Archive of Our Own ^beta

Categorically, summer is Kiyoomi’s least favourite time of the year.

The air is sticky, it makes him feel three times more sweaty than usual, and his normal barrier of long sleeves and long pants is less bearable in the sweltering heat. It drives up his electricity bill considerably when he’s running the air conditioner at full blast to tolerate the weather. In the city, it’s better, but his summers before volleyball used to be spent in the country, where his parents thought the fresh air would fix whatever they deemed wrong with him. In truth, it made him more surly. He hates cicadas and their constant thrum. He hates the squawk of birds and how the grass is scratchy and how the sun comes up so goddamn early and roughly shoves him out of sleep.

Frankly, it’s a small mercy that even pro volleyball players get a couple of weeks off at the peak of the season, when it gets too hot to safely practice. Kiyoomi had felt it creeping up with mild glee, and frustration at how slowly time trickled by. In the interim, sweat pooled in the backs of his knees, while  Miya kept doing that thing where he’d un-stick his shirt from his body and then use it to wipe down his face before resetting for the next serve. Not that Kiyoomi was looking. Kiyoomi doesn’t look, not at Miya.

The crucial mistake had been letting Hinata drag him into a locker room conversation about plans for their break, as if one needs to have plans beyond cranking up the aircon and slouching around in boxers in the privacy of their own homes. As it turns out, Bokuto is going back to Tokyo to see Akaashi and his family (unsurprising), Miya and Miya Two are both returning home to Hyogo (also unsurprising) and Hinata is zig-zagging his way back up the country to visit as many of his friends as possible before getting back to Miyagi (the least surprising thus far).

Hinata prattles on and on about the rest of the team’s plans. Hinata has this thing about knowing exactly what every person in Japan is doing at any given time, Kiyoomi has learned- is learning- and really, he should have anticipated Hinata’s focus shifting to him eventually.

“What about you, Omi-san?” Hinata asks, on this fateful day, sparking irritation at the grating nickname, passed to Hinata from Miya; who is two lockers down, blasting himself with a hand-held fan in the tiniest shorts known to mankind and nothing else. Worse than this, Bokuto has tilted his head in that obnoxiously obvious way that says he’s listening in while pretending not to, which is frankly insulting.

“I’m staying here,” Kiyoomi says, in a fleeting moment of stupidity. There’s silence, and then the whole locker room descends on him in a flurry. That is, everyone except for Miya, who clearly could not care less, fan in one hand, phone in the other.

“What?!” Squawks Hinata. “Why didn’t you tell us you didn’t have plans! It’s not too late, Omi-san, I’ll ask my friends if they mind one more person crashing on the couch! You like Kuroo-san well enough, right? I’ll be going to visit him when I’m in Tokyo, and I think you’d like Kenma-”

“Omi-Omi!” Bokuto booms, popping up beside Hinata and startling Kiyoomi. “You’re a Tokyo boy, come spend the summer with me and Akaashi! You should visit your family, too, when’s the last time they saw you, eh?” 

Kiyoomi does not feel the need to inform Bokuto that his father is in Singapore and his mother is in New Zealand on business currently, nor does he think that Bokuto needs to know his brother is living and working in England or that his sister is in Shizuoka, or that he really doesn’t have much of a relationship with either of them given that they’re much older than he is.

“Oh, or you could call Komori-san, see what he’s up to!” Inunaki suggests.

“Motoya is going overseas,” Kiyoomi says, which is mistake number two, because now there are questions about why Kiyoomi isn’t going with him, as if everyone’s conveniently forgotten how much Kiyoomi hates long-distance travel, especially flying. Not to mention, Motoya is going to a ski resort, because he thinks activities that could kill you are the height of fun, and Kiyoomi has known his cousin long enough to know that if he tagged along, Motoya would bully him into having the worst time of his life and bruises to show for it.

“Atsumu-san,” Hinata interrupts abruptly, swinging toward Miya who ranks number 2- narrowly missing Bokuto- on Hinata’s List of Ill-Advised Idols, “what do you think Omi-san should do?”

“Dunno,” Miya says without looking up from his phone, “if Omi-kun wants to sulk around like a sad, friendless sack of shit then I say let him. It’s not like yer gonna be able to change his mind.”

Hinata punches him roughly between the shoulder-blades as the rest of the team’s volume turns up by a solid five to scold him. Miya yells something about honesty being punished, and what kind of team culture are they buildin’, and Kiyoomi takes the opportunity to snatch the rest of his stuff and beat a hasty retreat.

Miya doesn’t always have finesse with his words. Kiyoomi’s seen him turn on the charm, especially with small fans of their team, crouching down to their level and giving them conspiratorial whispers like he’s the big brother to each and every one, but one thing Miya has never been is dishonest. He says what he thinks, and it’s one of the very, very few things Kiyoomi appreciates about him.

Of course, this is the day that is responsible for where he is now, feeling like he appreciates exactly zero things about either of the Miyas as they step off the train platform to Amagasaki. The weather is somehow worse than it is in Osaka, and despite it being the central city, as they make their way out into the day itself, trailing luggage and the like, Kiyoomi can hear the fucking cicadas.

He’s not even sure how he got here, really. A week of Hinata constantly being on his ass in what Kiyoomi knows is concern but feels more like targeted violence had been enough to do him in. He’d clearly lost his marbles, because when Hinata sprung the question on him the final time, he said he was going to Hyogo with Miya, because it required the least amount of travel. Miya had laughed like this was the funniest joke in the world, and there had been something like irritation creasing his brow, but the ticket booking had been forwarded to Kiyoomi’s email account by the end of the night.

Now, Kiyoomi feels like he’s melting into less of a person, staring at Suna Rintarou next to the brightest, most fire-engine red pickup truck he’s ever seen in his life. He’s spinning a key-ring around his finger, and Miya is running at him with manic glee, cackling wildly as he crushes him around the waist and spins him, before launching himself face-first onto the hood of the vehicle.

“Rin,” says Miya Two, kisses Suna on the cheek.

“Sakusa,” says Suna, nods to him and turns the keys over in his hands. There’s a Molten Volleyball keychain, which is also attached to a red multitool, which is also attached to a metallic pink bottle opener, which is also attached to an electric blue carabiner which is also attached to a painted blue piece of wood with A. MIYA carved into it, and a fair selection of keys.

“Has Miya finally lost it?” Is what Kiyoomi chooses to say instead of remarking on any of this, nodding to where Miya Blonde is lying with his cheek smashed into the obnoxiously red paneling, running shorts hiked high up his thighs, tank top so low-cut that Kiyoomi can see every single one of his abs and also the side of his nipple through the arm hole. Not that he’s looking, of course. He never looks, not at Miya.

“Tsumu,” Miya Two barks, “we get it, ya love yer truck more than us. Get us out of here.”

“I’m reunitin’ with the love of my life,” Miya snaps back, “have some goddamn compassion.”

Miya Two’s idea of compassion is to dump his bags in his boyfriend’s arms so he can better try to wedge his foot up his brother’s ass, sending the pair of them into a squalling brawl. Miya gets Miya Two in a headlock, aggressively ruffling his hair. Kiyoomi very pointedly does not look at the strong bulge of Miya’s tanned bicep, or the way his leg muscles ripple as he tries to crush Miya Two’s foot under his own stomping one.

“Come on,” Suna says, apparently the only one of them possessing a singular ounce of civilization, “let’s get your things in the truck.”

“Have you been back in Amagasaki for long?” Kiyoomi asks, as Suna dumps the twins’ stuff in the back seat of the pickup, and then takes Kiyoomi’s bags and places them down with significantly more care.

“No,” Suna says, “I came up from Hiroshima last night so that I could make sure the truck was working for today. Didn’t even have to jump-start it or anything. Atsumu will be pleased, he worries about it like a child when he’s away.”

“He should drive it back to Osaka, then,” Kiyoomi says. Frankly, he feels a little irritated that Atsumu has owned a mode of non-public transport this whole time and hasn’t utilized it. If Kiyoomi knew how to drive, he’d drive everywhere. The fact that Miya willingly subjects himself to the indignity of buses and trains makes Kiyoomi dislike him even more.

“You know what Atsumu’s like,” Suna says with a shrug, “no one can tell him what to do.” Grimly, Kiyoomi thinks Suna is dead-on with that assessment. Then Suna leaves him, moving both gracefully and lazily in some elegantly effortless manner to stand next to the scrapping twins.

“Atsumu, if you don’t detach from your brother right now, I’ll drive your truck the whole way back.” 

And that does it. Miya straightens and snatches the keys with a scandalized gasp. It trails off more into a wheeze of pain as Miya Two gets in one last shot to the stomach, but Miya doesn’t even try to retaliate as he prances for the driver’s side seat. Suna casts a look at Kiyoomi over the cargo bed. 

“You get shotgun.”

The interior of Miya’s car is surprisingly spotless. Kiyoomi is starting to realize, with dawning horror, that Miya is one of those car people. As in his steering wheel has a protective leather grip over the original leather, all the seats have racing seat covers (black and electric blue, like his volleyball shoes in high school), and there are floor mats. There’s a little green, tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, with a small Vabo-chan and a Mikasa volleyball charm. There’s another vanilla-scented air freshener suctioned to the dashboard.

And Kiyoomi is riding in the passenger seat, which means he’s Miya’s prime target of conversation as he jams his keys into the ignition and starts the whole thing up. It growls like a live animal, and the radio immediately starts blasting a Japanese rock song that had been popular during their youth, as Miya hooks a hand behind Kiyoomi’s headrest and twists his torso fully in the seat, turning the wheel with his palm to reverse out of the parking space. Kiyoomi doesn’t look at the way he sticks his tongue out of his mouth to concentrate. He does not look at the sweat on the swell of his bicep. He does not feel Miya’s warmth. He doesn’t.

“Ya into cars much, Omi-kun?” Miya asks him loudly, over the radio and the growl of the engine and the roar of the air-con blasting air around the cab. Kiyoomi tries to catch Suna’s eyes in the rearview to appeal to him for help, but Miya Two has laced his fingers with Suna’s, and they’re having a very sweet moment with their foreheads leaned together in the back seat, completely oblivious to the conversation that Kiyoomi is attempting to avoid at all costs. Unfortunately, Miya takes his silence as an answer, with a jaunty upward-motion of his hand to slap the indicator on- and that ticks loudly, too, this whole truck is fucking loud- before he swings out of the parking lot and onto the road.

“She’s doin’ good for an old girl,” Miya says, sweat sticking the dark hair of his undercut to the back of his neck. It’s getting long by his standards. He’ll get it cut soon. “‘95 Toyota Hilux, y’know, real reliable brand of car. This model is an ol’ double-cab 4-wheel-drive, 2.4 litre engine, runs on unleaded petrol which is just slightly more economical than the diesel variation, and she’s got a braked towin’ cap o’-”

“Up to fifteen-hundred kilograms,” Suna and Miya Two say in perfect unison from the back seat, earning Miya’s withering glare in the rear view.

“Christ, Tsumu,” Miya Two says, “Sakusa doesn’t wanna hear yer car spiel.”

“Yer all ungrateful shits,” Miya grumbles, “oughta make ya walk.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Suna croons, scooting forward in his seat to lean both arms against the back of Miya’s, “you love me, remember? I’m your partner in crime.”

“Yer my volleyball enemy now, Rin,” Miya says with a sniff, “but I’ll forgive ya, ‘cause ya brought my baby over to see me. Anyways, Omi-kun, like I was sayin’, fifteen-hundred ain’t too bad for ‘95, but the newest model can tow over twice that, ‘course, innovations in technology and stuff, but that’s the direction I’m thinkin’ of goin’ when it’s right for me to afford a new truck, ‘cause that shit’s expensive, y’know?” Miya Two gives Kiyoomi a sympathetic look through the rearview.

