Chapter Text
"Sakusa-san . . ."
"What? It's nothing, just a flare-up. . ."
"Oh yeah? Quick, look over there," Akaashi pointed over his right shoulder, brow arched at him in challenge.
Kiyoomi couldn't; if he even looked right, shooting pains attacked his neck and spine, emanating from the site of an old volleyball injury.
"Fine; I was spending some time with my family over the weekend and I might have sprained something playing with my niece and nephew," he admitted begrudgingly. Akaashi was an old friend, but as a physical therapist, he was the most demanding of task-masters.
"I see. Did this quality time with their uncle involve perhaps any spiking of volleyballs or hitting of serves?"
"Yes."
"Sakusa-san, we're not as young as we used to be," Akaashi chided him as he aided Kiyoomi in laying back and rolling over so that he could poke and prod at Kiyoomi's sore muscles.
After a prolonged silence, punctuated only by stifled winces and groan when Akaashi hit a tender point, he spoke again.
"I'm going to write you a prescription for massage therapy."
Kiyoomi groaned. "Nooooo. . . "
"Hush." The clicking of Akaashi's ballpoint pen made him jump slightly, followed by a minute of scratching at a pad of paper. "I think you'd work well with one of my former interns, he just graduated last year."
Lying face down on the exam table, Kiyoomi was relived that he didn't have to try and hide his grimace at this sudden news. He'd been seeing Akaashi Keiji for physical therapy for years, was used to him. . . But someone new?
The mere thought made Kiyoomi break out in a cold sweat, nausea and fear twisting in his gut like a knife.
As a successful businessman, unexpected changes to his routine were as rare as they were unwelcome, and this sudden addition of another provider to his care team would only be the beginning of his worries.
"I can feel you frowning from here, you know."
"Keiji-kun. . . you know I can't see anyone else. Especially someone who just graduated? Please, just push me out the window and end my misery."
Akaashi's tone was warm but firm as he helped Kiyoomi roll over and sit up.
"You'll be fine, Sakusa. Besides, physical therapy can only do so much to help keep your muscles and joints strong. . . it's very common for people with hypermobility to receive massage therapy as a supplement to their normal care routine."
He glanced at the prescription pad and immediately, Kiyoomi's mood soured even further.
"That's more than two months worth of sessions!"
"You have a lot of ground to make up," Akaashi insisted. "Plus, you'll be starting off slow while you're nursing that shoulder."
Kiyoomi grumbled wordlessly, pulling a mask out of his pocket and fitting it over his face as they exited his spare room, which had been converted long ago from a bedroom into a home gym. It wasn't like he didn't have ample space for such excess in the penthouse apartment he lived in, alone.
"I'm sure this is some form of malpractice; I demand to speak with your supervisor," Kiyoomi groused, though he accepted the written prescription from his friend as they walked down the short hallway.
"I'm sure your cousin was going to hear about it anyway," Akaashi smiled, holding his hands up to stem the protests that followed them through the spacious apartment. "Tell Komori-kun I said hello."
Kiyoomi had picked the wellness clinic Akaashi worked at for his twice weekly physical therapy sessions many years before, not just because they were friends, but since his aunt had owned it at the time; Kiyoomi preferred to keep things like his diagnosis with Ehler-Danlos secret, and this was as close as he could get to keeping such things within his family circle.
Even though his cousin, Motoya Komori, had taken over the clinic's management a long time before, Kiyoomi did occasionally forget that Akaashi and the other clinic staff weren't actually his employees.
"I don't suppose complaining to your husband will have any effect either?"
Kiyoomi had been roommates with Bokuto in college, but it didn't surprise him that fifteen years of marriage to the sunny and enigmatic Bokuto Koutarou hadn't caused Akaashi to lose his pragmatic and level headed edge in the slightest.
"Of course not. Did I tell you that he's retiring soon?" Akaashi mentioned as they reached the genkan. He glanced up at Kiyoomi while he bent to tie the laces of his shoes.
"For real this time? Bo's been threatening to retire for years."
