Chapter Text
Kiyoomi wades back to shore with Atsumu, whose hand migrates to Kiyoomi’s lower back as they exit the water.
Confidence. Glistening skin. Kiss-swollen lips. Kiyoomi can’t take his eyes off Atsumu as he wiggles into tight blue jeans. As generous hands snap the button into place. Hands that were on him moments ago. Hands that give as much as they take.
Once fully dressed, Kiyoomi wraps his arms around Atsumu’s waist from behind. Holding him tight, he nestles his face into the crook of Atsumu’s shoulder and places gentle kisses up his neck to the back of his ear, content.
Atsumu hums. “Everythin’ okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Kiyoomi asks, as Atsumu turns to face him. He wraps his arms around Atsumu, wrists crossed comfortably at the base of his neck. His smell almost drowns the selfish thoughts whirring through his skull.
“Hold up,” Atsumu says. “As much as I wanna go for round two, I think we should check in?”
“About what?”
“Yer not usually this…affectionate.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Kiyoomi asks warily.
“Course not.” Atsumu pauses to consider his next words. “Is there anything you need from me?”
In about two hours, we’ll be in California. Soon you’ll be surrounded by loved ones thousands of miles away. And I’ll be left here to wonder if you miss me as much as I miss you.
“Stay close to me,” Kiyoomi murmurs.
Atsumu’s gaze softens. “Nothin’ would make me happier,” he says before tilting Kiyoomi’s chin to kiss him sweetly.
It takes an hour for things to go south.
“sh*t. sh*t f*ckin’ f*ck sh*t,” Red and blue lights flash behind them. A siren wails. “What the actual f*ck is happenin’?”
What happened is that Atsumu is going at least 25 over the speed limit, yet again refused to wear his seatbelt, and swerved like a maniac while changing out the CD. Not to mention the lit joint between his fingers.
“He’s pulling you over,” Kiyoomi says.
“Pullin’ us over,” Atsumu corrects. “Come on. He can’t be serious.”
“How fast were you going?”
“Who gives a sh*t?” Atsumu steps on the gas harder.
“Slow down,” Kiyoomi orders.
Atsumu adjusts his position on the wheel, eyeing the rearview mirror. “We can take em’.”
“Like you took that corner and popped our tire?”
“Why do ya hafta bring that up? Hold that over my shoulders forever why don’t ya.”
Kiyoomi has heard horror stories of American police. While uncertain about officers from the middle of nowhere, ideally, he doesn’t want to find out if the rumors are true. “Atsumu, slow down,” he insists. “Pull over.”
“He has to have better things to do,” Atsumu says, irritated. “G-d, is he gonna shoot us or what?”
“Yes you idiot! That’s a likely possibility,” Kiyoomi asserts.
An unintelligible command blares from the vehicle’s speakers.
Kiyoomi glares. Atsumu gives in.
“All right, f*ck Omi. Fine, let’s pull the stupid car over.” Atsumu veers to the shoulder and flicks on the warning lights. “Just so ya know, Ma says I have an authority complex. Somethin’ somethin’ defiance?” Pungent smoke permeates the car as he takes a hit. “M’ real good at gettin’ outta tickets though. Been pulled over 10 times and nothin’ bad has happened yet.”
Kiyoomi unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches across the center console for the joint. “Give me that,” Kiyoomi hisses.
“Hell no, I’m almost out. Tryin’ to ration it.” They wrestle for the joint but Atsumu wins by holding it out of the driver’s side window; in the face of the approaching officer.
“Hello officer. What seems to be the problem?” Atsumu says in English, feigning innocence.
The officer looks nice enough. Shorter with dark hair and stern yet kind eyes. Kiyoomi instinctually doesn’t trust him. “You’re going about 20 over for starters.”
“I thought I was making better time than that.” Atsumu takes a deep drag and puffs a harsh cloud of smoke in the officer’s face. He doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Your tabs expired a week ago.”
“You don’t say,” Atsumu says, sounding bored by the whole ordeal. Kiyoomi punches him when the officer refers to his notes. Atsumu hits him back.
“Not to mention the tail light,” the officer continues.
“Go on,” Atsumu lilts.
“Excessive swerving.”
“No,” Atsumu gasps.
The officer gestures to the joint. “And this.”
Atsumu takes another hit. “Anything else?” he asks hopefully.
“No. That’s all,” he says.
Atsumu passes the joint to Kiyoomi. “Whatcha gonna do with it?” he asks.
“I was going to toss it out the window,” Kiyoomi hisses.
“S’ a bit late for that,” Atsumu says.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but brings the joint to his lips anyway. He might as well, since he’s an accomplice now. There’s no other way to frame it.