“Tsumu,” Miya Two stretches out, kicks the back of Miya’s seat, “gum.”

“I’m gonna tell Kaa-san ‘bout yer fuckin’ manners, Samu,” Miya snaps, gestures at the glove box in front of Kiyoomi without taking his eyes from the road. “Omi-kun, can ya grab him a piece of gum?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t really want to touch the glove box, but he supposes he can appreciate Miya’s dedication to driving safely. It makes him feel less like his stomach is going to drop out of his ass. He tentatively opens the compartment, and his soul dies a little more.

Miya, in his ruthless efficiency, has crammed as much into a small amount of space as he can. There’s a CD case, so bursting that the zip on the blasted thing has broken so Kiyoomi has to squeeze it tight when he pulls it out and sticks it on his lap to avoid everything falling out. There’s a box of condoms- Kiyoomi doesn’t check the expiry date, he really doesn’t, he just happens to see it from the corner of his eye and know that they are not expired- a stick of deodorant, sunblock, another multi-tool, a key attached to one of those key-chain baubles that floats in water and smells like the ocean, a fishing guide, half-used KT tape, a nail file, plasters, two separate types of breath mints and finally, blessedly, two different gum packets.

“Spearmint or grape?” Kiyoomi asks, and both Miyas say ‘grape’, in perfect sync. They both look appropriately appalled at this result. He pulls out two individually wrapped sticks and puts them in outstretched palms, and then picks spearmint for himself and Suna, and goes back to putting everything away.

“What’s this?” Kiyoomi asks, holding up a beautiful brown leather-bound journal that he had to move in order to wedge the CDs back in there.

Miya looks at it from the corner of his eye, and shrugs, before his whole body goes taut like a bowstring. Kiyoomi only notices how his body moves from the corner of his eye, because he’s too preoccupied flicking through the pages; excellent craftsmanship, they’re perfectly thick and smooth to the touch. He lands on kanji at the top of a page reading ‘LOVE LETTER TO SUMMER’, fingers ghosting over their indent. Miya’s broad hand snatches the journal from him and hurls it to the floor beside Miya Two’s feet.

“What the fuck?” Kiyoomi says.

“Tsumu!” Miya Two bellows and kicks the back of his seat again. “Where the hell are your manners?!”

“You want this back?” Suna says, as Miya quickly snatches it and jams it between his thighs.

“Diary,” Miya says awkwardly, “forgot about it.” 

Kiyoomi squints at him, at the side of his face, eyes half-hidden behind his sunglasses as he puts his foot down and the car squalls even louder in glee at being compelled to go faster. Miya Two and Suna are both staring at Miya suspiciously, so Kiyoomi thinks he’s not being sensitive about how weird that was, but Miya doesn’t seem willing to surrender the journal any time soon, so he lets it be and packs away the last of the things into the glovebox, shutting it with a defined click.

“How long until we reach your house?” Kiyoomi asks Miya Two instead, folding his arms over his chest.

“Well,” Miya Two says, in the tone that implies Kiyoomi is not going to like the answer he gets next.

The answer is just over an hour. The twins, apparently, live south of Amagasaki, in Iwaya on Awaji island. Miya Two informs Kiyoomi that for most of high school, they’d lived with their granny in Nishinomiya up by Kabutoyama Park in order to be able to play volleyball once they were scouted for Inarizaki, which sounds like the exact kind of crazy thing that Miya would do to play volleyball. Still, Suna maintains, the best place to hang out during the volleyball off-season has always been the Miyas’ house near the beach.

Miya keeps the air-con cranked and his radio blaring, one hand on the wheel and one hand on the gearstick. He looks comfortable, at peace, with his platinum blonde hair and too-low tank and the drying sweat in the dip of his pectorals. Kiyoomi closes his eyes, pretends to sleep, and thinks about the condoms and the seat covers and how much sex Miya probably has in his car, because he’s disgusting.

This is the way to be attracted to Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi is learning. Combat any thought that might become too dangerous with a thought about Miya’s less-attractive qualities. If he stares at his thighs for too long, he thinks about how Miya is acerbic and harsh and never bothers to soften the blow of his criticisms. Not that Kiyoomi does either, but he knows this, and it doesn’t mean he can’t judge a self-proclaimed charmer for it. If he thinks about whether Miya would kiss him with the same indulgent focus he devotes to volleyball, he switches to thinking about how Miya lets kids wipe their grotty palms all over them and laughs like he loves it. If he thinks about Miya fucking him in his stupid shitty car that he cares about so much, instead he remembers Miya hawk-spitting onto the concrete as he’d trailed Hinata and Bokuto back to the Black Jackal apartment complex in the dead of winter, nose and lips red with cold.

This (his attraction to Miya) is a curse that has been plaguing him since he was fifteen, catching his first glimpse of straw-blonde hair at his first InterHigh Nationals, laughing loudly and confidently at something Ojiro-san had said. Time and distance had not helped him any. Signing to the Black Jackals and spotting Miya Atsumu in the flesh, boy-turned-man, with a better haircut and the discovery of toner and purple shampoo, had done the opposite of help. It brought whatever attraction he’d managed to quash every time Miya opened his big, fat mouth and said something else worthy of scorn careening to the surface with a vengeance. Kiyoomi had almost done something stupid, like kissing him right there in the locker room.

Instead, he’d shoved that impulse down again and re-started on the track to Emancipation From The Soul-Crushing Curse of Liking (Ugh) Miya Atsumu. So far, he has not had a lot of success, but he’ll get there, he knows he will. Kiyoomi is nothing if not persistent.

They reach the Miyas’ house just after noon, where Miya kicks all of them out, waits for them to take their stuff, and then reverses out of the driveway without another word. Miya Two produces a set of keys from his backpack and lets them into the house.

It’s a nice place, a two-story building made of dark wood in the traditional style, overlooking the ocean and natural forestry from the back, along with a spacious, grassy back-yard and a feature wall as part of the front fence. It’s made from natural rocks stuck together with cement, and there are colourful handprints pressed to it, artist’s names accompanying them. The twins, in blue and purple, getting bigger with age. Familiar faces from the twins’ circle. Suna, green. Ojiro-san, red. Kita-san, yellow. Names Kiyoomi doesn’t recognize. 

The house is cool on the inside- Suna must have left the air conditioning on when he drove out- and a welcome reprieve from the muggy air outside. The house is clean but obviously lived in. There is evidence of the Miya seniors in every corner, evidence of their love for the twins, too. Kiyoomi moves past framed articles about Miya’s volleyball career and Miya Two’s onigiri shop and pauses on old family photos.

Miya’s mother has the warmth of his eyes but his twin’s calm smile. Their father has Miya Two’s dark hair, but Miya’s crooked grin. They look undeniably happy, the four of them. Kiyoomi feels his mouth twitch into a little smile at the sight of the twins with their Obaa-san, so clearly the father’s mother, shorter than both of them and pinching a cheek in each hand to drag them down to her height as they grin at the photographer. He squashes the warm, fond feeling in his chest quickly and forcefully, focusing on the sound of Miya Two shouting for Suna as he pulls windows and doors open.

Suna tells Kiyoomi that the Miya seniors have gone north for a month or two on family business, so their room is Kiyoomi’s for the duration of his stay. The twins and Suna have resolved to sleep on the guest futons in the living room downstairs, like some dinky little sleepover for children. Which is, Kiyoomi thinks, exactly something Miya would do, and he doesn’t feel at all slighted at not being asked if he would like to participate, because he wouldn’t, not at all.

Miya returns as Kiyoomi is still setting up his temporary living space in a way that suits his needs. He’s inspecting the bathroom and ascertaining whether or not it fits his standards when Miya bowls through the open front door, hollering for his twin. He comes bearing groceries, Kiyoomi finds, so he stands and watches as the other three unpack the paper bags and fold them up neatly for reuse in a little cloth sack under the sink.

It’s interesting, Kiyoomi thinks. Neither of the Miyas live here anymore, and this isn’t Suna’s house either, but they navigate it with such familiarity it’s like an extension of themselves. Kiyoomi can’t even recall where the air fryer in his parent’s apartment is kept.

Miya provides them with a fruit-based ice-block each, and the four of them sit on the back deck, enjoying the breeze blowing in from the sea. The air here tastes like salt, Kiyoomi thinks, or maybe he’s just going insane, watching the way the chill of the ice on Miya’s lips is turning them red, the way that sweat sticks the back of his shirt to his strong shoulders.

He touches people so easily; foot tangled with Suna’s, fingers touching Miya Two’s where they’re both bracing their hands against the wood. There’s a stream that runs down behind their house, the bank veering sharply down at the edge of the section and then trees rising on the other side, vibrant in the almost violently bright sunlight. The sound of it carries up to them, almost drowned out by cicadas.

“Tou-san workin’ on anythin’?” Miya Two asks, sucking noisily at his purlicue where his ice-block has melted onto his skin. Miya shrugs.

“Dunno. I’ll snoop in the workshop when it ain’t so hot. Kinda stuffy in there at the minute.”

“Will you come to the beach with me now, then?” Suna asks, stretching his legs out further.

“Nah,” Miya drawls, teasing. “Y’can drown without me, Rin.”

“Aw,” Suna says mockingly, reaches out his hand.

“Aw,” Miya echoes; puts his chin in Suna’s palm, mirroring his faux-pout. In some bizarre ritual, Suna squeezes, Miya makes his puppy eyes bigger. Kiyoomi looks away, counts the moles on his bare legs.

Would Miya make it that easy for Kiyoomi to touch him; as easily and freely as his friends do? Is it really that simple to touch him, to reach out and close the space? Kiyoomi’s hands itch for it, but there’s a body between them, a physical barrier to block the gap. Kiyoomi focuses on the chill of his ice block against his tongue, and not on the corded muscle of Miya’s thighs as he draws his knees up and braces his feet on the deck. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t look, not ever, not at Miya.

Miya hides the diary ten minutes before leaving for the beach, as Miya Two and Suna laugh in the kitchen downstairs, still doing a subpar job of smearing sunblock onto each other. Miya is naked, save his swim trunks, chest to floor, dragging a shoebox out from under the bottom bunk.

Kiyoomi catches him because the door is usually open to circulate air, but it’s half-closed as he wanders back to his temporary quarters to fetch a book. He stands, just out of view, watches as Miya gently blows the layer of dust off the box and removes the lid. Tenderly, he tucks the diary into it, resettles the lid, and pushes the box into place. Kiyoomi is out of sight by the time he hears Miya’s footsteps on the stairs.

He doesn’t leave his room until he hears three voices fade, down the road to the beachfront. He stands in the doorway of Miya’s old bedroom, watches the dust particles circulate in the wide strip of sunlight burning bright on the wood of the floor. He does not cross the threshold. He does not- as he sits in front of the standing fan, book opened in his lap- think of the way Miya’s tanned skin had rippled over the strong slope of his back. He doesn’t think about Miya.

(He thinks only of him.)

Miya rises early, Kiyoomi learns. He has never been a morning person himself, dragging himself out of bed only when the heat of the sun pushing through the curtains gets too stifling. The house is quiet when Kiyoomi hauls himself downstairs. There’s a pot of tea next to the kitchen pad with ‘help yourself’ written on it. Miya Two and Suna have somehow managed to stay both touching and asleep even in the heat. Miya is outside.