"Yes. If I can ensure that all my regular patients are cared for in the meantime, we might even decide to travel for a bit." Akaashi threw him a rare smile, teasing Kiyoomi gently.
"Even the crusty old ones?"
"We're the same age, Sakusa."
"Well . . .You and Bokuto both have worked hard, you deserve a break," Kiyoomi relented.
"If we end up going anywhere, I'll ensure that we'll have several days upon our return to 'decontaminate', Sakusa-san."
That did pull a brief but genuine smile onto Kiyoomi's face. He had always appreciated Akaashi's willingness to accommodate his eccentricities.
If teenage Kiyoomi had been told that he would one day not only let a physical therapist touch him skin to skin, but do so in his own home, outside of a sterile medical office . . . well, violently throwing up and then dying on the spot would have been a mild reaction. His anxiety over being touched stemmed from a life-long struggle with mysophobia, and Akaashi was one of only a few professionals that Kiyoomi had allowed through as an exception to his 'no touching' rule.
"I'm sure that I could get by with just doing more yoga and stretches. . . " Kiyoomi mused as Akaashi lingered by the door.
"Nonsense. You know as well as I do that regular massages are good for your joints, Sakusa-san," Akaashi demurred, pointing at the prescription crumpled up in his off hand. "Besides, the one I recommended there isn't going to let you get away with skimping on your exercises."
"Absolutely not, Keiji-kun. You know how I am about new people-"
Akaashi plowed on calmly over his interjection."He's the only one that I'd recommend to you directly. When have I steered you wrong, Sakusa-san?"
Kiyoomi looked skeptically at Akaashi. The other man's face was as flat and pensive as ever, betraying nothing.
Keiji-kun has proven that he can be extremely discreet. And professional. A recommendation from him would at least be worth trying. If it doesn't work out, then you can go back to popping ibuprofen and powering through or just see if he'd recommend anyone else.
The prescription is for ten weeks. It's only for once a week, that's totally doable.
"Fine," he acquiesced. "But I would want to meet this masseuse before I agree to anything, just to set some ground rules. And we're not doing sessions here, at least not at first. I'll meet them at the clinic."
"Wonderful, I'll forward you his contact information later."
He opened his front door as Akaashi stepped out into the private foyer and called for the elevator, exchanging a polite bow of farewell before he retreated back into his sanctuary.
Hours later, after a long day of more remote meetings in his home office, Kiyoomi had a chance to look at his personal phone and saw a message from Akaashi, as promised.
|Akaashi-san: Here's the masseuse's contact information.
|Akaashi-san: attachment.VCF
The virtual contact card only listed a name and a ten digit phone number:
Miya Atsumu
Personal Trainer and Certified Massage Therapist
x-xxx-xxx-xxxx
He tapped in the contact and saved it to his personal device before proceeding to stalk the internet for more information on the new masseuse.
While he went through the motions of heating up one of the pre-prepared meals that his housekeeper, Mrs. Reyes, had made earlier in the week, Kiyoomi browsed through various social media apps, trying to track down this Miya Atsumu; but his appetite was souring with every scroll.
He's not from Tokyo, clearly. . . maybe Kobe or Kyoto, judging by his profile picture.
Himeji Castle loomed in the background of every profile, green gardens dotted with blooming sakura trees and courtyards stretched out around them absolutely packed with tourists. Kiyoomi shuddered.
But, which one is him?
Each site that he found Miya on (looking from his own burner accounts, of course), the profile summary that greeted him was largely the same, and graced at the top by a picture of two ruggedly handsome young men, nearly identical in appearance except for one's hideously brassy bleached hair. The brassy blonde was smiling from ear to ear, eyes squeezed shut by the breadth of his big cheesy smile, while the other man's eyes were hooded— whether naturally or because he was in mid-blink, Kiyoomi couldn't be sure.
Miya Atsumu | @thebettermiya| 22 he/him
Kyoto U 2024! Love my ma, volleyball, and helping athletes reach their full potential.
