bag of clothes and cycle out the soiled ones that Kiyoomi kept with fresh ones. It was their unspoken trade off. He kept Atsumu company, taking the brunt of the horror of watching the person that they both love, fade away. Osamu steadfastly brought supplies, coming every so often to check in on them both.

Kiyoomi understood why he didn’t stay after Atsumu stopped recognizing him. He saw the festering wound in his eyes every time that Atsumu looked at Osamu with confusion and irritation, demanding to know ‘who the hell he was.’ Osamu looked just like him, yet Atsumu had no clue. He didn't know what he looked like anymore. He didn't know who he was. 

Since no one could predict the volatility of Atsumu’s mood, Kiyoomi took the violent outburst with a stoic expression painted on his face, allowing Atsumu to exhaust himself before the next wave took hold. And Osamu, he took care of them both in the background. Offering, in his own way, the support he could give as terror and loss ransacked his heart and mind. Watching Atsumu die was like trying to pick metal shrapnel out of their skin before it traveled inward, absorbed by their blood stream and poisoning their hearts. 

It was useless the moment the bomb went off. 

It wasn't all bad sometimes. Atsumu woke up demanding cuddles. He wanted to be wrapped in Kiyoomi’s arms the moment he fixed his honey-colored irises on Kiyoomi and recognized him. He savored the moment, carding his fingers through the feathery wisps of Atsumu’s hair and indulging him. Sometimes, Kiyoomi lost track of time when Atsumu was like this.

He was always quiet now, where his chatter used to fill the room with liveliness. His silence was different. Hollowing. It was okay though, Kiyoomi never minded listening to the rasp of his breath or the tender beat of his heart instead. In a way, it meant more than any words that Atsumu could utter. It meant that he was still there. He’d take anything, the screaming, vicious insults, the punches, the tears. Anything in exchange for Atsumu’s existence. 

It was a good day, so Atsumu was feeling more talkative. Kiyoomi always felt himself leaning in, letting every word Atsumu whispered be absorbed with reverence. No matter how trivial, anything Atsumu said was invaluable. He always chose his words carefully when he was fully present within himself. Like he knew, somehow, even if the doctor’s told Kiyoomi that he wouldn’t remember his outburst, that he had to make up for the damage. It wasn’t his fault, they both knew that.

Still, asking Kiyoomi to take care of himself was as close to ‘I love you,’ as they could get these days. 

He’d want for nothing, allowing the spoils of Atsumu’s beauty to tide him over until next time. Until the next infinitesimal string of moments they kept. 

🀦 

April 17th, 2019.

It wasn’t as if Kiyoomi was hopeful, he knew what would come for them eventually. He spent many nights lying awake and spinning possibility after possibility of just how bad it could possibly get. He did his research, probably too much of it if he was honest. When Atsumu told him that it would get ugly around this time, over a year ago, he knew Atsumu wasn’t lying. He was desperate to prepare, he knew. 

It seemed like yesterday was a distant luxury in comparison to today.

No amount of warning or preparation could begin to ease the agony of waking up to Atsumu’s screams. Kiyoomi thought himself to be well acquainted at picking apart the inflections that Atsumu used. Knowing when Atsumu really needed him, knowing when he was being mean because he was scared, he knew the tone of his voice when he was teasing like the back of his hand. He also learned to hear the difference between the Atsumu that loved him and the Atsumu that didn’t know him at all. This scream, the one that jolted Kiyoomi from his fitful slumber, sent waves of goosebumps across his skin. It was unlike anything that Kiyoomi had heard from him previously. It wasn’t the vitriol he’d spill when he woke up next to Kiyoomi, not knowing who he was. It wasn’t the hoarse wails when his headaches would tear apart his brain from the inside out. He would describe the migraines he got as ‘brain meltingly horrible.’ Of all the noises that Kiyoomi had cataloged in his brain, this shriek wasn’t any of them. 

Because today, Atsumu lost his vision. 

His eyes were still the same color; like pools of light in the afternoon sun that frantically searched the room, never fully focusing on one spot. Kiyoomi wasn’t sure what to say, even as Atsumu’s desperate calls of his name touched his ears. It hurt so bad. He was trembling as he sat next to him, their thighs almost touching as Atsumu called out for him. 

“I… I’m right here.” His voice sounded faint even to his own ears, cracked and dull but it was there. Atsumu heard him. 

“Omi.” He cried, the rattle of his breath coming in short bursts. Kiyoomi took his hand, watching numbly as Atsumu flinched. “Omi, I’m scared.”  

Kiyoomi reached around and pressed the emergency button on the side of Atsumu’s bed to alert the nurses that something was wrong. He held tightly to Atsumu’s hand as tears fell from those beautiful, unseeing eyes. 

“We’re okay.” He pressed Atsumu’s hand to his own chest, imploring Atsumu to take deep steady breaths. “Come on, Atsu.” Kiyoomi trailed his fingers up and down the slender length of Atsumu’s arm as he mimicked Kiyoomi’s breathing with trembling lips. They waited just like that until the doctors rushed in, Kiyoomi gently rocking them both, hushing Atsumu’s cries with the most soothing voice he could muster. He sat with him, cradling him in his arms as doctors and nurses flitted around them both, checking Atsumu’s eyes and confirming what Kiyoomi already knew to be true. 

His sight wasn’t coming back. 

There was nothing to be done, Atsumu was devastated. It terrified Kiyoomi with how his sobs shook his frail body. Atsumu didn’t stop, he was gasping and sputtering until he was gagging on his own sobs and Kiyoomi could do nothing but hold him through it. Offering himself to Atsumu to cling to as the last bits of strength abandoned him.

It took hours of his own silent tears and coaxing whispers until sleep finally took Atsumu. He studied the deep rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest, waiting patiently for a moment so that Kiyoomi could step away. He had things he needed to take care of, he needed to tell Osamu. 

Kiyoomi pulled out his phone, detaching himself almost robotically from Atsumu’s sleeping form. He searched for his contact with shaky fingers until he dialed his number and pressed the phone to his ear. 