Kiyoomi sits next to him with his tea in silence. Miya has been for a run. Kiyoomi knows this because he and Miya have lived in the Black Jackal apartment complex together for long enough for him to know what Miya’s workout routine is. He can see the sweat still drying on the back of his neck, the crooks of his elbows. He has a cap on and sunglasses nestled against the bill of it, watching the ocean.

For once, he is blessedly quiet. This is not a particular victory for Kiyoomi, since Miya speaking is usually what makes him less attractive. Now, it’s all Kiyoomi can do to pick a tree and stare, and not look at Miya.

Because Miya, for all his faults, is devastatingly beautiful like this. The early morning shadows cut sharp across his jaw, turn his hair to brilliant gold and his eyes to warm amber as his thumb absently traces the lip of his cup. There’s sweat in the dip above his top lip, mouth curved into a little smile as he watches the tide, lashes lidded against the sea breeze, seeming to lean into the crash of the waves echoing up to them on the hill.

“Yer starin’,” Miya says.

“I’m not,” Kiyoomi lies, tucks his feet up under him as he takes a careful sip of his tea, “this is well-steeped.”

“Mm,” says Miya, “yer not normally a mornin’ person, huh, Omi-kun?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Too bright outside.”

“Yea,” he nods, “but I prefer it that way. Winter sucks all the life outta things.”

“At least I don’t feel like melting into a puddle of goo during winter,” Kiyoomi mutters, and Miya laughs, not one of his boisterous cackles, but one of those little huffy laughs through his nose. It makes Kiyoomi twitch a smile.

“Huh,” says Miya, “I didn’t know ya could do that.”

“Do what?”

“Smile. Make jokes.” 

Kiyoomi shoots him a withering glare from the corner of his eye. 

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like ya ever seem to be in the mood for jokin’ with the rest of the team. Honestly, I didn’t even expect ya to show up yesterday.”

“Then why did you send me the ticket?”

“Because ya don’t joke, Omi-kun,” Miya says, puts his cup down and leans back on his hands, kicks his legs idly. “I figured it was an out if ya wanted one, and a first-time-for-everything if ya bailed.”

“I always see things through, Miya.”

“I know,” Miya tips his head back, bathes his skin in the sunlight, “just one of the many things that’s so infuriatin’ about ya.”

“Right,” Kiyoomi says, looking down into his tea. “Miya?”

“Yea?”

“Thanks. I’ll pay you back for the ticket.”

“Don’t stress about it. I’m sure we’ll drive ya crazy eventually, and that’ll be payment enough.”

“It’s not so bad,” Kiyoomi tells him, very quietly, and makes it a point to miss the warmth of Miya’s responding smile. He doesn’t look. Looking is already dangerous enough, with Miya warm and pliant in the early morning serenity. He stares at his lap until he hears the shift of Miya’s body, and feels the emptiness of the space that he leaves in his wake.

It’s excruciating, being so aware of Miya. It’s impossible not to notice how easily he leans over his brother’s shoulder to steal food from the pan as Miya Two graciously provides breakfast. It’s hard not to watch him when he sweeps Suna into a poorly-choreographed waltz across the kitchen to the clean sound of an old orchestral record. It’s painful to be aware of the careful barrier he leaves around Kiyoomi, like he’s constructed a bubble he’s afraid of popping. Kiyoomi supposes he should be grateful for it, that Miya learned his boundaries without ever having to breach them. Mostly, he just wants Miya to lean in until he feels the heat of his skin, wants to feel the curl of his breath behind his ear, wants to be swept up in a badly timed dance, wants to laugh because of it. Most of the time, Kiyoomi hates these things, but when it’s Miya, he wants without prejudice.

But it’s Miya. Brash, obnoxious, arrogant Miya. Miya, whose snapping still makes Bokuto wilt, even after their years of friendship. Miya, who openly scorns and goads Kageyama-san until he looks close to tears of frustration. Miya, the only person Kiyoomi has ever heard Wakatoshi-kun raise his voice at, who bore it with a wolfish grin and sparkling eyes. Miya is the last person on Earth anyone should want, and the last person on Earth who would ever want Kiyoomi.

So he quashes it. I don’t want you, he thinks, when Miya seems to sense he’s spreading his legs into Kiyoomi’s space around the table, and draws a foot under himself to keep it closer to his body. I don’t want you, he thinks, as Miya flattens himself to the wall to brush past him in the upstairs hallway. I don’t want you, he thinks, watching the twins drag an old volleyball net out of a little shed at the edge of the property, Miya’s head tilted back to the sun as he laughs. I don’t want you, he thinks, wandering in circles around the yard, if only to catch a glimpse of Miya in the dim light of the workshop, shuffling around as the cicadas scream, muscles flexing as he leans into the bench on his elbows and crosses his legs at the ankles, Kiyoomi’s eyes following the curve of his back.

“Omi-kun,” Miya says to him, one foot on the step to the back porch and running his hand through sweat-damp hair, “d’ya wanna come to the beach with us?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says, “but I won’t swim.”

It doesn’t matter how much he tells himself he won’t want, because he always does. He wants, when Miya stands still and lets Suna forcibly scrub sunscreen into his back. He wants, when he catches a glimpse of Miya hiking his swim trunks right up to the crease of his groin so he can layer sunscreen even where the sun probably won’t reach. He wants, watching Miya pick up a folding moon chair by one of the metal legs; as he swings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.

Kiyoomi doesn’t swim, just as he promised, but he sits in the moon chair that Miya has provided for him without him even thinking to ask. He pretends to read his book, holds it open on his lap and thumbs the pages as he watches Miya leap onto Miya Two’s back, using gravity and the weight of his hands on his shoulders to dunk him under the water. Watches as he picks Suna up around the waist and swings him before they both topple over. Wants Miya to come back to him and drag him from the chair, down to the water’s edge. Wants Miya to kiss him, the taste of salt on his tongue and hands wet and strong in his hair.

Miya keeps his distance.

For all his flaws, Miya is considerate. This is a fact Kiyoomi wishes he didn’t know, because it makes it so much harder to stop liking him. The infatuation with Wakatoshi-kun had worn off so easily, the urgency dulled by increasing familiarity and distance. Miya sticks in his brain and he can’t get him to leave, no matter how hard he tries. He’s twenty-three, and he hasn’t kicked a schoolboy crush.

Maybe he doesn’t want to, he thinks, watching the careful, thoughtful way that Miya chews his food. Or maybe it’s not thoughtful, since he doesn’t seem to be aware of it, chopsticks hovering, eyes glued to his phone, head cocked slightly to one side.

“Tou-san’s askin’ if I can finish restorin’ a side table for him,” Miya announces into the quiet of the dinner table. Miya Two grunts acknowledgement.

“Somethin’ to keep ya busy.”

“I’ll start tomorrow,” Miya says, puts his phone face down, “still gotta sand and varnish the whole thing, but it’ll be good work.”

“You’re going to sweat your ass off,” Suna tells him, then nudges Miya Two. “You’d be sexier if you could build things like Atsumu.”

“I can build things!” Miya Two squawks in protest.

“I’ve never seen you build anything in your life,” Suna says, unimpressed. “Atsumu and I had to set up all your furniture when you moved to Osaka.”

The argument dissolves into Miya Two squalling while Miya and Suna jeer at him. Kiyoomi can’t look away, fascinated by the gleam in his eyes, the way his lips pull back to reveal the whites of his teeth as he laughs and laughs. Miya has sharp canines, he thinks. Unnaturally sharp canines. One side of his mouth turns higher than the other when he smiles. When he laughs his whole body shakes with it. The sound comes somewhere from deep in his gut, almost like it hurts him with how his eyes squeeze shut and his nose scrunches in one corner.

“Shut up!” Miya Two barks, reaches across to grab his brother by the shirt-collar and rattle him.

“Ain’t my fault yer too much of a wuss to swing a hammer!” Miya sneers back, grabbing his brother’s wrist and digging his thumb in between the bones until Miya Two is grinding his teeth so violently that even Kiyoomi can hear it.

“Should we stop them?” He asks Suna. Suna shrugs.

“You know,” Suna says, low and uninterested, “even though I think handyman skills are very sexy, I have kissed both of you and we’re all aware of how that turned out.”

“Ew,” says Miya Two abruptly, dropping Miya One. Blonde Miya sticks his tongue out and scrunches up his face. Kiyoomi reels with this new knowledge.

He knows many things about Miya Atsumu. He has spent the better part of ten years subconsciously collecting as much information about him as he can. There are plenty of facts from party games like Truth or Dare and Never Have I Ever during their stints at All-Japan camps, things he’s overheard Miya talking about in the locker rooms they’ve shared. Things he’s heard from Motoya, who’s heard them from Suna. Things Bokuto and Hinata and sometimes even Wakatoshi-kun tell him. Things Miya has told him himself.

He knows the unfortunate high school hair colour was the fault of Miya Two- “supposed to be gold,” Miya had said, fluffing his fingers through his fringe as he answered some big third year from way in the north who’d asked what was up with his hair, “to match my brother’s grey, but it didn’t quite work out. Samu isn’t too hot with box dye, go figure!”- and he knows that Miya had considered All-Japan during their second year to be a welcome reprieve from his recent heartbreak; confessed to Kita-san, got rejected, knew it was coming but still hurt. He knows Miya used to get into fist-fights in school because Motoya told him Suna showed him videos of it. He knows animals like Miya and Miya likes animals but prefers dogs to cats by a slim margin, because that had been how Miya weighed in on the argument Hinata’s friends were having about whether they should get a dog or a cat.

He knows Miya doesn’t like coffee and if he drinks it, it’s with two sugars and milk and he still makes a face the whole time. Miya won’t look twice at energy drinks but is indiscriminate with sports drinks. Miya prefers local craft beers to anything else in a bar, though he doesn’t drink often and hardly ever drinks irresponsibly. Kiyoomi can count the number of times he’s seen him genuinely drunk on one hand. He knows Miya has a freckle that tugs at his skin whenever he moves his shoulders because it’s right on the edge of his left shoulder-blade. He knows Miya likes kids and is very good with them because he used to help babysit Ojiro-san’s younger sibling and his family has lots of young cousins. He knows Miya’s nose has never bled.

That one was a firsthand experience, a complete accident at their first All-Japan where Wakatoshi-kun’s spike had bounced off the side of a middle-blocker’s hand and changed course too rapidly for Miya to get his feet around a modified receive. It hadn’t been strong enough to take him off his feet, but his head had snapped back and stayed back. The whole court had descended into chaos, crowding around Miya as he stood with his head tipped to the gym’s ceiling, nose twitching slightly like he was trying to sneeze, squinting around what must have been tears.

“Fuck!” He’d said, three minutes into worried questions and inspections by their coach. “Really thought that was the one, guys, but ah well. I’ll splint my nose, and I’ll be right back.”

It had taken him all of five minutes to do it, little plastic sticks down each side, a band-aid and some insulation tape. Wakatoshi-kun cornered him after practice- before someone had thought to ask what was up with his nose and the not-bleeding- his serious face drawn into deep concern as he’d apologized. Miya had slapped him harshly on the back, so forcefully that Wakatoshi-kun, who had been leaning into his space in apology, stumbled in shock.

“Ushiwaka-kun,” Miya had said cheerfully, “I won’t be mad if ya make my nose bleed, I promise ya. In fact, if ya manage to pull off that miracle, I’ll kiss ya right on the mouth.”

A fact Kiyoomi hadn’t known about Miya Atsumu is that he has kissed Suna Rintarou right on the mouth.