Brother of @thecoolermiya (no I'm not a Gemini, stop asking! >_<)
The glut of information presented in such a short space of time was almost overwhelming.
He's 22?!? That means . . . holy shit, I'm pretty sure I have back braces older than this kid. Most social media is older than him.
Hmmm. He would've been born in 2003— Jesus, I was going into my third year of university then.
They, he corrected himself mentally. The tag for his brother and the crack about Gemini's— he's obviously a twin.
Bi-flag and pronouns in his bio, that's risky. Maybe not, when you look that good. . .
An athlete too. I wonder what position he played in volleyball?
So he's a personal trainer as well? That doesn't really narrow it down, both of these guys look fairly well built.
Kiyoomi kept finding his gaze inexplicably drawn to the Miya with the horrid yellow hair.
Though he had always kept his personal preferences under tight wraps, he couldn't deny that they both were attractive: from the few pictures that were posted recently, both Miyas appeared to be a bit taller than average, with broad shoulders and muscular arms— though in one picture the blonde one was squatting in an odd pose with his hands folded, and Kiyoomi had to send up a prayer for his sanity at the sight of the younger man's thick, tanned thighs straining at the fabric of the shorts he wore.
He took a screen shot of the profile photo to send to Akaaashi to get confirmation on who was who. After a moment's deliberation, he saved a copy of the photo with just the blonde— thighs and all— for himself for later.
Really just going straight for the perverted old man employer angle, are we? Kiyoomi thought to himself in disgust.
He deeply hoped that the more serious seeming man, the one with hooded eyes and a more natural tone of hair in these pictures was Atsumu.
Well, at least he's not terminally online— his last post on most sites was months ago.
Apparently, his prospective massage therapist for the next few months had a birthday around the start of October; a photo of the same two men as the profile photo, captioned with "Happy 22nd Annual International Miya Day!" was the third most recent post, after well wishes for the upcoming Christmas holidays, and re-shares of the gossip from a mix of sports outlets that Bokuto Koutarou might be retiring soon, from both League play and from the National Men's Volleyball Team.
But, there was a distinct lack of the sort of incessant documentation of daily life or wild nightlife that it seemed would usually characterize a young person's social media pages these days. He could at least appreciate that.
There's no way he's as concerned about privacy as I am, but still. . . it's good to know that he at least knows how to be discreet when it comes to his own life.
Kiyoomi closed his phone, satisfied for now that Akaashi had not offered to introduce him to a serial killer (though still a bit miffed that his therapist's best suggestion was practically a child), and tucked into his microwaved noodles and salmon.
A few emails and other notifications from his work pulled Kiyoomi's attention away after that, until the buzz of a text message pulled him back in.
It was Atsumu.
|Miya Atsumu: hiya, Sakusa-san!
|Miya Atsumu: Akaashi-san said that you'd want to meet at the clinic before your first massage session. I'm available tomorrow? When works best for you?
Immediately, a headache began to build behind his eyes.
Before he responded— he had to pivot and send a stern message to Akaashi first, which the other therapist left on read— Miya continued.
|Miya Atsumu: is 11 am good for you?
|Miya Atsumu: Akaashi-san also told me you have a thing with germs, so I just wanted to say hi and reassure you that I have all my shots and everything 😉
|Kiyoomi: attachment.mms
|Kiyoomi: I'm sorry to disturb you but which of these two large children is the masseuse?