Osamu told him that he preferred when Kiyoomi just gave it to him straight, no flowery words. No apologies. Just the nasty truth. He said it was the only proper way to handle this kind of thing.

So when Osamu picked up on the third ring, murmuring a small “Sakusa?” It was only then, when he heard the rasp of Osamu’s voice over his speaker that he recalled that it was still early in the morning. Dawn hadn’t quite broken.

He let the words come without thinking. “He’s blind, Osamu. He can’t see anymore.” 

It was the first time he spoke it out loud and it felt as ugly as it did coming out as it did to harbor it in his chest. His composure began to crack as the silence on the end of the line continued. 

“I–I don’t know what happened, Osamu…He just…He was fine last night?” He gasped out the words like it choked him. “If I had known…I mean, I did. I–but, couldn’t I have…” Osamu sucked in a breath on the other line, he could hear quiet muttered curses as Kiyoomi tried to steady himself. It wasn’t about him. 

It wasn’t and it felt selfish to whine about his own guilt to Atsumu’s brother, to someone who was suffering far greater than Kiyoomi could even begin to imagine. Osamu didn’t deserve to have Kiyoomi’s pathetic excuses thrown at him. 

Even still, Kiyoomi has always been a selfish bastard to his very core. “I wanted to show him so many more beautiful things…”

“I’m gonna stop by, ‘fore I drop Keiji off at work. I’ll–” Osamu cut himself off with a deep sigh, he felt that bone-deep fatigue in his own heart too. “I’ll come see him. See how he’s doing. Y’know he ain’t really gon’ tell ya…once he processes all of it…” The crackle of the phone line acted as a barrier between him and the depth of the silence that threatened to swallow him whole as he waited for Osamu to continue. 

“How, uh. How is his memory today?”  

It was supposed to be a good day. Yesterday, Atsumu had been more like himself than he had in months. Despite the fact that Atsumu never said much anymore, there was that glimmer of mischief in his eyes that Kiyoomi had mourned the loss of a long, long time ago. But that was yesterday, and today Atsumu lost his eyesight. So, he really didn’t know. 

He told Osamu so, “Every day is different. He’s sleeping now…He knew me when he woke up. When.” He paused trying to build the courage, “He called for me when he lost his sight. He didn’t know where I was…but he knew me. Sometimes after a long nap, he loses what bit of lucidity he had. I don’t really know how he’ll be once he wakes again.” 

There was an unspoken if hidden amongst his words. A large part of him never wanted to let go of him, the vastly selfish and scared part of him wished that Atsumu would hang on just a little longer. However, it would be a kinder fate to not let Atsumu suffer through this anymore. But life was cruel and it never seemed like the gods paid any mind anyway. 

Osamu knew, he knew it all, much like Kiyoomi but for much longer. “Yeah. Alright. I’ll see ya both in a bit. And, uh Sakusa…?” 

“Yes?”

“Once I get there, I think you should take a break. It won’t get any easier after this and you need to take care of yerself. ‘Tsumu would kill me twice over if I let ya run yerself into the ground.”  

“I’ll think about it.” 

He would. There was truth to Osamu’s cautions, it would break Kiyoomi to keep going like this. But, to ask him to leave? To walk away? It seems impossible now. Osamu seemed to understand his conviction, which is why he entrusted his brother’s care to him. It felt strange to be told after all this time that he needed to take proper care of himself. It was nearly laughable. It was just a hair too damn late. 

He thanked Osamu and straightened out a few more details before hanging up. He’d give the twins time. They deserved it and there was only so much that Kiyoomi could accomplish in comforting Atsumu. Sometimes, he just needed his brother. The two of them together, regardless of the state they were in, tilted his world, Atsumu, onto its proper axis.  They walked through life together and they’d walk towards death together too. Even if one of them wasn’t going all the way to the end with the other. All he could do was try to make the path a little easier, it’s what he decided his purpose was for Atsumu. He couldn’t offer Atsumu his life back, he couldn’t offer him time, he couldn’t protect him. All he could do was give Atsumu the best of him that he could. 

🀦 

April 29th, 2019.

Atsumu liked music a lot, he always had even before he lost his vision. He was always humming a tune, or tapping his fingers rhythmically on any surface as if the act of keeping his body still would force it to become so taut, he’d snap. When Kiyoomi first visited him in the hospital, he recalled arriving at his particular door and hearing the murmur of music the second he approached. He’d thought it was annoying at the time, only thinking of how he was subjecting everyone else in the hospital to his horrible taste in music. 

Now, as Kiyoomi held Atsumu in his arm, gently swaying the beat as the cord of their shared earbud dangled between them, he was grateful for Atsumu’s love of music. It swept him from the silence the way that Atsumu’s voice always did. 

He pressed Atsumu to his chest, supporting the brunt of his weight as they shuffled together in the middle of Atsumu’s hospital room. When Atsumu was overwhelmed, unable to see and feeling completely lost, Kiyoomi would pull out his earbuds and play music for them both. 

He started with just music at first, showing Atsumu the kind of music that he liked, which would inevitably earn him some smart remarks about his poor taste if Atsumu was feeling well enough. Other times, they’d listen to podcasts. Kiyoomi’s personal favorite genre was True Crime. He’d often lament to Atsumu about how stupid some serial killers are and Atsumu joked that he’d be a difficult killer to catch because his clean up skills would be top tier. 

He talked for them both a lot these days, and on the days he couldn’t, Atsumu particularly loved some of the comedy podcasts. He could only really tell by the faint smile on his lips and the whisper of a laugh on his breath.There was very little anymore that he felt he had the power to do to help Atsumu. He was falling, sliding down the hourglass of time, grain by grain until the last of his substance would slip and he’d be at the end of his rope. Until there was no Atsumu for Kiyoomi to take care of. 