This knowledge unsettles him, makes him feel like he’s stood up too quickly and the world swims. His chest burns with something he won’t name, because naming it is pathetic and makes it all feel real when it shouldn’t, because there’s no reason for Kiyoomi to be that. Miya Atsumu is not his. Miya Atsumu has never been his and will never be his. Who Miya Atsumu kisses is none of his business, and really, Kiyoomi feels nothing about this, because Kiyoomi doesn’t want to know how Miya Atsumu kisses.

He bets he kisses the same way he plays volleyball; hungry for it, focused, intent with enough drive to burn someone alive. He bets he’s handsy. He bets he can do things with his tongue. He’s seen him kiss enough people on nights out with the team to know he can kiss well enough to make someone’s knees weak. He tips these thoughts into a little box and firmly puts a lid on it, because he does not care about how Miya Atsumu kisses, not at all.

Was it here? He finds himself thinking, late at night, eyes watching the ceiling fan slowly push around the humid air. Was it in this house? Does Miya Two know or care? How did Miya Two feel about Suna back then? Was it another game between them? Does Suna care? Does he miss the way Miya kisses, the way Kiyoomi misses something he’ll never have, ever since he saw Miya crook that wild grin at Wakatoshi-kun with insulation tape strapping his nose into place?

What would it take, Kiyoomi wonders, for Miya to threaten and promise to kiss him right on the mouth?

Miya’s fingers are a marvel, Kiyoomi thinks, watching him sit on the floor, back against the wall and legs crossed at the ankles. He has a guitar resting in his lap. Kiyoomi’s never seen Miya with an instrument before in his life, but it fits like it belongs there. Somehow it seems right for him to have it, like Kiyoomi is the silly one for being astounded at how easily his fingers flex over the frets, tuning it with his usual single-minded focus.

“Leave it to Time,” Suna begs him, and Miya smiles, slow and warm like syrup.

“Okay,” he says, strums his guitar, and sings. It’s mesmerizing, the way his mouth curls around the lyrics, pushes them into being, lashes lowered as he watches his fingers fly over the strings, familiar with the tune that Suna hums, that Miya Two sways to. His voice is good, like this, Kiyoomi thinks, as he watches, sees Miya’s eyes lift to his as he plays. Miya Two whistles to the tune, Suna wraps his arms around his shoulders and leans his head into the crook of his neck.

Miya sings. Miya plays. Kiyoomi wants.

Hinata is video-calling when Kiyoomi comes downstairs. Once again Miya has tea ready, and there’s a little bit of sleep still pulling at his lashes as he mans the stove in preparation for breakfast. He’s slept shirtless, in maroon boxers that stick to the underside of his ass with sweat, just a little. Not that Kiyoomi’s looking, as he pours himself tea, heat radiating from Miya’s shoulder. He doesn’t look. He never looks.

“Hi Omi-san,” Hinata whisper-shouts through the phone, grinning at him where his cheek is smashed into his pillow, “I didn’t think you’d be up yet, either.”

“It’s too bright,” Kiyoomi says, even though he’d set an alarm so the buzzing of the phone on the nightstand would wake him before he would naturally wake. Even though the sun is still comparatively weak where it fights through early-morning cloud cover. Even though it hadn’t been the sun at all, but the need to have Miya all to himself in all his heartbreaking, early-morning beauty just one more time.

“It looks very sunny there,” Hinata agrees, yawns so widely his jaw pops, “is Atsumu-san being nice?”

“I’m always nice,” Miya protests, putting on his best wounded pout. Hinata runs a hand through his hair until he’s managed to force it into something that resembles the way Miya styles his own.

“I absolutely hate playin’ against people who suck,” he intones in something gravelly that would vaguely resemble Miya’s voice if not for the difference in dialects. He stares very intently at his phone’s camera as Miya bursts out into little snickering laughs.

“Shit, I was an embarrassin’ teenager, dunno how any of you put up with me. But honestly, Shou-kun, I think ya can stand to not have me be so nice to ya all the time, ‘cause ya get a big head otherwise.” Hinata giggles into his pillow, and Atsumu grins wide and wolfish. It makes Kiyoomi chance a smile into the lip of his cup, sipping at his tea.

To his surprise, it’s actually nice to stand in the kitchen talking to Hinata with Atsumu, elbows brushing sometimes as Atsumu moves food around in pans with a proficiency Kiyoomi is not at all shocked by. Atsumu orders out the least out of everyone on the team, and is the first to bring soup to anyone with a cold. Plus, Kiyoomi has sat at Onigiri Miya after hours with the Black Jackals, watching the twins shape onigiri at steadily increasing speeds. He’d thought, mostly, that Hinata would irritate him with his intrusion into Kiyoomi’s observation of morning-Miya, but Hinata whispers like this is an extension of Miya’s sleepover in the living room, where Suna and Miya Two still sleep soundly. It makes him feel included.

“Omi-san,” Hinata whines, “you’re only smiling at Atsumu-san’s jokes, and not at mine.”

“It’s ‘cause I’m funnier than ya, pipsqueak,” Miya says, before Kiyoomi can even process what the fuck Hinata just said. Miya says it like it’s nothing, smooths over it like tonguing over a bite. Kiyoomi shakes as he takes his next sip of tea, jerks his arm away when Miya’s shoulder brushes his.

“You’re so lucky I’m in Tokyo right now,” Hinata says, “I’m going to get you for that when we come back.”

“Quakin’ in my little booties, Shouyou,” Miya croons, making exaggerated kissy faces at his phone camera. Hinata gives him the middle finger with a laugh, before he hugs the pillow under his chin and turns his little button-nose up.

“You’re my favourite teammate now, Omi-san,” Hinata declares.

“What took Bokuto out of the running?” Kiyoomi asks, genuinely interested. This is an accomplishment, given that Bokuto and Hinata’s long-standing friendship dates back to high school.

“I saw Bokuto-san and Akaashi-san last night, and they’re kind of disgustingly into each other,” Hinata says. “It makes me feel very lonely, especially when I’m staying with Kuroo-san and Kenma.”

“I think I can understand that,” Kiyoomi says, because Hinata has an innate knack for making people more agreeable than they naturally are when it comes to him. Kiyoomi can’t even find it in himself to be mad at Hinata for almost exposing Kiyoomi’s most embarrassing secret. He resolves to simply never smile again. He’s never been one for smiling in the first place, so it shouldn’t be hard.

“Aw, Shou-kun,” Miya croons, “do ya need someone to spoon ya?”

“Hold me in your arms, Atsumu-san,” Hinata intones dramatically, flopping a wrist over his forehead as he scrunches up his eyes, “I yearn for the touch of another. Only the strongest arms will do.”

“You should call up Bokuto, then,” Kiyoomi says, without looking up from his tea. Miya squawks indignantly as Hinata laughs, sun-bright. Kiyoomi smiles, Hinata cheers, and Miya lifts his arm, curling his bicep until it bulges.

“Does this feel weak to you, huh Omi-kun? C’mon, don’t be shy, yer big enough to admit when yer wrong, ain’t ya?” Kiyoomi reaches across, settles his hand on Miya’s bicep before he can think twice about it. It’s warm, under his hand, like he always imagined it would be. The muscle is strong, firm, like Kiyoomi knows it should be, and it twitches under the stroke of his fingers before he squeezes.

“Bokuto’s are still better,” Kiyoomi says, but it feels too quiet to really be teasing. Miya is watching him with his stupid, warm eyes, that little curl to the corner of his mouth. Up close, Kiyoomi can see where the bridge of his nose is not quite straight. Was it a volleyball or a fist, he wonders? What would it feel like under his lips?

“Don’t worry, Atsumu-san,” Hinata laughs, “no one beats you in the thigh department.”

Miya preens under the praise, gently shaking Kiyoomi’s hand off so that he can go back to his food as he laughs. Kiyoomi leans forward a little until he can feel his curls brush his brow. Wishes briefly that they were as long as they were in high school, so he could hide behind them now. If Miya or Hinata notice the flush in the apples of his cheeks, neither of them mentions it.

Miya Two wanders in sometime around Miya plating up and Hinata recounting the first few days of his trip. He’d left before the rest of the team so he could fit in as much time with his friends as possible. He goes quiet as Miya Two pours himself tea, leaning across Kiyoomi to squint suspiciously at his brother’s cooking efforts, as if Miya’s cooking isn’t on par with Miya Two’s.

“Kageyama asked me to dinner,” Hinata says quietly, anxiously flicking the nail of his thumb against his teeth. Miya and Miya Two exchange a look. Kiyoomi frowns into his tea.

Hinata astounds Kiyoomi for his ability to be so open with his love. The only thing worse, Kiyoomi thinks, than loving quietly and unnoticed is to love loudly and obviously and to be left waiting in suspense. Whether Kageyama-san is just genuinely that oblivious or too awkward to let Hinata down gently is something Kiyoomi hasn’t figured out just yet. From the scowling look on Miya’s face, Kiyoomi figures that maybe this is part of his issue with Kageyama-san, given how fiercely protective he is of Hinata.

“In Tokyo?” Miya asks, into the lull.

“Mhm,” Hinata says, “I don’t think he’s coming back to Miyagi.”

“You should go,” Miya tells him, “he’s yer friend, right? That’s what yer doin’ all this travelin’ for.”

“Right,” Hinata says, blows a sigh out through his nose, “I just wish I knew where I stood with him. I used to know exactly what he was thinking.”

“Yeah,” Miya is quiet, and Miya Two stiffens next to Kiyoomi, “but that’s part of lovin’ someone, is adaptin’ with them when they need to change. Plus, someone fucked off to Brazil for two years, so maybe Tobio-kun isn’t the one who changed the most.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Hinata groans, drags the pillow over his face.

“No,” Miya grins his crooked grin, “I’m on the side that wins, which is the side that tells ya to stop mopin’ about it and get yer ass in gear. The Shouyou I know has never been afraid of a little challenge, and to be completely honest, if it ain’t about volleyball, then Tobio-kun is pretty dense. Ya might have to spell it out for him.”

“It’s scary though! I’ve liked him forever, and what if he doesn’t like me back?”

“Then,” Kiyoomi says, surprising even himself with his voice, “at least you know. At least then you can move on.”

The kitchen lulls into silence as Hinata mulls that over, brow creased a little as if he doesn’t want to accept it. Bokuto and Miya are both like that too, Kiyoomi thinks. Never one to take something lying down, all doggedly persistent and insanely resilient. Hinata has never been too afraid to try something, but Kiyoomi can’t help but think about how terrifying it must be to love as much as Hinata does, and to try to understand a concrete end.

“And I’ll punch him,” Miya adds, “if he doesn’t like ya back he’s stupid enough to get clocked.”

“Tsumu, that’s not very comforting,” Miya Two says, punches his shoulder, “Hinata-kun doesn’t want ya to smack the guy he’s in love with.”

“If he rejects me, I think I’d allow it,” Hinata says with a laugh, “and when we all come back, you and Omi-san have to come to my apartment and eat so much ice cream with me while I cry my way through a movie marathon.

“Better pray that Tobio-kun comes through, Omi-Omi,” Miya says with a grin, Kiyoomi sighs, and Hinata’s laugh picks up a notch. It feels good, it feels right, like nothing else has ever felt right, watching Miya bid goodbye to Hinata so they can eat, watching Miya Two swing his arm over his brother’s shoulders and squeeze him in a side-hug until Miya pats his back. It’s a whole silent conversation between the two of them that Kiyoomi does not and cannot understand, and yet he still feels a part of it, standing so close that his elbow touches Miya’s on the other side.

“Ya ever been in love?” Miya asks him, quiet, when Miya Two vanishes with two cups of tea to wake Suna. Kiyoomi thinks about Miya’s laugh and Miya’s hands and Miya’s pretty, honey-warm eyes and the way Miya looks on the volleyball court, like he’d savour devouring you whole.