The blonde :Akaashi-kun|
|Kiyoomi: I will make sure to send Bo my deepest condolences after your sudden and untimely death 😡
I take it Atsumu has contacted you then? :Akaashi-kun|
|Kiyoomi: The fresh-faced former stem cell that you've set me up with referred to my condition as my "germ thing"
I will remind him to be on his best behavior :Akaashi-kun|
He really isn't that bad. Much worse bark than bite. :Akaashi-kun|
Please, Sakusa-san. Atsu-kun is 21 or 22? :Akaashi-kun|
|Kiyoomi: I'm old enough to be his father
|Kiyoomi: For fuck's sake, he was born post 9/11
We're Japanese. He may not even know what that is :Akaashi-kun|
Well, that 'child' holds dual degrees in Kinesiology and Sports Medicine :Akaashi-kun|
The only way I can guarantee your meeting will go poorly is if you're a dick :Akaashi-kun|
You catch more flies with honey, Sakusa-san :) :Akaashi-kun|
|Kiyoomi: Bokuto, your husband is terrorizing me
ugh, I know! he's so good at that isn't he!!! :Bo-kun|
😍😍😍😍:Bo-kun|
|Kiyoomi: 😑
|Kiyoomi: forget I said anything
🥺You'll really like Tsum-Tsum! Give him a chance, pls? :Bo-kun|
|Kiyoomi: Really, Bo? Not you too. . .
He reminds me a lot of us back in the day :Bo-kun|
plus, if me and keiji weren't a thing and I was 20 years younger. . . :Bo-kun|
|Kiyoomi: I don't know which is more astounding. . .
|Kiyoomi: that you said that at all or that you put it in writing
What? i have eyes :Bo-kun|
and 'kaashi had a pretty big crush on the other twin for awhile :Bo-kun|
good family. good jeans :Bo-kun|
|Kiyoomi: a) genes
|Kiyoomi: b) i WILL block you if you don't STFU 🤢
|Kiyoomi: I do not want to spend the second half of my 40's bonding over becoming a hentai-uncle with you
"C'mon, Kiyo, you're overreacting."
"I really don't think that I am."
"This could be a great opportunity!"
"For what? To add babysitting to my resume?"
"Atsu-kun is good at massage therapy, but he's a real charmer too! Even you can't hate him forever, all the ladies at the clinic love him. More than a few of the men, too."
"Oh, well that changes EVERYTHING," Kiyoomi deadpanned. "Not only is he barely out of the womb, but he's slutty too."
His cousin frowned.
"Legally, the less I know about that, the better; but on the down-low, you're not wrong. There's never been any drama about it though! So that would indicate that he's not just a fuck boy, he clearly does care about people. . ."
"Toya. He. Is. A. Child."
His cousin snorted on the other end of their video call.
"Twenty-two is a full-grown adult, Kiyoomi. You're just making excuses."
That, he couldn't really deny.
"Aha! Your silence says it all! C'mon, weren't you just complaining about needing to push your boundaries more?"
"Yes. . ."
It would take real, sincere effort, but Kiyoomi knew he wasn't going to live forever. He would never progress past the shudders and nausea, the fear that paralyzed him at the thought of even getting close to someone romantically, if he didn't force his way through.
"Really though: promise me that you'll try it?" Motoya pressed. "Like really try? Atsu-kun is great to work with, I think you'll really like him if you give him a fair chance."
"It's. . . I mean, I guess it would be a start," he sighed. "I just want so much more, Toya, and it feels like I'll never get there."
Fearing touch and having no clue how to start to build anything with a prospective partner made Kiyoomi feel like he was starting a hundred feet back from where everyone else was lined up for a sprint. Knowing that he was gay too. . . he may as well have been in the parking lot. His cousin was the only member of his family that knew about him and it was because they were both wired that way— anyway, even with both parents gone now, his siblings wouldn't have anything to do with him if Kiyoomi ever went public with a male partner.
"You never know until you try. Besides, you'd make an adorable couple-"
Kiyoomi coughed and spluttered as he reflexively inhaled his coffee, burning his throat.
"What the fuck, Motoya?" he rasped. "I have absolutely no intentions of dating, let alone screwing, someone 21 years younger than me. . . or someone who is supposed to be a medical professional, for that matter. I need to get more comfortable around people first before I can even think about the rest."
"Your loss then." Motoya scrunched his face for a moment. "Wait, we're not 43 yet, no fair rounding up."
"Well, we can't all have the side benefit of eternal life afforded to us by dating the mysterious vampire types you favor."
Motoya rolled his eyes. "Oh, go kiss a brick. At least the meatheads that you're attracted to will be able to carry your frail little Victorian orphan body around the house as you get older, cos. This will save me a lot of time and worry, not having to get you one of those Life Alert bracelets."