So, as he stood with him in his arms, Atsumu’s nose buried in the crook of his neck, Kiyoomi reveled in every second of it. He wasn’t really supposed to be moving, he was on strict orders to preserve his energy but some things, Kiyoomi learned, are just worth the risk. 

When the night was full of terror

And your eyes were filled with tears

When you had not touched me yet…

Atsumu stirred, bringing down one of his arms where they were wrapped around his neck and clutched the back of Kiyoomi’s shirt between his shoulder blades. In their language of silence, Kiyoomi offered him comfort; grazing the tips of his fingers underneath Atsumu’s shirt and over the fine skin on his ribcage, memorizing the valleys of his body with his hands alone. He felt Atsumu’s chest rise as he took in a shuddering breath.

“Omi…”

I had all and then most of you

“Yes?”

Some and now none of you

“What’s yer flowers?”

Take me back to the night we met

“Please,” Kiyoomi whispered, “Please don’t make me say it.

Haunted by the ghost of you

He felt Atsumu’s smile against his shoulder. “Ya deserve better.”

Take me back to the night we met

🀦 

May 17th, 2019. 

“You know I’m horrible at singing, stop asking me.”

Kiyoomi looked down at Atsumu, where his fingers carded through chestnut colored hair. He had not known beauty quite like this before. Though his love wasn’t even a fraction of the same man he met a year ago, Kiyoomi found Atsumu to be more beautiful than ever. 

Over the year they spent together, Atsumu’s strength was never anything less than profound. He found no reason to smile, yet he almost always did. Like stars have no reason to shine, they just do. One would be a fool not to admire the stars in the hours they shine, like Kiyoomi would be a fool if he didn’t worship the fragile upward curve of Atsumu’s lips at this moment. 

“But I love ta hear ya,” Atsumu teased him. When Kiyoomi sang to him, it always made him giggle, jubilant laughter shaking his frame. It was horrendously embarrassing, Kiyoomi was not a liar, he really does suck, but it’s worth the scorching heat on his cheeks to hear that twinkling laughter. 

He pressed his nose into Atsumu’s cheek, humming his disagreement into the soft skin there. “You just want an opportunity to make fun of me.” 

They were so happy. 

Atsumu snickered once more, wrapping a feeble hand around the back of his neck and guided Kiyoomi into his orbit, pressed chest to chest, ribcage to ribcage; heart to heart. Atsumu was warm and soft, petal soft skin tickling the skin on his cheek where his stubble rubbed Atsumu's own. He could feel a warm breath against his ear, sending tingling sensations down his spine. He loved Atsumu like this: sweet, playful, and always a bit mischievous.

“I don’ need an excuse ta make fun of ya, Kiyoomi.” 

He never needed an excuse for anything, not for Kiyoomi. Nor did he ever need to ask for a single thing. He’d wrangle the stars and bring them careening down to earth one by one if Atsumu wanted. He’d grow wings and fly to reach the sunshine if it meant bringing Atsumu a moment of warmth. He was everything, the most important thing in the world. He loved him so fiercely that it terrified him, it kept him lying awake at night wondering how he’d break when Atsumu was gone. It was never supposed to be like this, and yet Kiyoomi wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d spent a long time running from his soulmate, he spent hours and hours burying himself under the pretense that being alone was easier than being in love. Perhaps it still was. Maybe there was a version of him out there that never met Miya Atsumu.

What a shame that would be. 

🀦 

May 25th, 2019.

The nurse suggested that he go to grief counseling. Kiyoomi thought it was foolish to grieve for Atsumu when he was still alive. 

It felt like giving up. 

That's the thing about hope. It is always utterly foolish and yet it is almost always the very last thing a person keeps. 

He went to grief counseling that afternoon but he didn’t speak, not a single word in the entire 90 minute duration. The truth, what everyone here had in common was to speak plainly about the truth his heart couldn’t bear. Even if his body no longer remained, Kiyoomi’s soul would always be intertwined. ‘Let go,’ they said. ‘Grief isn’t linear,’ they said.

Kiyoomi thought it was all horseshit. You can’t grieve someone that’s still alive. 

He never went back. 

🀦 

June 26th, 2019. 

“Atsu.” 

He slept more than he was awake. It was better for him that way, not in pain just deeply asleep. 

Atsumu was awake at that moment, and Kiyoomi knew. He’d memorized the length of time in between Atsumu’s breaths. So he knew based on the stutter in his chest that Atsumu heard him.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Atsumu’s eyes fluttered open, golden brown eyes unseeing. He looks at Kiyoomi, perhaps through him, and slowly nodded. He brushed the bare skin of his knuckles across Atsumu’s cheek. “Me too. I do too.” 

Later, when silence enveloped him once again. He whispered, to nothing and no one, to Atsumu or perhaps he was begging the universe in the solitary hours of the night. 

“Please don’t leave me.” It was a useless request. Just shy of begging but it unraveled something deep in Kiyoomi’s chest. 

In the dying light of the stars, accompanied by blinking fireflies and the chirp of crickets, Kiyoomi dreamt. 

"Hi, Omi!"

Kiyoomi blinked his eyes open, the blinding light of the sun washing his surroundings in white. He didn't need to see to know that voice, to know that name. It was his favorite sound in the whole world.

Kiyoomi smiled. "Atsumu."

When his vision came, he was swarmed in pink. Everywhere he looked he saw cherry blossoms. In piles and piles around his feet, and fluttering in the air as the breeze swept them across the open sky. They were standing in the valley of a great hill. A sea of long green grass ticked his bare feet as he stood. On the very top of the hill was the cherry blossom tree in full bloom. 

Atsumu stood underneath the enormous tree; the very image of beauty. He smiled brightly as he beckoned Kiyoomi with a wave. Though he was the one that asked Kiyoomi to come to him, Atsumu met him halfway down the hill. As he always did. Always would.

Kiyoomi took his hand in his, and let them the rest of the way. When they stood in front of the tree, Kiyoomi dropped their conjoined hands, but didn't break them.