“Maybe,” he says into his teacup. Miya nods, doesn’t look up.

“How’d it end?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Miya leaves it be, and Kiyoomi breathes easy once again, feels free to observe the twins in good spirits, teasing Suna as he slumps half-asleep over the dining table, wrinkling his nose in annoyance whenever Miya Two presses kisses to his cheeks, dusts his lips over his nose and steals smacking pecks from the corner of his mouth until Suna puts a hand on his face and shoves him away, much to Miya’s delight.

He does his best not to think about it.

He does his best not to think about being in love with Miya. Miya Two and Suna are in love. It’s in everything they do, in how they manage to make smearing sunscreen on one another look romantic, how Miya Two always does the tips of Suna’s ears because Suna forgets, and how Suna’s thumbs more massage than rub the lotion into the nape of Miya Two’s neck. How they’re always close enough to touch, how they orbit each other easily like they were made to fit into one another’s space.

It’s in how they swim together, treading just off the shallows so that Suna can loop his arms over Miya Two’s shoulders and try to dunk him, while Miya Two laughs like this is not an attempt on his life. Miya stretches on a towel next to Kiyoomi, face pillowed in his arms, lashes closed against the sun. White sand sticks to the bottom of his feet and water beads across his skin. Kiyoomi wonders what Miya is like when he’s in love. What attention did he turn to Kita-san in high school? Has he ever loved anyone else? Does he love as quietly and fully as his brother, or is he bright and unrelenting like Hinata?

“Miya?” Kiyoomi says, before he can stop himself, pale legs stark against the lime of the moon chair.

“Hm?”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“A couple of times.”

“How’d they end?” Miya cracks open one eye, smiles at him.

“Wouldn’t ya like to know?”

Miya flattens the cardboard box their bulk soft-drink cans came in. He hefts the side table onto it, on a flat patch of grass in the yard. He stands over it, hair still damp from swimming, fresh coat of sunscreen, as he grips the wooden block wrapped in sand-paper, and starts.

His whole back ripples into the movement, bicep glowing golden in the mid-afternoon sun as Miya pushes into it again and again, strips back the damaged wood with calm finesse. Kiyoomi nurses an Asahi on the deck, knee pulled to his chest, fridge-cooled bottle sweating against his cheek. Sweat drips down Miya’s neck, below the neckline of his tank top, sticks it between his shoulder blades.

He rotates his hip with every pass; turns his body into the motion. The muscle in his forearm is firm, the clutch of his hands accentuates bones that should look delicate but look stronger than anything has any right to look in such a fragile place on the body. His damp hair sticks to his damper skin. He turns his face into his shoulder, wipes it there, eye curious from beneath the shade of his sunglasses.

He knows Kiyoomi is looking. Kiyoomi knows that he knows. He takes a sip of his beer, and he doesn’t look away.

Kiyoomi is always looking. It’s a byproduct of mysophobia, he thinks. Years of therapy and dealing with it have made it less violently disruptive than it used to be, and Kiyoomi has gotten better at voicing his boundaries, but with it comes observations. Kiyoomi is always watching the world around him, cataloging, categorizing, turning things and concepts inside out until he understands them. Kiyoomi looks at Miya, especially.

Miya is something that Kiyoomi has never quite managed to define. He has bits and pieces to him that seem plucked from different people, smashed together awkwardly to make some janky Franken-person of contradictions. He has Hinata’s sunshine-brightness. Wakatoshi-kun’s unwavering confidence. Motoya’s sparkling playfulness. Hoshiumi’s brashness. Hunger, like the hunger of every volleyball player in their league. He has things that are his own too. His insistent dedication to his teammates, the way he picks them apart and puts them back together with his strange brand of care. He reads them in heartbeats and eyebrow twitches and the slightest flicker of a mouth. He cherishes them, treats them like the most precious jewels in his gaudy crown. And despite this love, his temper is volatile and his scorn universal. His honesty is for the sake of being honest. You know where you stand, with Miya Atsumu.

That’s what makes loving him so hard.

He loves Miya Two, Kiyoomi knows. He assumes it’s a thing with all siblings close in age, to pretend you hate them more than you really do. Motoya is like that with his sisters, too. The twins have their fair amount of brawls, playful and serious, but Miya Two always includes a food that makes Miya’s eyes light up with delight when he cooks and Miya always cooks foods that make Miya Two smile a wistful, nostalgic smile when he takes over. They hug every night before bed, clap each other on the shoulder, have their own little language in between the shifting of their eyes and the lilt of their voices.

Miya loves Suna. Pounces on him any chance he gets, annoys him like a sibling, grins wide when Suna makes jokes only they understand. He’s comfortable when he ruffles the back of Suna’s hair, familiar when he snarks, doting when he brings him hot chocolate, the four of them wedged on the Miyas’ couches to watch some bad action movie Miya’s put on.

Miya does not love him. Kiyoomi knows this much, because he has seen how Miya loves. He doesn’t touch Kiyoomi, doesn’t even get close enough to try. He lets him be, a comfortable chasm of space between them as he wedges himself up against Suna’s shoulder and sips his own drink. Kiyoomi watches him more than the movie, just to know.

He will never tell Miya he loves him, because he doesn’t need to hear him voice the rejection. Perhaps it’s hypocritical and cowardly, considering the advice he gave to Hinata, but Kiyoomi simply knows already. Moving on is harder than he thought it would be. I don’t want you, he thinks, when Miya catches his eye in the bathroom mirror and smiles sleepily at him around a mouthful of toothpaste. I don’t want you, he thinks, watching Miya tuck his face against Miya Two’s shoulder for just a moment before he lets him go to bed. I don’t want you, he thinks, sitting bleary-eyed next to him on the deck in the mornings, watching him bask in the sunshine. I don’t want you, he thinks, as Miya crouches, thighs spread wide to support the weight of him, and sands the sides of the dresser. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.

“Show off, ain’t he?” Miya Two says, settling on the edge of the deck next to Kiyoomi.

“Indeed,” Kiyoomi hums. Though Miya probably doesn’t intend for his display of craftsmanship to catch attention the way it does, he’s plenty vain on any other occasion. Worried about his hair and his face and whether his smile is honeyed enough to draw people in.

“How’d ya end up here, Sakusa? Last I heard, ya were still one of the only sane people left on the planet who seemed to wanna escape Tsumu’s company instead of welcome it.”

“Hinata is awfully persuasive,” Kiyoomi says with a shrug, “the team was worried about leaving me alone over the break, this required the least amount of travel, and if I hated it that much it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle to get myself back to Osaka.”

“A calculated move,” Miya Two nods, chin in his hand. “I’m glad yer here, yanno? Ya annoyed the fuck outta me in high school, ‘cause I wanted to beat ya so bad, but yer actually pretty cool.”

“Even if I don’t like onigiri that much?”

“I’m pretendin’ ya didn’t say it to hold on to the last of my sanity,” Miya Two says, crooking a small smile from the corner of his mouth, so different to his brother’s that Kiyoomi can’t help but wonder how anyone ever confused them. “But yeah, Sakusa, even if ya don’t like onigiri all that much.”

“If it’s any consolation, he forced me to try some, once,” Kiyoomi says, unsure what compels him to speak. Miya has always been funny like that, forcing words out of him as if Kiyoomi has always been someone who talks. “In the name of defending your honour, or something, with a big rant about restaurant inspections and standards and how you even wore gloves and everything. They were worth it, too. Very tasty- all the flavours.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I… mean he made me try multiple and they were all very good?”

“No,” Miya Two shakes his head emphatically, “I never made ya any onigiri.”

It hangs between them in a way that crawls up Kiyoomi’s spine. It feels dangerously close to something he doesn’t want to look at, the shadow lurking in his peripheral vision.

It is, Kiyoomi knows, markedly unfair to Miya Two to refer to him in such a way. Miya is impersonal enough as it is. Miya Blonde would probably get a kick out of Miya-san, so that’s out, and calling him Atsumu would be giving in. It would be letting his feelings win. It would be surrendering his heart to him for Miya to pluck out of his hands and crush without mercy. He’d smile while doing it, too.

So Osamu must remain Miya Two. Osamu is not his brother, Kiyoomi knows this. Kiyoomi is aware of it with every fibre of his being. They’re as different as the sun and the moon, as fire and water, as day and night. It’s easy to pretend otherwise, though, pretend the way Miya makes him feel isn’t special, to pretend Miya isn’t special, to pretend there’s a carbon copy of him that strips him of his uniqueness, that moderates his feelings. It doesn’t matter if he feels the way he does for Miya, because he could feel that way for Miya Two, if Miya Two wasn’t already in love with someone else.

The truth of it is Kiyoomi has never been attracted to Osamu in his life, not for even a second. Osamu is calm and reliable and he smiles small and understated, comforting like a night-light. His brother is different; wild and unconquerable, all bravado and blazing inferno, and Kiyoomi holds his arms out to the flames, begs and begs for it to swallow him whole and incinerate him. If he were a smarter man, Osamu would appeal to him on all fronts, but part of such a careful life means sometimes the thrill of something dangerous like Miya exhilarates him in ways he will never be able to replicate.

“Right,” he says finally, watching Miya swipe an arm across his forehead, bending over to rub the ache out of his thighs, “of course.”

“It kinda makes sense,” Miya Two says, “that ya could be his friend. Yer both weirdos in yer own rights.”

“You’re just as bad as he is,” Kiyoomi says, and Miya Two laughs.

“Don’t I know it,” he hums, nods as he stands again, and disappears into the house after the sound of Suna in the shower. Kiyoomi stares into the bottom of his glass of lemonade and wonders what it would feel like to miss his presence the same way he feels the distance between himself and Miya at this very moment. Would it make it easier, he wonders, to deal with the way he aches, if Miya Two really was similar enough to split his affection?

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Miya is still the one to rip shy smiles from him as he laughs his ass off at Kageyama-san’s reddening face, squished into the frame of the phone screen alongside Hinata as he loudly recounts the events of the dinner-slash-confession. Miya Two and Suna are just as game to tease as Miya Blonde is, but Kiyoomi is only gravitating toward one twin, only leaning into his space, stealing food from his plate when he’s not looking, and giving Hinata a stern look to dissuade him from mentioning it to Miya.

It doesn’t matter, because Miya’s shoulder stays wedged close against his so they can all crowd around to bid the new couple congratulations and tease a little at their obliviousness. It doesn’t matter, because Miya shines like anything, and Kiyoomi doubts he could take his eyes off him if he tried, even if Miya Two was in any way comparable to him. Miya is Miya, tears in the corners of his eyes as he laughs so hard that he slumps forward against the table. With his tanned skin and his platinum hair and his beautiful, beautiful eyes and the strong cut of his jaw that makes Kiyoomi want to take shelter there.

“Goodbye, Atsumu-san!” Hinata yells over Miya’s wheezing laughter. “My boyfriend has to ravish me now!”

“Oi, idiot,” Kageyama-san says, voice about an octave off from something that could be described as a yowl, “you’re not supposed to tell them that!”

Miya’s still laughing when Hinata hangs up, apparently more preoccupied with arguing with Kageyama-san. Grimly, Kiyoomi thinks that might just be their version of foreplay. Tentatively, he reaches out a hand, places one hand between Miya’s shoulder blades, and pats. Just once.

He thinks it’s okay to allow himself just this one thing. Miya is warm and strong under his hand, shoulders drawing up around the pressure as he squeezes out another cackle, turning his grin onto Kiyoomi, so mega-watt and bright that he has to look away, drawing his hand back into his lap. It’s fine, he thinks, to let himself get close just this once, to be a part of this moment.