"Good night, Toya."
Sakusa Kiyoomi had been alone for a long time.
Yes, he had siblings, but their disparity in age, combined with distant parents, led to a very quiet childhood. His laundry list of physical ailments had done him no favors either; it was truly a chicken/egg question as to whether his mental health problems were inherited or learned, and none of these obstacles had made making friends any easier either.
But, years into adulthood, his eternal loneliness had evolved from a ball and chain to be dragged from day to day into a sort of garment that he couldn't have taken off even if he'd known how to— the close fit of being alone had him trapped in its clutches, both too comfortable to surrender and too suffocating to overcome.
Maybe that was why— despite having inherited about a third of the financial empire his parents had built, despite having grown their wealth and amassed enough of his own to make multiple '30 under 30' lists in the previous decade, despite having what his cousin and his few close friends called a 'lethal face card'— Kiyoomi had never been in a romantic relationship of any kind.
"Never? Like, never never?"
"Dude, why?"
"Bullshit. Really?"
"I know it's hard for you, Kiyo darling, but you have the family's reputation to uphold."
The signs had always been there, but somehow, even those closest to him were shocked that his anxiety, aversion to touch, and chronic pain had worked together to keep him from forming meaningful romantic connections.
His mother's only apparent pride in him over the years was how independent baby Kiyoomi had been, allegedly never wanting help in trying to stand up or crawl, taking to being fed solids and later feeding himself well before most of his peers, preferring to take a book off the shelf and find a corner to read in rather than run around outside with other children (not that his privileged upbringing had offered much opportunity for that anyway).
Kiyoomi remembered with painful clarity, years and years later, how he had been pulled from the private daycare his parents had sent him to at the tender age of 5 for lashing out in violent confusion when a little girl in his class had hugged him and proudly declared that he was her boyfriend.
The Year of Rejections, his third year of middle school, when it seemed every member of the female population suddenly spotted in the fall that he'd grown 8 inches taller in one very painful, joint-stretching summer.
Playing high school sports had not dulled his reputation for being 'prickly', either; Itachiyama was a prestigious school, and even amongst other, better athletes, he remained rather popular despite sincerely avoiding having to converse with anyone.
It was simple really: he hated being touched.
The anxiety that had overtaken him at the slightest provocation in his youth was only suppressed now, carefully controlled; but the overwhelming feeling of revulsion did still rear it's head occasionally, whenever an uninformed new colleague held out their hand to shake his or some issue caused his housekeeper to be absent, thus forcing him to go out into the world and interact personally with cashiers and sales people and the like.
Really, if he was perfectly honest with himself (a rarity), his inclinations towards same-sex attraction were the least of his worries.
Make no mistake— the desire was there. . . it was just that he had carefully constructed (through a lot of therapy) a head space where any need he may have had for sexual gratification was in essence theoretical, a world where he could feel pleasure and yet still divorce himself from any view of himself as an object of fantasy or lust.
Again— extremely lonely. Perhaps even emotionally stunted.
After all, few people who got married and stayed together for decades, were ever in it for the sex. Clearly, there was something that long term partnership unlocked for those lucky few. . .
He had wanted, craved, hungered for years, for someone to take the chance and crack his hard exterior, figure him out, to set him free from the tiresome alarms blaring in his head at all hours— become the comfort that he was seeking.
Were those expectations reasonable? Obviously not. He didn't even know where to begin, and the fact that he was very rarely interested in the majority of the dating pool's population left his chances at forming connections at next to zero. The notion that someone could fix him was as ludicrous as the idea that anyone else would look at him as a whole and say "Yeah, I'm into that".
Furthermore, where this romantic streak had come from, Kiyoomi had no idea. It wasn't like his parents or any of his siblings and their spouses had been the last great lovers of their respective generations; and wasn't partner behavior something that people usually modeled after those closest to them?
He knew he would have to change. . . and he knew that he would have to take the first steps to changing his ways in order to find the fulfillment he craved. Those two truths didn't make the reality any less terrifying though.