He looked at Atsumu, really looked at him. He'd spent every moment in the last year memorizing every inch of the man standing next to him. Gone were the impacts of pain on his body. The fatigue, the hollows of anguish. Atsumu stood tall, proud, and full of life. He was how Kiyoomi imagined he would have looked before he'd had met Atsumu all those months ago. As if Death hadn't touched him yet.

"I miss you." Kiyoomi said.

He didn't know what part of Atsumu that Kiyoomi missed. He didn't know what he missed, just that he longed for the Atsumu that wasn't dying. He missed the man he'd never had the opportunity to meet. The one that didn't know the pain of dying. 

Atsumu turned to him. Beautiful and so full of life.

"Meet me again someday, okay Kiyoomi?" He held out his pinky. "Pinky promise?"

Kiyoomi felt the swell of the warm breeze, and knew it was time. He linked his pinky with Atsumu's. "I promise." 

The sound of Atsumu's laughter was the last thing he heard.

Kiyoomi woke to the faint smell of coconut. 

He had his nose buried in Atsumu’s hair, chestnut colored tufts tickling the tip of his nose; the scent of his shampoo luring Kiyoomi back into unconsciousness. It was so quiet; the stillness of their carved out tranquility, cornered in the four walls of Atsumu’s hospital room, blanketed Kiyoomi with warmth. He cracked an eye open, taking in the morning sunshine. It painted the walls in gold, casting sparkling hues against the sterile white wash. It was beautiful.

He squeezed Atsumu a little tighter, pressing his chest firmly against the fragile form of Atsumu’s back. He could feel the sharp edges of his shoulder blades digging into Kiyoomi’s chest. The ridges of Atsumu’s curved spine pushing against the length of his torso. He could feel the slow, lethargic beat of Atsumu’s heart thudding against his back; A testament to just how thin he had become in these last months. 

Atsumu did not move, less and less every day that passed, and his presence stilled with him. He was carved marble in a garden of color. 

“Hi.” He whispered into the nape of Atsumu’s neck, nuzzling his nose into the coarse hair of his undercut. He would get no response, and that was fine. They spoke in other ways: a gentle squeeze of their conjoined hands or a brush of trembling lips against the shell of his ear. 

He slid his hand from where it rested against Atsumu’s hip, across his body and pressed firmly against Atsumu’s sternum. He felt the shuttered breath that Atsumu took against his palm, wordlessly offering comfort by way of rubbing soothing circles above Atsumu’s heart. Something settled deep in his chest, constricting his heart and lungs until he felt suffocated. He wasn’t entirely sure how he knew, but he did. The months he’d spent with Atsumu felt like being trapped in the middle of an hourglass. He could only watch helplessly as the weight of the sand beneath him disappeared, leaving him desperate to cradle the remaining sand in his palms before it too escaped between his fingers.

That day he felt the last grain of sand drop like a weight of a ton of bricks. 

Kiyoomi had known, he’d always known that this day would come and just for a moment, he let himself fall. Deeply, irreversibly, insatiably full of sorrow. It burned him where it took root in his body, gripping him fiercely until it burst outwards, painting itself upon Kiyoomi’s face. His anguish showed mercilessly in his drawn brows and hardened jaw against his delicate features. Through gritted teeth, he assured Atsumu as best as he could. “It’s okay now, I’m here.” 

His suspicion that Atsumu had waited, fought to stay just until Kiyoomi woke was confirmed when he felt his body sag against his chest with a sigh of relief where he held him. Kiyoomi leaned back, allowing space for Atsumu to rest on his back. He took in the state of him; his hollowed cheeks, sunken eyes, and thin skin, blue and ashen against the pink, broken skin of his lips. The only part of him that never lost its color was his eyes that were hidden underneath the delicate skin of his eyelids, the faint color of blood vessels webbing across the tender skin.  

Kiyoomi kissed each pale eyelid with wobbling lips. He was afraid to speak, he knew if he did Atsumu would hear his fear. He swallowed the knife that was his pain, opening his mouth to speak with as much courage as he could. 

“It’s okay.” He swallowed, “It’s okay now.” As the words left his mouth, he felt Atsumu’s body relax underneath him, where he cradled the man with both arms. They’ve been glued to one another’s side for weeks. Kiyoomi felt completely incapable of leaving him. He couldn’t stop the tears even if he wanted to. 

“I won’t let you go, okay? I will stay right here with you, till the end. No matter what.” He promised, his voice thick with grief. 

"O-om-i."

The pain was visceral, lashing at his beating heart with brutality. Kiyoomi was almost glad that Atsumu could no longer see him because he couldn’t help the way his face crumpled in anguish. Kiyoomi gathered both of Atsumu’s hands in his, cupping them gently before bringing them to his mouth. He kissed each of his ten fingers, one finger at a time. Then, his palms, his wrists, his forearms. The small mewling cries from Atsumu stabbed at his heart as he continued his journey, worshiping the man in front of him until he reached his shoulders. He shoved an open palm underneath the flat of Atsumu’s back and cradled his face with the other, stroking the apple of his cheek with a featherlight touch. 

He pressed his forehead to Atsumu’s, peering down through his lashes at the smattering of freckles on the bridge of Atsumu’s nose. “I have you.” He whispered, voice carrying gently as petals on a spring breeze. “You can rest now.”

A guttural groan pulled from Atsumu’s throat as he gripped Kiyoomi’s shirt. His thin fingers clutching at the cotton desperately, the skin of his knuckles turning white. Kiyoomi laid his hand atop Atsumu’s, hushing him with a gentle coo. 

Tears escaped freely from the corners of Atsumu’s eyes, moisture wetting his lashes until they clump together against his frail skin. He still has his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Kiyoomi let out a wet laugh, swiping the tears falling from Atsumu’s eyes as they fell, the pad of his thumb tracing gentle circles at his temple. “I’m with you,” Kiyoomi squeezes Atsumu’s feeble hand. “Always.” 

Warmth filled every corner of his being, and though his worst nightmare was upon him, the grip of loss seizing him by his throat, he’d never wish to be anywhere else but here.