“Litterin’ is still a crime,” Atsumu says, taking it back. “Worse than smokin’ if ya ask me.”
“I thought you said, ‘f*ck the turtles,’” Kiyoomi says.
“Forrest fires are no joke.”
Kiyoomi snorts.
The officer clears his throat impatiently. “License and registration.”
Atsumu hits his forehead with his palm. “Absolutely. My name is Atsumu and this is Omi. Why don’t you write us any number of expensive tickets and we’ll be on our way.”
“License and registration,” he repeats, losing patience by the second.
“Well, you see, that’s where we have a problem.” Atsumu glances at the officer’s badge. “Officer Daichi. I didn’t get a chance to retrieve my identification before fleeing my home when it was burning to the ground. However, we did meet a very kind man who helped us commandeer this fine vehicle.” The officer raises an eyebrow. “Oh, it wasn’t like that! They were rich so we didn’t borrow anything important. So unfortunately, no, we don’t have that on our person at this time.”
“Atsumu…”
“Don’t worry Omi, I got this.” Atsumu turns back to the officer. “You seem like a stand-up person. A good cop. Can’t you find it in your heart to let us on our way so I can see my family one last time before we meet our demise?”
The officer, Daichi laughs warmly. “No.”
“Way to go,” Kiyoomi says as he’s put in the back of the cruiser. The handcuffs are cold and bend his wrists at an odd angle. They pinch with every movement. “You really showed him.”
“I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” Atsumu says defensively. He grunts as Daichi plants him next to Kiyoomi, slamming the door behind him.
“He’s a cop.”
“Fair enough.”
Daichi marches them to the back room of a tiny police station, removes their handcuffs, and locks them in separate, cage-like cells partitioned by thin vertical bars. They’re definitely in a small town. If only Kiyoomi knew which one.
“I want a lawyer,” Kiyoomi demands. “And my phone call.”
“The phone lines are still down,” Daichi says as he exists the room, locking the door behind him.
Kiyoomi stretches his wrists. The cuffs left painful red welts where they dug into his skin.
“Freaky,” Atsumu says, watching as the back of Kiyoomi’s hand nearly touches his forearm.
“Great to know that you think my body is freaky,” Kiyoomi says shortly.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Atsumu backpedals.
“Uh huh.” Kiyoomi turns his back to Atsumu and slumps against the bars.
Atsumu’s shoes scuffle across the polished concrete as he paces. “I ruined yer life,” he says.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did, didn’t I? I ruined my own life and took ya down with me,” Atsumu says, spiraling. “I was a terrible neighbor.”
“You were a terrible neighbor.”
“That’s when yer supposed to say: ’noooo you were the best neighbor ever Atsumu.’”
“You couldn’t pay me to say that.”
Atsumu slides down the bars of his own cell. They sit back to back against the cold bars, staring at opposite ends of the room. “What did ya do before?” Atsumu asks. “Dressin’ in those fancy clothes every day.”
“Advertising.”
“That sounds interestin’,” Atsumu says.
“It’s not,” Kiyoomi responds.
“Yer right, it sounds boring at sh*t.”
“It’s fun if you enjoy Excel and passive-aggressive emails.” Kiyoomi mimes typing on a keyboard. “Respectfully, it looks like I addressed your question in our last meeting. I’m sorry you never learned to read— I mean, I apologize for the miscommunication. Let’s connect on Monday when I might have the energy to entertain your stupidity.”
Atsumu chokes out a laugh. “Why on earth would you subject yerself to that?”
“Family business. One day you wake up and decide that your childhood fantasies of being a fireman or what have you, are unachievable; so you flush them down the toilet and accept reality for what it is. I graduated in 2008 and the economy was in free fall. They offered me security and paid me well. I did what we expected of me. In case you couldn’t tell, I feel more comfortable with a safety net.”
Kiyoomi shifts to face Atsumu, taking his hand through the bars. “So no, you didn’t ruin my life. I had a really, really long head start.”
You just might be the best thing that has ever happened to me.
“M’ still sorry,” Atsumu murmurs mournfully.
Kiyoomi squeezes his hand. “Kiss me?”
Atsumu grumbles.
“Please?”
“That’s cheatin’.”
“How?”
“Now I won’t be able to get the image of you sayin’, ‘please’ outta my head.”
“Please,” Kiyoomi drags the word out, teasing.
Kissing someone through the bars of a prison cell was not something that Kiyoomi had thought through before now. But Atsumu’s lips warm up the chilly room, even with their checks pressed awkwardly against the bars.
“This is as good a place to die as any,” Kiyoomi says softly against his lips. He squeezes Atsumu’s hand tighter.