His hand burns. It burns against his chest and against his face no matter how many times he washes it, it burns against the inside of his thighs as he grasps at the legs of his pyjama shorts and scrunches his face at the ceiling, wills the hammering in his chest to go away. He can feel Miya’s warmth in his hand the whole night, all the way into the wee hours of the morning when he can hear scuffling downstairs.

Blearily, he stumbles down the stairs, fingertips skimming the wall to keep himself upright. Miya looks guilty in the genkan, already fully dressed with a canvas tote bag at his feet.

“What are you doing?” Kiyoomi mumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Did I wake ya?” Miya says, straightening up. He steps in close, so his toes touch the ledge of the genkan, reaching out for Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi lets him touch, gently falls into strong hands gripping his biceps, keeping him upright. “I’m sorry, Omi-kun, go back to bed.”

Bed sounds good, Kiyoomi thinks distantly. But yesterday was Friday, which means today is Saturday. Day six. Miya only runs on uneven days; one, three, five, seven. He’s not dressed in running gear, but he’s heading out. He squints at him, rubs his eyes and then reaches out, curls his fingers in the collar of Miya’s jacket. He doesn’t usually run with a jacket.

“Where are you going?” He hears himself ask, a faint whisper into the space between them.

“Can’t sleep,” Miya says, “so I’m gonna go for a drive.”

“I’ll come,” Kiyoomi says before he can stop himself.

“Okay,” Miya says, lifts a hand to gently brush Kiyoomi’s hair away from his face. Kiyoomi closes his eyes; almost leans into it. “Go put some clothes on, Omi-kun, I’ll wait.”

And he does. When Kiyoomi returns after having yanked on a pair of sweatpants, a big hoodie and some socks, Miya is still waiting for him downstairs. He helps him step into his shoes, ties the laces for him, and then gently shepherds him out the front door and down to the truck. Kiyoomi manages to get into the passenger seat without much hassle, where he realizes there are two little keep cups filled with coffee sitting on the centre console.

Wordlessly, Miya hands the darker one to Kiyoomi, takes a sip of the lighter one before wedging it between his thighs. The truck growls to life, and Kiyoomi leans back into the seat, slumps into the way it shakes the whole cab, and relaxes.

The streets are quieter than they usually are in the early morning, as Miya pulls out onto what constitutes as a main road and chases the shore. The coffee starts to make Kiyoomi feel more awake, and he watches the houses go by in flashes of browns and beiges set against the greenery of the countryside. Miya drives like he knows the road, quietly playing an assorted selection of songs that had been popular when both of them were in high school off of what must be a burnt CD because the artist selection jumps all over the place. Miya taps his fingers against the steering wheel as he drives.

“You okay?” Miya asks, after a long moment.

“Sleepy,” Kiyoomi says, with a yawn, “I couldn’t fall asleep either.”

“Somethin’ in the air, I s’pose,” Miya says with a snort, “but try tellin’ that to Samu and Rin. One of ‘em was snorin’ before I threw a pillow.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Miya indicates, turns down a side road and takes another sip of his coffee. “Broken sleep. Figured it was better to give it up for today and then pass out properly tonight.”

“I’m not sure it works that way.”

“Maybe not, but it’s better than thrashin’ around in my sheets like I was.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he draws a foot up onto the seat with him, lolls his head to the side to watch Miya. He drives easily, relaxed. During Kiyoomi’s brief driving lessons, he’d sat with his back rigidly straight and his hands clenched at ten and two. Miya eases back into his seat, one hand curled lightly over the gearstick, the other gently maneuvering the wheel. He’s calm, calmer than Kiyoomi thought anyone could be while driving. Like he was made for this truck. Maybe the truck was made for him. It’s a stupid thought that makes him smile.

“What?” Miya says, amused.

“Nothing,” Kiyoomi shakes his head, takes another sip of his coffee, “thank you for this, by the way. I didn’t know you remembered how I take it.”

“I’m pretty good at noticin’ things about ya, Omi-kun.”

“Are you?” Kiyoomi asks him, less of a dig, more of a curious question, but Miya crooks a wry smile into the distance outside the windshield and doesn’t reply.

Kiyoomi lets the silence stretch, watching the trees go by as Miya drives the truck higher into the hills. It’s getting lighter in the sky when he turns into a driveway and gets out of the truck. Kiyoomi watches him take a plastic bag of figs- presumably from the tree in the bottom corner of the Miya’s property down by the creek- and settle it into the mailbox, before he opens the gate and drives them through.

It’s a lot of Miya getting in and out of the truck. Out to close the first gate. In to steer them down a rudimentary ‘road’ that passes by a little farmhouse. Out to get the next gate to let them into a paddock. Out again to close it behind them. So on and so forth until Miya has driven them to the apex of a hill. He gets out for good now, takes his half-finished coffee with him as he pulls the seats forward and digs in the space behind them for a picnic blanket. Kiyoomi follows him.

Miya gets a foot up on the top of the back tyre and swings himself up and into the cargo bed, fussing about placing the picnic blanket down. He takes Kiyoomi’s cup for him, drops the tailgate, and extends a hand to pull him up. They settle together atop the picnic blanket, backs pressed to the back of the cab, as they watch the sunrise over the ocean.

The back of the truck is parked facing the horizon, where the hill looks over more farmland, right down to the water’s edge and the sea beyond. Kiyoomi can see houses and businesses dotting the hillside, and the main road carving through. The sun is bright and yellow, turning the water almost orange with its bright shine, sky pinkening behind it.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says, drawing his knees up to himself as he sips his coffee.

“Hm?”

And oh, it’s a mistake to turn toward Atsumu now, and it is Atsumu, not Miya, not a chanced guess, not a roll of the dice for which twin you might get; but Atsumu, radiant and beautiful in the morning light. Tan skin glowing, hair turned into something like the finest gold, spun across his forehead and curling down toward molten eyes that peer curiously at him. His lips are soft and shined by the way he keeps sucking the lower one into his mouth in dissatisfaction with his coffee. His eyelashes cast little shadows against his cheeks.

Osamu could never look like this. The facade shatters like he’s taken a hammer to glass, and fuck, why would he ever want to pretend? Osamu is fuller in the cheeks, Atsumu not gaunt or sharp but not as gentle-looking either. Osamu has calming eyes, Atsumu’s are always dancing, alive and biting like every part of life is a challenge. And he doesn’t want Osamu, doesn’t want to pretend to want him either. He’s only ever wanted Atsumu; Atsumu and his foul mouth and vicious temper and his baseless confidence and dramatics. Atsumu and his unconditional love, his gentleness, the syrupy sweetness of his single-minded devotion and the vibrancy of his laugh. He wants him cheeky, he wants him furious, he wants him with that curious twinkle in his eye, he wants him moody and detached, he wants him always. Wholly, completely, doubtlessly.

“Atsumu,” he says, tests it on his tongue. It feels good. It feels like swallowing honey, letting the sweetness melt into every inch of him. Atsumu smiles, his eyes crinkle in the corners. He will have laugh lines before he’s thirty, Kiyoomi thinks.

“Omi-kun?” Atsumu says back.

“What is this?” Kiyoomi asks. Meaning: why are we here? Meaning: how do you do this to me; rip me up and make me feel like I can’t breathe without you? Meaning: please kiss me, put those unexpired condoms to use and have me, take me, want me. Meaning: is this part of you? I want it if it is.

“I like sunrises,” Atsumu says with a shrug, doesn’t comment as Kiyoomi’s legs slowly fall sideways and into his lap. His hand is unbearably warm where it settles over his knee. “There’s somethin’ special, I think, about seein’ in the next day. When I felt lost durin’ high school, I’d sent an alarm just to watch the sun come up. Everythin’ else feels okay after that, yanno? Like whatever was troublin’ me got lost durin’ the night, and the sun chased it away with the mornin’.”

“Poetic.”

“If ya say so, college boy.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, feels the smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. On a reflex, he tries to tamp it down, but Atsumu’s thumb presses against the dip in his cheek and curls it up again. Kiyoomi blinks at him; knows he must look shocked, because he can feel the way the pad of his thumb brushes over his lower lip as Atsumu pulls it away.

“You don’t make sense to me,” Kiyoomi says, before he can stop himself, heart hammering in his ribcage. “I know so much about you, but I can’t make it add up to anything.”

“Humans aren’t maths equations,” Atsumu laughs, like it’s simple. “I dunno. I can be two things at once, if I wanna be. I don’t hafta make sense all the time, do I?”

“You could stand to make sense more often.”

“Well, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, Omi-kun, I’ll try to be a lot more simple then.”

“No,” Kiyoomi shakes his head, “I wouldn’t like it if you did that.”

“So what yer sayin’ is I’m perfect just how I am?”

“You’re pushing it,” Kiyoomi says without any bite, and Atsumu chuckles, keeps his hand on his knee where the warmth has seeped into Kiyoomi’s bones to become a part of him, connected like Atsumu’s hand belongs there, has always belonged there, has never belonged anywhere else.

“What confuses ya,” Atsumu asks, into the lull, “what confuses ya ‘bout me?”

“Everything,” Kiyoomi says, huffs through his nose. “How you can care so much about everyone, and yet still be so harsh with them. How you can care so little about what anyone else thinks of you, but fit so well into a team. I’ve always wondered how you became someone like that, what happens to build a person like you. Being here, I’m starting to piece together some things, but it still feels like I’m missing a cornerstone of the puzzle.”

“Well,” Atsumu is contemplative now, eyes still lazily trained on the rising sun. For a moment, Kiyoomi thinks that’ll be it, but Atsumu speaks again, softer thiss time.

“Here,” he says, “this is yer cornerstone. Mine too, I think. The place that ‘built’ me, like ya say.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t think I gotta be the one to tell ya that kids are mean, Omi-kun. They got a sixth sense for knowin’ when somethin’ ain’t exactly ordinary about a person, and they shun ya pretty relentlessly.”

“What was it for you?”

“I dunno,” he shakes his head, “just that I sure as fuck wasn’t marchin’ to the same drum as everyone else, and that the other kids didn’t like me much for that. It was hard at first, but when yer out in a place as small and isolated as this, ya sorta figure that yer options are to suck it up or deal with it, and I’ve always hated just mopin’ around. So I started fightin’ back. Kids would pick on me, and then I’d clock ‘em one, no matter how many times I got told off. Eventually they’d leave me alone, and then as I got older, I kinda realized that no matter what ya do, ya can’t make everyone love ya.”

“Unless you’re Hinata.”

“Freak of nature, that kid,” Atsumu agrees sagely, with a fond tsk of his tongue. “Anyway, I kinda just realized that in the long run, what those kids had to say didn’t mean a whole lot to me ‘cause they weren’t people I’d wanna be friends with anyway. I saw how they treated me, and why would I wanna befriend someone like that, yanno? So then it was just a matter of listenin’ to the people who actually mattered to me, and sayin’ fuck everyone else, ‘cause no matter what, someone’s always gonna be displeased, that’s just how the world works, and takin’ every little thing to heart will just end up poisonin’ ya. And then I grew up bigger and’ meaner than all of ‘em anyway, so I guess that was divine retribution or somethin’.”

“That’s… well. Surprisingly wise of you.”

“I dunno, I didn’t always use my knowledge for good causes,” Atsumu shakes his head, a wistful smile on his face. “In middle school, there was this kid that wouldn’t hesitate to try and push you around. He started out on me, and then decided he didn’t much like that I would start swingin’ back, so he moved on to Samu. It took me a while to pick up on him actin’ weird and shit, but I followed him around one day and figured it out, and then I beat the snot out of that kid durin’ lunchtime the day after. Convinced our whole class to cover for me, ‘cause he was a shit to everyone and he kinda had it comin’. I thought I was invincible, y’know? Whole class behind me, no consequences.”