Atsumu’s hand twitches in his hold, signifying that he was listening. He was still there. 

They’re perfect, just like this. As they are and have always been. The words fall from him before he can stop them. 

“I love you. So fucking much.”

Atsumu’s eyes shot open, the warm pools of brown still so vibrant. So full of emotion, of curiosity, fear, love. 

A breath, then another.

His eyes crinkled, joy radiating from inward until it poured from his soul into Kiyoomi. “I love y-you. I lo-ve you, Om-i.”

Kiyoomi sniffled, pressing a single kiss to Atsumu’s lips.

He sat up, gently releasing Atsumu until he laid gently with his head on the pillow. He knew that Atsumu couldn't see him, but he trusts him to know that he’s holding his gaze. The hand that left his back, now slid down Atsumu’s arm until he held Atsumu’s hand in his. He looped his pinky with Atsumu. Their silly little game. Their garden of promises. 

It was now, or never again. He couldn’t spend another 24 years waiting for the right moment to collect him. He wouldn’t spend a single day living a life that wasn’t treacherously full of wonder. 

He kissed their linked pinkies, “I promise to love you until we meet again. I promise to love the way you do, without fear or regret. I promise to hold what you love close, cherish what you leave behind, and live within the light of your image.” 

His voice cracked as tears collect in the corner of Atsumu’s eyes. “I promise to live a life that I cannot regret.” Kiyoomi brushed a thumb across Atsumu’s jaw, down to his pulse point. Admiring the faint thrum underneath his skin. 

As faint as the beginnings of Atsumu’s blush, color began to appear underneath Kiyoomi’s thumb. For a moment, Kiyoomi worried he might have put too much pressure on the delicate skin; reddening it before it would eventually bruise. He retracted his hand, an apology on his tongue before the blushing color took shape. 

A single petal. Faint, and paler than any flower would be. Atsumu’s breath slowed, the spaces in between breaths far too long. 

“Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi watched in astonishment as petal after petal developed on Atsumu’s skin. Just single ones, as if they drifted on the wind, cascading gently across Atsumu’s entire body as they traveled. They were alive in the way they fluttered on Atsumu’s skin. Blushing pink petals covered every inch of skin that Kiyoomi could see; across his neck, down his arms. He stood, gently lifting the blanket to follow the path of the petals. He was thankful that Kiyoomi dressed Atsumu in shorts earlier, as he now had a full view of the extending branches of a flowering tree across Atsumu’s hips and legs. 

It was an entire masterpiece, scaling the length of Atsumu’s body; The root of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom. 

Kiyoomi sat down again, hovering over Atsumu’s body. He kissed his sternum and again above his heart. He hadn’t bothered to look, as he simply knew. Atsumu was smiling as he took his last breath just as the mark heightened to full view, glowing a varying shade of pink as it completed. 

The absurdity of it all. Their connection so ridiculous, so improbable, it was nearly laughable. He knew Atsumu wasn’t there anymore. He felt it the moment he passed. They had all of 1.5 seconds to embrace the moment their hearts beat as one. 

In the span of the average lifetime, there are 2.6 billion seconds. 

In the year and six months that he’s spent with Atsumu, he’s given him just over 32.5 million seconds of his life. 2.5 million seconds a month, 86,400 seconds in a single day. 

In theory, that would be only if he spent every single moment with Atsumu. He didn’t. He slept, and he ate. He went home. He played volleyball. He left and came back.

Atsumu spent 726 million seconds living. Every moment of it was more important than the last. 

And his last moments were a gift. 

“We’re soulmates.” 

🀦 

The wake was a quiet affair for Kiyoomi, despite the fact that the event was booming with noise. As funerals go, It was a rather strange one. Atsumu wanted it that way. He told Kiyoomi once that he thought it was weird that funerals were somber. He wanted a party. 

He wanted to celebrate his life, as short as it was. 

Lanterns are strung through every available tree. Resounding laughter echoing through the park as people toast, sharing stories; memories, of Atsumu. Children screamed with joy as they ran through the park, sparklers in hand, bursts of light dancing behind them as they chase each other. 

It was extraordinary and so unmistakably Atsumu. 

Everywhere he looked he saw him in everything. It choked him. He couldn't escape the feeling that Atsumu would have loved this. It was for him, done in his honor as he would have wanted, and yet he couldn’t enjoy it. He couldn’t be there. And Kiyoomi so desperately needs him to be. 

He needed Atsumu like the earth needs rain, and birds need wings to carry them through the sky. 

“Ya know Omi-Omi. I think I'm finally okay with this. You know, the dying thing.” Kiyoomi looked at him, brows knitted in displeasure. Atsumu laughed, “Don’t look at me like that. I just mean that I’ve accepted it, ya know? I can’t change it.”

Kiyoomi could only nod, when Atsumu got like this, wistful, like he could see something Kiyoomi couldn’t.

“I think, I would do this all over again. If I knew…” Atsumu looked longingly out the window, the summer breeze carrying through the window, caressing his form and fluttering his hair. It was getting increasingly difficult for him to speak lately.

“I’d do it all again, if it meant that I could know ya not just once, but twice.”

It was very, very, noisy in the park where fireworks of every color shot into the night sky, illuminating it with vibrancy. Yet, even with all that commotion, it felt hollow without the distinct laughter he held so close to his heart. 

He hadn't cried yet. He thought he would have by now; it seemed inconceivable, but the sorrow is stuck in his throat along with his voice. He doesn’t speak, not when he doesn’t have anything worth saying.

Not even when Osamu picked him up off the floor of Atsumu’s hospital room. Not even when his parents sat across from him in his living room, sobbing for him. There was nothing that seemed worth saying, no words seemed to be profound enough, worthy enough to pass though his trembling lips. 

The grief was all consuming. 

But, he made a promise. One that he intends to keep, even if it is the last thing he ever does. He will love Atsumu for the rest of his life.