Ultimately, the part of himself that wanted to be loved was tired enough of solitude to try the radical option of making himself lovable for once.
"Sakusa-san?"
Kiyoomi looked up at the knock on the door and was promptly greeted— he'd known it would be him, Akaashi had confirmed the night before that the blonde twin whose socials he'd stalked was the masseuse that he'd be meeting with today— by a face that exuded the warmth and energy of a small sun.
Those pictures must have been a few years old; his jaw isn't as soft anymore.
Miya Atsumu radiated light, even in the dim fluorescent drab of the wellness clinic's spare office; the younger man had clearly discovered the existence of toner finally, as his bright hair was no longer brassy, but instead a more natural blonde shade, like mild clover honey.
Everything. . . everything about him made Kiooymi's heart forget how to beat.
Confident smile, full of teeth, maybe just a little cocky. You can tell he smiles a lot by those little crows feet next to his eyes.
I don't think I've ever seen grey eyes so naturally dark; I'll have to ask if he wears contacts.
God, no one should have the right to look that good in scrubs. I wonder if he wears them so that people will assume he's a doctor?
Tanned biceps just barely fit inside the sleeves of the peach pink scrub top that Miya wore; from his prior research, Kiyoomi knew that the man's thighs were equally impressive.
Unbidden thoughts about how warm his skin must be to the touch, if his hands were soft, how strong he must be, how dearly Kiyoomi wanted to see if this young man could crack his spine like an emergency cold pack— what?— all flew through his mind faster than he could grab and quash them down.
Calm the fuck down. He's just here to do a job.
"Ah, yes, you must be Miya— come in, sit down," Kiyoomi scooted back in his desk chair, taking off the glasses he used to deflect the harsh glare of his computer screen and folding them neatly into the breast pocket of his shirt. He closed his laptop and gestured across to the other side of the desk he sat at, only realizing too late that there wasn't another chair in here.
The office was a spare, usually used for storage; since this clinic wasn't part of his battery of companies and holdings, Kiyoomi basically never came here except as a patient, preferring to run his businesses from the privacy and security of his home office.
"Oh- um, I'm sorry, let me-"
"It's alright, Sakusa-san, it's almost time for your appointment, I was just coming to get you for that. . ." Miya stepped into the small office but waved off the offer to sit politely, arching an eyebrow at him, still smiling that wonderful, lopsided smile.
The younger man spoke clearly but just a little slowly, with an accent that landed so pleasantly on Kiyoomi's ear that he couldn't quite place it.
Ugh, sexy voice too. I'm pretty sure I could get off just listening to him read aloud from the phonebook.
Goddamnit, Kiyoomi, get ahold of yourself.
"About that: I did want to speak to you first, before we begin anything, Miya-kun."
If he found that request odd, Miya said nothing about it: The masseuse shrugged and took another step into the office, hiking one leg up to half sit on the corner of the desk, arms crossed at the wrist while he waited patiently for Kiyoomi to continue.
Kiyoomi swallowed thickly. It felt as though the younger man's biceps were following his gaze around the small room like the Mona Lisa. He'd never been so glad that the surgical mask he wore also masked his expressions; his lower lip was becoming sore with how much he was worrying at it with his teeth.
Too close, too close, his brain began to alarm. So close. . . closer? No, no, no, get away, get away. . .
Kiyoomi scooted back more in his office chair, as much as he could, but that only bought a few centimeters of space; something about being loomed over, with the little bit of height sitting above him on the desk provided Miya, was contributing to the short circuit in his brain and senses.
I suppose 20+ years of being so much taller than everyone else around you has messed with your perspective. There's no way he's actually taller than 180, maybe 181 . . .
He was fairly sure that he opened and closed his mouth to speak several times behind his mask, but words were not something that Kiyoomi could process at the moment: he was lost in charcoal grey eyes and the faint scent of cologne, something woodsy, like cypress or cedar.