“What happened?”

“Everyone got detention ‘cause no one would rat me out,” Kiyoomi claps a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh as Atsumu nods, colouring in embarrassment. It’s easy, seeing the nostalgic smile reaching all the way to his eyes, to see how he grew here. To see the roots, how they grew into a strong base and brilliant leaves. He can see scrappy Atsumu, dirt on his face and scrapes on his knees, still grinning wide enough to take on the world. He can see gentle Atsumu, wiping Osamu’s tears and holding his hand through the hard days. He can see wild, free Atsumu, running headlong across the beach and racing the tides. All of this place is a part of him; has informed who he is today.

And he is still that kid, Kiyoomi knows. Remembers coming home from a night out at a bar when someone had made the mistake of calling Hinata something unsavoury. Not even Meian-san had been fast enough to catch Atsumu as he’d darted past them and caught the stranger by the collar, had rattled him so hard that his teeth clicked and held him there until he got his demanded apology.

Atsumu is two inches shorter than Kiyoomi not-exactly, which makes him not small in the slightest. He has always seemed bigger than the world, wide in the shoulders and sturdy in his legs, grinning sunbeam-bright and dauntless. He commands the hitters of their team with booming confidence and vicious persistence. No one dares slip up on Miya Atsumu’s team. No one dares give him anything less than a hundred and twenty per-cent, watching as his body bends into one of his freakish limbo sets, just for them, all for them, feeding their hunger and enticing them to go in for the kill.

To anyone else, Atsumu must be terrifying, he realizes, when his face is all curled up in his snarl that’s genuinely pissed. All six-two of him, built the way he is, looming over someone with all the furious devotion he puts into everything must be blindingly scary. It’s so hard to reconcile that image of Atsumu with the one he knows, who laughs hard enough to snort various liquids out his nose, who sulks in the changing room, agonizing over tripping over AV cables on the way out of post-game interviews, who hurls himself to the floor and prostrates himself in dramatics when his joke doesn’t land.

It’s hard to reconcile that image of Atsumu with the one he sees now, soft and sweet in the morning light. He’s so beautiful, Kiyoomi thinks, as Atsumu smiles at him, private and gentle, nothing like his usual grins, which feel like they could rend flesh from bone. Who can be terrified by Atsumu, when he laughs like the sun and smiles like a lighthouse calling ships into safe harbours? Who can be terrified of Atsumu, when he sits here, so peacefully, soothing his jagged edges with the sunrise like the ocean smooths down shards of glass, hand on Kiyoomi’s knee like he’s never thought of being apart from him?

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Kiyoomi thinks to say, finally, “to Iwaya, to this spot particularly. Whatever you take it to mean. Thank you for all of it.”

“Careful, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, in a tone that sounds almost mournful. It twists Kiyoomi’s gut, hot like the cut of a knife. Atsumu should never sound that sad, that defeated. “That’s a dangerous amount of power to gift.”

I’d trust you with it, Kiyoomi wants to say, I’d give you anything you’d ask of me, and I’d do it with a smile.

He says nothing, because Atsumu’s face is wistful again, missing something that Kiyoomi can’t possibly name. His smile warms again, though, when Kiyoomi carefully curls into his side, and rests his head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and pretends he doesn’t feel the most careful, fleeting brush of lips against the crown of his head, in hopes that Atsumu will do it again.

Atsumu is washing his truck like it’s personally attacked him. He’s been scrubbing the hood for the better part of ten minutes straight, soaping his sponge in the hot pink bucket next to his foot, and then dragging it in vicious, tight circles across the metal. All the way from the base of the windshield to the headlights. New column. Start again. Kiyoomi watches him, one foot in the genkan, the other up on the ledge.

“I wouldn’t,” Suna says from behind him, mouth pulled in a tight line when Kiyoomi turns around. “It wasn’t even dirty. Atsumu only ever washes the truck like that when he needs to think.”

Atsumu looks like he’s trying to grind the sponge through the panelling. Kiyoomi can see Atsumu’s face reflected in the minorly-wet windshield, brows drawn tight, jaw clamped so hard it’s making a vein in his neck stand out. He swipes in a broad circle and in a move so lightning-fast Kiyoomi could have blinked and missed it, he hurls the sponge onto the ground, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Atsumu lashes out again, kicks over the bucket, breathes heavily, shoulders heaving right up to his ears as he watches the soapy water spill out over the paved front courtyard. He watches it dribble downhill toward the road, toward the storm drain. He breathes in, and out. Once. Twice. Three times. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, and then picks the bucket back up.

Kiyoomi watches him fill it up again, pour the car-cleaner into the bucket and soap the sponge, squeezing the excess water out. Kiyoomi watches him start up again, polishing the silver metal bumper guard. Atsumu doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge Kiyoomi, if he even knows he’s looking. Suna is probably right; has known Atsumu longer and better than Kiyoomi has.

He leaves him be.

Atsumu works hard at everything, Kiyoomi finds. Catches him with an old towel pillowed under his knees as he scrubs at the shower. Watches the dedicated way he sands back the surfaces of the side table, no matter how repetitive the motion or how much it must make his shoulders ache. His car shines obnoxiously bright in the driveway, a product of that afternoon where Atsumu spent two hours washing it. Kiyoomi has never cleaned a car in his life, and has only ever sat through one of those commercial car wash machines, but he can’t imagine that even doing it by hand should take longer than half that.

It’s dangerous; being here, because Kiyoomi keeps finding things about Atsumu that he likes. Little bits and pieces he didn’t know before that slot into place perfectly inside the version of Atsumu that lives and breathes inside Kiyoomi’s heart. Volleyball is volleyball; Atsumu is crazy about it the same way the rest of them are, but there’s something about watching the way his brow creases in contemplation as he cooks, or the way he sticks his tongue into the pocket of his cheek while trying to decide if he’s slathered enough sunscreen on his legs or if he needs a slightly thicker coat. These little things make Kiyoomi’s feelings very hard to keep down.

They drive him crazy in the night. He lies awake and thinks of the empty space next to him, and how easy it would be for Atsumu to fill it. His fingers itch with the knowledge that Atsumu is so close, just down the stairs, probably fast asleep in the proximity of two other bodies. Thinks about how he could slot himself in there, insert himself into Atsumu’s life until it would kill him for Kiyoomi to leave.

It takes him one week and three days to finally implode.

It’s late- early, whatever- and the house is quiet. The oppressive heat of the day is gone for good, and Kiyoomi even feels slightly chilled with the ceiling fan still chugging. Quietly, he slips out of bed, brushing his bare feet over the floor as silently as possible.

The door to the twins’ childhood bedroom is still completely open. From downstairs, he can hear snoring, which Atsumu claims is Osamu and Osamu claims is not him and probably Atsumu and Suna refuses to weigh in, which means it is probably Osamu and Suna just doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Even in the dark, Kiyoomi can find evidence of their lives here. Pictures tacked to a corkboard, volleyball players the twins have admired cut out of magazines and pinned there, suspended in glorious action. Photos of them with Aran and other children they must have been friends with in their youth. A graduation photo of the twins with Suna and Ginjima-san; their volleyball cohort. Various medals and trophies. Atsumu’s guitar. At least three stuffed animals at the foot of the bottom bunk. Osamu’s, if the vaguely onigiri and Gudetama-shaped stickers on the wall are any indication.

Kiyoomi carefully lowers himself to the floor, draws his legs up criss-cross and sets his phone flashlight on so he can peer under the bed. Atsumu disturbed the dust when he dragged it out that first day, so Kiyoomi reaches for it without too much fear of suspicion when he puts it back. He pulls the box in front of him, nestles his phone between his thigh and his torso so that he can see what he’s doing.

A. MIYA, the box reads across the top, in a child’s glittery-marked handwriting. Atsumu has drawn the kanji for his name underneath it too, probably some years later judging by the quality of the penmanship and the non-glittery pen choice.

The journal sits on top of the box’s contents. Kiyoomi balances it on his other knee for later. Underneath, a variety of things. Old report cards- surprisingly decent grades, comments about Atsumu being able to do better if he just applied himself, allegations of class clownery- and folded up bits of paper and recipes ripped out of magazines.

These are pieces of Atsumu, little parts of himself that he’s kept for reasons Kiyoomi wishes he knew. He wishes he knew him intimately enough to understand the process of selection; what made the cut and what didn’t. There are photos of all three Inarizaki teams that Atsumu was part of. Kiyoomi had forgotten about the 1 stamped on his chest in his third year. He looks so proud to be wearing it, eyes closed from the force of his smile, one arm around Osamu, 2, and Suna, 3.

There’s a photo of MSBY too, the first season Atsumu played for them. Kiyoomi remembers it, because even in college he’d kept up with the V. League as much as possible, never wanting to be left behind. It had made him choke on his water when they’d switched out their first-string setter in the third set against the Hornets and plonked Miya Atsumu, fresh-faced, first-year-in-the-league rookie into their set-up. He’d played immaculately. Racked up point after point with his serves and utilized his hitters like he was pointing a gun and pulling the trigger. Precise. Definite. Unflinching.

Carefully, he tucks these things back, opens the journal on his lap. There are sketches on some of the pages, little doodles of volleyballs and flowers and sometimes jaunty little stick figures dancing across the paper. There are replicas of volleyball plays he must have seen on TV, because the date and match are noted as well. Betting tables for V. League matches. Most wins to Suna. Second most wins to Ojiro-san, even on dates beyond when he would have graduated. It makes Kiyoomi smile, thinking about the twins calling their old friend just to let him place his bets with them, carrying on the tradition.

The page he’s looking for is almost in the middle of the notebook, in amongst volleyball notes and what look like guitar tabs and to-do lists, a whole three pages on ‘what makes a good volleyball captain’, and a couple of pages where Atsumu had covered the whole thing in doodles, clearly bored on whatever day.

LOVE LETTER TO SUMMER, Kiyoomi’s desired page reads. Underneath, the most useless concoction of gibberish Kiyoomi has ever tried to comprehend. Half of it is English letters, half of it is kanji that describes random emotions, there are a whole bunch of arrows and squiggly lines that mean absolutely fucking nothing to him.

“It’s a song.” Kiyoomi jumps, the book falls from his lap and his phone clatters on the ground.

“Shit,” Kiyoomi says, “shit, Miya- Atsumu , I wasn’t-”

“Snoopin’ through my stuff?” He sounds amused, as he picks up both the journal and the phone, handing them back to Kiyoomi. Carefully, he takes them from his hands, watches as Atsumu walks around him to pick up his guitar, retrieves a guitar pick from his desk, and then settles criss-cross on the floor next to him. The light casts harsh shadows across his face. He’s wearing a pair of slate grey boxers with little cartoon fox heads printed on them, and a loose tank top that shows off his whole sides again. He leans into Kiyoomi’s space, still smells a little like ocean salt and a little like whatever he uses for shower gel.

“That’s the ideal thickness of the pick,” Atsumu tells him, pointing, “those are the chords, and then it was mostly what each section should represent to me. That’s a strum pattern. That’s an approximation of the flux in volume and pitch. There ain’t any lyrics though, I was never too good with that shit.”

“I used to write poetry,” Kiyoomi blurts, still red in the ears from being caught, “in high school. I thought I was good at it.”

“Then?”

“Then I went to an open-mic in college, and heard what other people had written, and I decided not to share. I didn’t want people to look at me,” Kiyoomi smiles, wry, into his lap.“Didn’t take ya for a coward, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, the drawl of it lazy, the barb of it clear, hooking into Kiyoomi’s flesh and tugging. “Fuck everyone else. Yer the only one who writes like ya do. That counts for somethin’.”