That meant being here, cradling his lantern in his hands, his note tucked delicately within the paper shade. They were supposed to release these at midnight as a final goodbye, with a wish attached.  

Kiyoomi’s wish was not was simple. After all, the only wish he could formulate was one that would never come true. So he wrote something else instead. 

“I wish to see you every time I open my blinds in the spring, as the cherry blossom trees bloom. I wish to feel your embrace in my dreams, and I wish for an eternity in which I can spend loving your memory as fiercely as you loved me in the time you had. I wish for the strength to carry your heart in my hands.”

Love,

Your Omi. 

🀦 

“I’m gonna open a restaurant.”

He hadn’t seen Osamu in the six months that followed after Atsumu’s death. After the wake. He kept up with Akaashi, texting him every so often to check in. 

It was slow at first, Akaashi doing much of the work after everything. He was a pillar of grace. While Kiyoomi fell apart, Akaashi waited patiently by his side, gently cupping the broken pieces in open palms. His friendship with the man was unexpected, unintentionally strong, withstanding a vicious loss that left Kiyoomi vacant. Akaashi seemed to have a way of knowing when Kiyoomi was hollowed out. He’d always appear, with bags under his eyes and a cup of coffee in his hand. 

It comforted him to know that Akaashi was there with his silent but understanding gaze. It was what eventually cracked Kiyoomi open. He told Akaashi of all the promises that he and Atsumu made. That there was nothing more important to him, no better way of honoring the love he had, than to keep those promises to the best of his ability. 

One of those promises was to look after Osamu. But, it always seemed that the man was never available. Akaashi asked him to understand, to have patience. It wasn’t easy for Osamu. Kiyoomi knew. 

He knew. 

So Kiyoomi only asked about Osamu on occasion after that, when he had the strength. Most of the time though, they’d sit in silence

With time, and some persistent needling from Akaashi, Osamu had agreed to meet with Kiyoomi. He wasn’t really sure how Akaashi managed it, he knew how stubborn the twins were. It would take nothing short of a miracle to change their mind once they were set on something. And it appeared that Osamu was set on never seeing Kiyoomi again.

Until now. On a park bench in the park next to Kiyoomi’s apartment.

Osamu continued speaking, “I got so used ta making ‘Tsumu food…It just feels unnatural to stop now.” 

Kiyoomi remained silent. It was difficult to come up with something to say, everything he tried in his brain seemed to not be quite good enough. 

Gun-metal gray eyes shifted to him, peering into Kiyoomi’s soul. Unforgiving in their pursuit to unearth Kiyoomi’s feelings. 

“Ya can hate me.” Osamu sighed. 

Shock burst through his system, his breath hiccuping to a stutter within his chest. He couldn’t feel his fingers as he grasped at the fabric of his jeans, willing himself into speaking. Only, no words came, just a wounded noise falling from his lips like he was just hollowed out by a bullet.

“It’s alright, you don’ need ta pretend. In fact, I’d like it better if we didn’t pretend that I don’t deserve it.” Osamu looked forward, steadfast. His face wiped clean of emotion as he gazed across the park. “I hate myself more than ya’d ever be capable of anyway.” 

He stood then, Kiyoomi felt the weight of him lift off the bench, unable to do anything but stare. He opened and closed his mouth several times. Words failing him; dying bitterly on his tongue. 

For the first time in half a year, tears started to swell in his ducts. He tried to blink them away but they were persistent, surging over the thick line of his bottom lashes and pooling down his cheeks in gentle streams. 

He thrusted a single arm out, hand reaching for the thread barren hem of Osamu’s shirt, wordlessly pleading for Osamu to listen; he fisted it tightly in his feeble hands, the feeling sending pinpricks on his skin.

Osamu turned slightly, staring unblinkingly at the whitening knuckles of Kiyoomi’s hand. His eyes were devoid of feeling.

“Let me go, Kiyoomi.”

Desperation crawled up the back of Kiyoomi’s throat as he finally found his voice “You were everything to him.” He still couldn’t bear to voice Atsumu’s name out loud. 

“How could I hate you?” He stared tearfully at Osamu’s stricken face as he stood eye to eye with him and continued, “He never had a mark until he died, but you have been there his entire life.” It broke him to see Osamu like this, so gutted. So completely alone, even in a world full of people. There was nothing that he could ever say that would take that pain away from him, from them both. Still, Kiyoomi couldn’t accept Osamu’s feelings. Not when the truth was so glaringly obvious. 

“Osamu, he loved you more than anyone in the world.”

“That’s why it should have been me!” Osamu screamed. The trees spurred into motion, every bird in the surrounding trees took flight, wings carrying them far from here, far from their grief. "Did you know that GBM was genetic? It just skipped me. It fucking skipped me." 

Osamu wasn’t done though, his face scrunching up in anguish as his own tears fell. “Every day of my miserable life, I look in the mirror and see what my brother couldn’t have!” He beat weakly against Kiyoomi’s chest, fisting his shirt into his grasp. “What I stole from ‘im.”

Rage and despair swirled in the cobalt pool of his eyes, “I’ll age without him! I’ll watch his face, mirrored in mine, and know that I don’t fucking deserve any of it.”

Osamu took a trembling breath as he released his hold on Kiyoomi, swaying as he took a step back. “I watched the life leave ‘im every day.” his voice caught, breaking into a whine, “and then I was weak. I left ‘im. I left ‘im ta ya, and for the first time in years I saw him happy. When I look at myself, all I can see is what he used ta be. I can’t forgive myself, and ya shouldn’t forgive me either.” 

Every day. Every single day, Kiyoomi wished that he could take Atsumu’s place. He pleaded with the universe dutifully, day in and day out, begging for one, or any, god to listen to his wails. 

The gods did not hear his will. 

“You’re wrong.” The words that left his mouth shocked himself as much as it did Osamu. But he couldn’t stop, they tumbled out of him, unabashedly. Unequivocally honest. 