Miya saved him the (continued) embarrassment of gaping like a dying fish when he suddenly popped up off the desk and took a generous step backwards.
"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, Sakusa-san! Akaashi-san gave me all his notes on yer conditions and such, I spent half the night studyin' 'em,and then it just poof, went outta my head!" Miya exclaimed, making a small puff gesture next to his right ear before quicky brushing his hand across the desk where he'd sat and bowing profusely. "I totally forgot that 'cha had yer germ thing, and yer thing with bein' touched-"
His accent gets more pronounced when he's flustered. Cute.
The younger man's tanned cheeks were tinted as pink as his scrubs as he scrambled to apologize.
"Miya."
Full lips zipped shut the instant Kiyoomi stood, waving aside Miya's apologies.
"I appreciate your dedication, but that's actually exactly what I wanted to discuss with you."
Miya nodded, still flush in the face, but his eyes were fixed on Kiyoomi's. It took significant will not to bow under the weight of his gaze.
I know he's younger. . . young enough that I could be his father, if circumstances were different. . . but it just doesn't feel like that. We're total strangers, but he's taking this so seriously. It doesn't feel like there's 21 years between us.
"Yes, it is true that I am touch averse. . . but, I have been wanting to put more effort into— overcoming that, shall we say?— for a long time. Akaashi-san is a dear friend, as well as a very good physical therapist, but I think he's been too accommodating of me. With your consent, I'd like to start pushing my boundaries— just a little at a time— while we're at the opportunity to work together. Is that something you'd be willing to try?"
Miya blinked at him for a moment— then the lopsided, almost boyish smile from before spread across his face again.
"Well sure, Sakusa-san! I can have yer joints softened up in no time!" Miya said, a touch proudly. "Akaashi-san's notes said it was yer shoulder and yer back that were botherin' ya the most, right?"
Kiyoomi nodded dumbly. This must be what plants feel like when they get too much sun.
"Akaashi-san 'n I both did the same programs at Kyoto U, and I did part of my internship with him last year, so I know his approach pretty well— even if I got a bit a' my own style." Miya had the audacity to wink at him conspiratorially then, and Kiyoomi swore that he felt his heart slip loose and jump up into his throat (which was probably for the best, he really didn't think that he could say anything intelligent at the moment anyhow).
"I can jus' start out with what yer most used to today, and then you can tell me where ya think you'd be most comfortable makin' changes?"
The younger therapist's accent didn't fully fade, but he definitely regained control over it quickly after his earlier slip; now that Kiyoomi had heard it though, it was impossible not to hear the little bit of twang over his vowels and the way that he half dropped the consonants at the end of some words.
It was terribly endearing.
"You've read my mind, Miya-kun. Shall we get started?"
Miya dropped a short bow and led him out of the office.
"Sure, you can just call me Atsumu, though. Usin' my family name just makes me think of my scrub of a brother," Miya said with a brief scowl of disgust.
"I don't know if I could do that, it seems so personal. . ." Kiyoomi word vomited out what he was thinking before he could run those words through any filter.
Thankfully, he was just able to stop himself from adding Oh right, your twin, and thus revealing that he'd done research on the new therapist.
The longer Kiyoomi looked at him, the more he realized that the smile never really left the younger man's face: there was always a faint tug at the corner of his lips, and now that they were a touch closer as they walked down the hallway, Kiyoomi could see that Miya had at least one of his ears pierced, as a clear plastic stud adorned the lobe of his left ear, just grazed by a lock of wavy, blonde hair.
He also chattered amicably the whole way down the hall, smooth voice wrapping around Kiyoomi's body like a well-worn blanket. . . not that Kiyoomi really picked up much of what was said. He was too fixated on the growing flutter in his chest whenever Miya threw a look back over his shoulder to make sure Kiyoomi was still there, still listening, grey eyes sparkling.
At some point, the whelp had even started calliing him 'Omi'— normally, Kiyoomi despised nicknames, but the flutter picked up every time Miy- no, Atsumu- called him that.
All he could hear was the faint echo in his mind, a refrain of " Oh no, he is hot."