“And what about you?” Kiyoomi runs his fingers over the old words, turns his gaze sharply onto Atsumu from the corner of his eye. “Why haven’t you ever played this?”

“Because it’s personal,” Atsumu says, “because I wanted to play it for someone who would understand.”

“Will you play it now, then?” Kiyoomi asks.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says after a beat; the sound breathless in his throat. Kiyoomi swallows, feels acutely how close he is, how much of them is hidden and how much more of them is exposed in the dark. He holds his phone over the page so that Atsumu can use the light to read.

“Do it, then.”

And so he does.

Atsumu plays it like it’s his swan-song. He plays it like each string he plucks slices across his heart, cuts it down into little pieces and minces it out on the floor at Kiyoomi’s feet. He puts all of his body into it, brows turned up so honestly that it creases his forehead, lashes closed lightly together as his fingers pluck easily at a guitar he can’t even see. It’s a melody he knows by heart, then, something he keeps inside him even when the guitar isn’t in his hands.

It sounds like summer, too. It sounds like slow, creeping heat and the way joy feels, bright and dancing in your chest. It sounds like Atsumu’s laughter. It sounds like watching the sunrise over the ocean, it sounds like biting into a strawberry and feeling the juice drip down your chin as you hurry to catch it. It sounds like running along the beach, laughter lost to the wind. It sounds like Atsumu, dancing Suna around the kitchen in his fumbling not-really-waltz. It sounds like love. It sounds like aching and yearning and wanting and missing part of you until it falls back into your lap and Kiyoomi is so charmed by it he feels breathless with it. When the last chord rings out, Atsumu slumps forward like it’s taken all he has.

Kiyoomi abandons the journal and the phone, nudges them out of his lap by shifting his thigh. He turns, presses his palms and his knees to the floor, stretches out a hand and takes the guitar from Atsumu. He lets him, eyes glinting in the dark as Kiyoomi sets the guitar aside, and then straddles his lap.

His heart is beating so loudly he’s sure Atsumu must hear it. Atsumu does nothing but settle his hands and their burning weight against Kiyoomi’s waist, thumbs brushing over his ribs as he pulls him down until he sinks into Atsumu’s thighs properly.

“I really like ya, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, so openly earnest that it feels like a sledgehammer, “it’s so fuckin’ hard to keep my hands offa ya, but now I’m thinkin’ it gave ya the wrong idea.”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi murmurs, brings his fingers up to cup his face, smoothing his thumbs over his cheekbones, “you make me feel the way the song sounds.”

“Well shit,” Atsumu whispers, “ya better kiss me then.”

And so Kiyoomi does. It’s imperfect at first. He can’t see Atsumu in the dark, and he catches the corner of his mouth, too low to be properly situated, but they shift accordingly, find each other in the faint sliver of moonlight being cast through the fluttering curtains. Atsumu slides a hand up Kiyoomi’s back, presses it between his shoulder blades and urges him closer.

Kiyoomi kisses him, and kisses him, and Atsumu kisses him back. He does kiss like he plays volleyball; focused, determined. He doesn’t kiss at all like he plays volleyball. Plucks slow, reverent kisses from his lips until he’s ready to let them be coaxed apart. Licks into the roof of his mouth gentle, and careful, like Kiyoomi’s made of glass. Holds him like he’s precious. Bends into him like he can’t get enough of him, like he won’t be satisfied until he takes a piece of Kiyoomi away with him, like he doesn’t already know that he has his heart.

He can hear the sound of them kissing, in the quiet of the night. The way Atsumu’s tongue presses against his and rolls into the motion leaves a wet sound with every shift of their mouths. He can hear the way Atsumu swallows between kisses, almost gasping with it. Kiyoomi can hear himself making devastated little noises in the back of his throat, desperate for more. Desperate for it to never stop.

“Come to bed,” Atsumu mumbles, in a brush of lips against Kiyoomi’s own, making him chase him, “with me. Downstairs.”

“I’ll want you to change the sheets in the morning, since we’ve been on the floor,” Kiyoomi tells him, sighs as Atsumu kisses him again, slow and indulgent, sucks his lower lip into his mouth as he draws back.

“I don’t care,” Atsumu whispers against his mouth, “it’s you. It’s worth it, if it’s you.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says, kisses him again.

It takes them twenty seconds and two hours to give up kissing to stand up again. Kiyoomi honestly can’t tell the difference and doesn’t care to. He’s more concerned with the way Atsumu laces their fingers together, the way he brushes adoring lips against his knuckles and cradles Kiyoomi’s hand close to his chest, so Kiyoomi can feel the wild, gleeful beat of his heart.

They’re quiet on the stairs, and Osamu is snoring softly into the pillow, Suna’s head on his chest, shoulder rising and falling with every slow, steady breath. Atsumu pulls back the sheet covering his futon, lets Kiyoomi get settled first, before he slips in behind him and covers them up.

He’s so warm behind Kiyoomi that it should be uncomfortable, but the back door is open with the bug screen up, and the standing fan is circulating air around the room. Kiyoomi leans back into Atsumu’s body, sighs contentedly as Atsumu presses his lips over the nape of his neck, breathes out and fans hot breath across his shoulders. One of his arms slips under Kiyoomi’s head, and Kiyoomi laces their fingers, settles his cheek into the crook of Atsumu’s elbow. Atsumu drapes his other arm around Kiyoomi’s waist, presses his palm flat against his stomach and gently draws him closer, thumb sliding his shirt up so that skin can press to skin. Kiyoomi lets him, squeezes his hand gently.

Atsumu maps out his skin with kisses, slow and feather-light across the back of his neck and his shoulders, all the way back up to his jaw. Kiyoomi leans back into him, twists his torso as much as he can to kiss him again. It’s hard to find a good angle, and he can feel Atsumu laughing, gentle breaths wafting across his face. He gives up, flops his head back down and presses a kiss to Atsumu’s hand where it’s joined to his. Atsumu squeezes him back against him, tight.

“I like your boxers,” Kiyoomi whispers, releases the words into the dark where they can find some shadow to hide in, gone with the morning light.

“Thanks,” Atsumu murmurs, snuggles his face into the crown of his head, “I like yer face.”

“Not the same thing.”

“I like yer ass. Ya have a great ass.”

“Do you stare at it during practice?”

“All the time,” he presses a kiss to the back of Kiyoomi’s neck. “Goodnight, Omi.”

“Goodnight, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi whispers back, closes his eyes and listens to the way Atsumu’s breathing evens out behind him. It should be hard to fall asleep with Atsumu’s furnace of a body pressed up against his, their legs tangled and fingers entwined, but when Kiyoomi cracks an eye open again, Suna is holding Atsumu’s other hand, grinning broadly at him in the light of day.

“Finally happened, huh?” Suna whispers, as Kiyoomi smiles, sleepy and content.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, fondly; kisses the shell of Kiyoomi’s ear. He can feel the way he grins when Kiyoomi shivers.

Suna squeezes Atsumu’s hand, white-knuckled, in something resembling overwhelming joy- at least, as much as Suna is capable of expressing- before he relinquishes the hand to Kiyoomi and rolls over to kiss his own boyfriend awake. Kiyoomi tilts his head back, snorts a little as his nose knocks Atsumu’s. Atsumu gently nestles their foreheads together, pulls Kiyoomi tight back against him as he shifts to curl both of his hands behind Atsumu’s head, contorts his body for a good morning kiss.

Atsumu’s morning breath is foul, but so is Kiyoomi’s, and it doesn’t matter too much if he presses his lips tight together and keeps them that way, but when the arch of his body cracks his spine so violently that Atsumu huffs a surprised laugh across his face, he finds that he’s not disgusted, or repulsed, or anything less than stupidly happy, laughing poor Osamu out of sleep as Atsumu rubs the small of his back soothingly and leans his forehead into the base of his neck.

“You two are weird,” Osamu grumbles, shoving his face into Suna’s chest to try and stave off the sunlight.

And when Kiyoomi ends up in the middle of an all-out pillow-war between the siblings, where Atsumu has managed to throw himself across both Kiyoomi and Suna to smother his twin while Osamu screams bloody murder into the fabric, it’s worth it. It’s worth it for how Atsumu holds his hand during breakfast and reverently presses his fingers into every groove and divot of Kiyoomi’s muscles when he layers him in sunscreen for the daily beach visit. It’s worth it for the way he finds out that Atsumu likes to swing their hands as they walk. Worth it for the way that he picks the good figs from the tree at the corner of the main road and their street, and cups his hand attentively under Kiyoomi’s jaw to catch the run-off juices as he coaxes him into taking a bite.

Most of all, it’s worth it for when Atsumu drags him out of the moon chair and waist-deep into the water, letting Kiyoomi leap and wrap his legs around him as he kisses him hard, before leaning back and sending them both tumbling into the ocean, laughter swallowed up by the sea.

Summer is blindingly hot, again. Kiyoomi is twenty-four, leaning back into Atsumu’s bed, against Atsumu’s headboard, sweat slicking his skin and pooling uncomfortably in the small of his back. Atsumu likes to touch, likes to be close, always, so he lounges sideways across the bed regardless of the heat, strokes one hand soothingly down the outside of Kiyoomi’s thigh; the one that ends with his knee hooked over Atsumu’s left shoulder. His other leg is draped over his boyfriend’s hip, knee acting as a prop for Atsumu to lazily drape an arm around and settle his phone on top of.

“Hm,” he says, crooking a smile, “Rin’s got confirmation of when EJP is goin’ on break.”

“That’s nice,” Kiyoomi says, turning the page of his book. Atsumu tilts his head, grinning brightly.

“Ya wanna come back to Iwaya with us?” Kiyoomi looks up, feels the smile start involuntarily before he can get a handle on it. It’s not his fault, not really. He’s loved Atsumu for so long, wanted him for even longer, getting to have him the way he does makes him unquestionably, undeniably, deliriously happy.

“Hmm,” he says, pretending to think as he taps his bookmark against his lips. Atsumu kisses the inside of his knee, nuzzles into the spot.

“What, princess, ya got somethin’ better to do?” Kiyoomi shakes his head, playing faux-coy. Atsumu raises one of his heavy brows, over-exaggerates looking contemplative so that his nose scrunches up in the way that makes Kiyoomi’s chest feel pulpy with adoration. “What is it then?”

“Will you play a song for me?”

“Any song ya want, darlin’,”

“Our song.”

“Of course,” Atsumu says, strokes Kiyoomi’s leg again, “I reckon it sounds even better with yer lyrics.”

“Well in that case,” Kiyoomi says, leans forward to gently brush Atsumu’s hair away from where it’s falling into his eyes, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good,” Atsumu says, tossing his phone to the side and leaning forward, forcing Kiyoomi’s legs back almost to his head as he laughs and hooks his hands behind his boyfriend’s neck, drags Atsumu the rest of the way in.

They kiss, slow and lazy, like the encroachment of the summer heat. It strains at Kiyoomi’s core to hold himself up like this, until Atsumu bears down on top of him, brings both arms up to cradle Kiyoomi’s head, fingers in his curls, tonguing into his mouth with the exact pressure he knows Kiyoomi likes. Outside, the faint sound of cicadas and the bustle of traffic carry through the open window. In the hallway, muffled by wall upon wall, Hinata’s cheerful laugh passes them by. Here, in Kiyoomi’s little world, Atsumu tastes like summer, kisses like Kiyoomi always thought he would, and wants him, loves him, gives himself to Kiyoomi wholly, completely, doubtlessly.