“You share his face, you do. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Osamu. I know how that must hurt, I won’t claim to pretend it doesn’t burn me too.” The fragile strength that he mustered peters out, his voice only carrying as a whisper, “I see it. In the shape of your eyes, and-and the slope of your nose. I see him. I see him everywhere. In the warm breeze and every time I–” he choked out a sob. “I can’t–”

Kiyoomi dug his palms into the hollows of his eyes, angrily wiping the tears away.“He never had a soulmark until he died because he never needed one. He didn’t need it because he had you. You bear his soul with yours, you're a part of him, innately, irrevocably. You’re more.” 

Osamu shook his head, stepping away from Kiyoomi, but he couldn’t allow it. He needed Osamu to hear this, to understand. “More than a broken soul bond, you don’t just share his features, you didn’t just share his life, you were the other half of him. He’d say the best part of him.” 

Osamu slumped over, the weight of his sorrow pulling his broad shoulders inward, folding as if he were trying to disappear within himself. Kiyoomi watched through his watery gaze as Osamu trembled, the intensity of his grief seizing his body like an earthquake, his entire form jerking in the wake of it. 

Kiyoomi didn’t grow up with a tactile family, The Sakusas did not hug. They didn’t sing lullabies to Kiyoomi as a baby, and they didn’t kiss him goodnight. He never knew the generous power of a warm and comforting hand until Atsumu. The Miyas were a family full of energy and love, the shape of it being a slap on the back or a headlock. To Osamu, the second half of a dual set, touch was everything.  

There was little else that Kiyoomi could do, no more words to be said, as grief cares very little for a concept so flimsy as reason. So, he threw himself at Osamu, wrapping his arms around his back, ignoring the way his body screamed in alarm at him as he clutched the back of Osamu’s shirt like a tether. For if he let go, both of them would disappear. 

Kiyoomi supported him in his arms, the weight of him slumped against his form as sobs wracked through Osamu’s body like tidal waves. The twins had always been oxymorons of one another, where Atsumu wore his heart on his sleeve; crying at the drop of a hat. Osamu was stoic, quietly bearing the weight of his sorrow on his shoulders without notice. 

Kiyoomi knew how to hold Atsumu when he cried, he’d tire himself out eventually and it was always so minor that it hardly ever required anything on his part except his presence. Osamu was different, he was completely out of his depth. More than anything, Osamu needed his brother and it was the one thing no one could give him. 

The blood of his blood, the kindest, staunchly fierce protector of Atsumu’s heart was breaking in two before Kiyoomi’s eyes, and there was nothing anyone could do. 

So Kiyoomi pulled away, meeting the steel colored eyes that once frightened him with compassion within his own onyx colored eyes. 

“I could never begin to hate the very person responsible for years of his joy. A person more deserving of love like his, than anyone else. Please don’t ask me to. Please don’t make me break my promise to him.”

Osamu sighed, his voice thick with emotion. “He always made stupid promises. ‘Tsumu was just like that. He made me pinky swear on everythin’.”

Kiyoomi offered a small smile, “He made me promise to look after you. Said it was his ‘duty’ as your older brother.”

That earned a laugh from Osamu, “By eight goddamn minutes. He’d never let me forget it.” he smiled to himself. “I still don’ know what ta do with myself.” Osamu lifted his chin to the sky then, watching the grey skies as snow flurried around them, crowning his dark hair in bursts of white. It was the first snow since Atsumu died.

"It’s snowin’ again Omi, ain’t it pretty? Like tiny stars falling to the earth.”

“I don’t know how to live without my brother.”

Kiyoomi swayed on his feet as they looked at each other, a blanket of silent understanding surrounding them both in this infinitesimal moment of beauty. He didn’t really know either. 

“One hideously awful day at a time, I guess.”

🀦 

Two Years Earlier.

Atsumu didn’t consider himself a lucky man. Quite the contrast, actually. He’d never really thought about things like life and death. The meaning of life. What it means to die without regrets. It was always a problem for future Atsumu. He figured he didn’t need to have it all figured out, there was always time. 

Atsumu was not a lucky man. And suddenly, dying with a ton of regrets was far more conceivable than it had ever been before. 

Anaplastic Astrocytoma Grade 3. A fast growing, and aggressive form of brain cancer. 

It was the only time he’d ever seen Samu cry. They sat there together, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, clutching each other's hands like a buoy in the raging sea.

Atsumu was a dying man. A boy, really. 

He promised he would fight, even if it was useless. Even if it would still kill him in the end. It was the kind of story where you knew the ending before the story really even began. It sat right there, glaring at you in the title. It probably meant very little in the grand scheme of things, but it would buy him the one thing that seemed invaluable now. 

Time. 

He underwent surgery to remove as much of the tumor as possible when he was seventeen. It was a success. They were able to remove a large portion of the tumor and he spent the last six years taking his meds every day, praying that it would keep the cancer away just a little longer. 

It worked and Atsumu got a little bit more time. He grew a little bit, he watched his brother meet his soulmate and fall in love, he even got to play a little bit more volleyball. It was borrowed time, they all knew that, but it didn’t matter because it was a gift that no one could ever take from him. 

Then the headaches started up again. 

He tried to hide it for as long as possible. Tried to stay positive, energetic, tried to stay the person that everyone knew him to be. And it worked, it worked very well on everyone in his life, except for his twin. 

Osamu always knew long before Atsumu did. Perhaps it was because he was a twin, or maybe because they had gone through it all before. It was Osamu that dragged him by the hair to the doctors the first time too.

It would never be anybody else. Atsumu was a good liar but he might as well have been paper thin to Osamu. 

“It’s back again, isn’t it?” Osamu asked over dinner, as he was dicing vegetables to throw in a pot of curry. 

“Yeah.”

Osamu dipped his chin down in a curt nod, saying nothing else as he continued cooking as if nothing ever happened at all. They didn’t speak about it, it’s just how they were. 

After dinner, he wordlessly packed several bags and drove Atsumu to the hospital. They had since moved from Hyogo to Osaka so that Osamu could be closer to Akaashi. The three of them all lived together, the twins moved into the apartment Akaashi lived in with Atsumu taking the spare bedroom. It was a nice place, the publishing firm that Akaashi worked for paid him very well. 

Once he and Osamu got to the hospital, time seemed to pass in blurbs. They checked him in, a nurse took his blood, going over his medical history, and took various scans of his brain before moving him to the wing of the hospital where the long-term patients stay. It was late at night and Atsumu was tired. He asked if they could wait till the morning to go over his prognosis. The staff hesitantly agreed and Atsumu slept.

The next morning, he sent Osamu home with a shove and told him to only come back with Akaashi. 

The doctor frowned at him, from where he sat in his chair across from Atsumu. Dr. Hika–something stared at him with pity and a tiny bit of apprehension. Atsumu couldn’t really blame him, he’d probably look the same way if he had to tell someone they were as good as dead. 

“Your cancer has progressed, or rather, mutated if you will. It’s extremely rare, but it happens sometimes. We would classify this development as a Grade 4 Glioblastoma Multiforme.”

Atsumu didn't know what those string of words meant specifically, but it was obvious that it was a death sentence. “How long do I have?”

“A year. Possibly more. This type of cancer is extraordinarily aggressive. We’ll have to start treatment right awa–”

“I refuse.”

The doctor stared at him for a long moment, looking as if he’d like to argue. It wasn’t his place and they both seemed to know that. “You’ve seen my medical history. I shouldn’t have lived as long as I have. I got lucky. This was always how it was going to end.”

He took a deep breath, willing the oxygen to fill his lungs as he tried desperately to keep his voice level as he forced out the next words. “I don’t want ta spend the last bit of borrowed time that I have left just to rot in a hospital bed getting surgery after surgery. Chemo that makes me feel like i’m gonna toss up my organs while I lose my fucking hair. All just to hope that it buys me a couple more painful months. That ain’t living, it’s just surviving.”

He offered a reassuring smile, mostly for the doctor and maybe a little bit for himself too, “I don’t want to regret the way I choose to live by not learning to love the collateral of dying just a little bit.” 

“Are you sure?”

No. He wasn’t. He was choosing one excruciating pain over the other. It wasn’t fair but it was life. It was his life and he deserved to have a say, even a little, in the way he met his own fate. 

“Absolutely.”

The old man stood, straightening out his coat, setting his clipboard down. He turned off the display that illuminated Atsumu’s CT scans. When he turned, Atsumu caught the characters of his name sewn on his lab coat. 

Doctor Hikashi faced him, his mouth spreading into a small smile, the crow's feet around his eye’s crinkling to form rivulets in his withered skin. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.” He reached out to Atsumu, taking his forearm in his hand, holding it in a steady grasp. “Be courageous in your pursuit of living.”

Atsumu stepped out into the sunlit waiting room of the emergency department. It was across the hospital in the opposite direction of his room but he really needed some time to process and exploring his new home seemed like a good way to waste time. 

The waiting room wasn’t really what he expected it to be like. He thought there would be lots of commotion, and many things to watch. But it wasn't. It was quiet. There were only a few stragglers and most everyone spoke in hushed tones. 

It was when he was admiring the silence that he saw him. 

The first thing that he noticed was the soul-withering, knock you down two pegs, kick you in the balls– fantastic glare this guy was sporting. He was making the kind of face that Atsumu imagined somebody would make if a homeless person spit directly into their mouth. 

It was hilarious. 

The second thing he noticed was that this man was absolutely breathtaking. 

Atsumu took him in with his breath caught in his throat. His gaze trailed up those endlessly long legs that were corded with lithe muscle. He was as pale as moonlight on a clear starry evening. His skin was flawless and it looked more delicate than porcelain. His hair was the shade of midnight, inky dark curls swept over on one side and cascading over one finely shaped brow. 

Two distinct moles sat over the uncovered brow, one right above the other. He wanted to admire them with a graze of his lips over each beauty mark. Atsumu was helpless to the way his gaze dropped to the pouty bow of his pink lips as the man opened his mouth to speak. He couldn’t pick a spot to hold onto, everything from the cut of his jaw, his high cheekbones, even the slope of his nose looked like it was crafted out of the finest marble. 

The beautiful man didn’t seem to be interested in looking around the way Atsumu was. He stared intently forward, the graceful curve of his neck bowing low as he looked at the floor. His fingers itched to tuck a stray dark curl behind his ear, brushing over the delicate skin with the pad of his thumb when a flash of color caught his wandering eyes. 

There, on the back of his neck, was a piece of a flower petal, wrapped delicately around the base of his neck, peeking over the collar of his shirt. He probably wouldn’t have been able to see it any other time, the cut of his shirt being high enough that if he were looking at him dead on, he wouldn’t have caught it at all. 

Except he did, because his shirt was slightly stretched at the collar, revealing the tender skin of the nape of his neck where the beginning of his spine protruded, causing a bump to raise on that perfect skin. 

Surely, it wasn’t what Atsumu thought it was. It couldn’t be. 

"What does yer soulmark look like, Osamu?” 

“S’hard ta describe, ya’d just have to see it. I don’ even know what type of flowers they are anyway.”

“But only soulmates can see each other's flowers!”

“Sucks fer you then.” 

Now, Atsumu wasn’t a flower guy. He didn’t know the first thing about plants or how to take care of one. Yet, the moment he saw the delicate lines of the spindly red petal, something deep inside of him stirred. 

Red Spider Lily. 

It’s often planted at grave sites. In some cultures, they symbolize reincarnation, longing, or the idea of never being separated. 

A mildly poisonous type of flower that, in Japan, is most commonly associated with a final goodbye. 

Miya Atsumu was not lucky. He’d suffered and been burned. He had a little over a year to live and for the first time since he was diagnosed with a vicious terminal disease, he felt the warmth of hope.

He was not lucky. But today, he thought, today, he just might be the luckiest man in the world.  

“So, ya come here often?”

Fin