“That’s a f*ckin’ bummer.”
“Well, it would seem like spending your entire life expecting the worst would make everything a little more bearable.”
“I’d say otherwise darlin’.”
With nothing but time to kill, they talk well into the night. Word association games, first pets, dating horror stories. Atsumu explains volleyball strategies that Kiyoomi doesn’t understand and doesn’t need to. All he wants it to fall asleep to the sound of Atsumu’s voice.
Kiyoomi wakes up pressed against Atsumu’s back, an arm draped around his waist as best as he can manage through the bars. Atsumu snores, each breath leaving a cloud of condensation on the cold floor. A red mark formed on his cheek from the awkward angle. Kiyoomi brushes away the hair stuck to Atsumu’s forehead.
Atsumu startles awake at a sudden bellowing voice.
“DAMMIT DAICHI!”
Atsumu accidentally head-butts Kiyoomi in the nose, causing him to grunt in pain. Apologizing profusely, he jumps to his feet while Kiyoomi checks his nose for blood.
The officer is a round balding man who looks just as annoyed to be at work as Kiyoomi is pissed about being put in jail. “I’m sorry folks, our new guy’s taking the quota too seriously. What are you in for?”
“Speeding, illegal possession, grand theft auto, expired tabs. Oh, and the tail light. M’ I missing anything else Omi?”
“That just about covers it.”
The officer opens their cells. “The car is parked around back. I’ll take the boot off. Again, I’m so sorry about all this.”
They let out a collective breath when they collapsed in their seats. Sleeping on the concrete floor was miserable, but more than anything, Kiyoomi is just happy that he won’t be spending the rest of his life in a small-town jail cell.
Kiyoomi clicks his seatbelt. “Never get us locked up again. I’m about to crawl out of my skin. Who knows when those toilets were last cleaned.”
“Again Omi, priorities.” Atsumu pulls out the map and unfolds it. “And honestly, getting arrested one out of 11 times isn’t a bad ratio. Feels kinds like I was in a cop show or somethin’.”
Rolling his eyes, Kiyoomi starts the car and heads toward the highway. The windows are rolled all the way down. Wind whips by, ruffling their hair. David Bowie blasts through the stereo. Atsumu hums along to the chorus, tapping the open widow pane to the beat. His other rests solidly on Kiyoomi’s knee.
Perhaps it’s self-indulgent to postpone the inevitable, but one more night with Atsumu is worth sleeping on 1000 concrete floors.
It’s mid-afternoon when they cross into California. Seat reclined as far as it goes, Atsumu sleeps soundly. The map is draped across him like a makeshift blanket.
Kiyoomi’s neck cracks as he rolls his head in slow circles. Several nights of sleeping in cars and on concrete floors left his body sore and unrested.
The topography looks the same after the welcome sign as it did before it, but crossing that physical barrier carries a certain finality. Because once they reach Los Angeles, everything will be different. Because there are two seats on that plane, and only one of them has a family waiting for their son to come home.
“Dogs, obviously.”
“Red wine.”
“Rope swings.”
“Sex.”
“Summertime.”
Kiyoomi finishes off another cigarette. City pop blasts from the stereo. The stolen car has a large collection of CDs stashed in the center console; organized by color rather than genre or artist. Throughout the drive, they made a point to choose CDs without consulting the other as per Atsumu’s suggestion. This led to groans of annoyance from Atsumu when Kiyoomi chooses classical covers of pop songs from the 90’s-early 2000’s. Kiyoomi pretends to be equally annoyed when Atsumu picks out Electra Heart, but nods his head and mouths along to the words when he thinks Atsumu isn’t looking.
Kiyoomi’s credit card no longer works. Lucky for them, many convenience stores are stocked and “ripe for the lootin’,” as Atsumu had said, taking endless supplies of candy, snacks, and other things they may or may not need.
When Kiyoomi insisted that they stock up on band-aids, Atsumu obliges, tossing several varieties, hand sanitizer, gauze, and Neosporin into a plastic bag along with several boxes of Kiyoomi’s favorite cigarettes.
Atsumu is far more observant than Kiyoomi has ever given him credit for.
Naturally, he still finds ways to annoy Kiyoomi to no end, thinking that the way Kiyoomi crinkles his nose in disgust is cute; but understands Kiyoomi’s particular standard of living. He throws trash away whenever they stop, cleans steering wheel with disinfectant wipes between driving shifts, and wipes off the bottom of his shoes before getting in.
Once again, Atsumu’s map is unfolded in his lap, his socked feet kicked up on the dashboard. “I say we hit up some national parks before San Francisco,” he says, circling a portion of the map. The pen squeaks as Atsumu connects potential stops, establishing a potential route for them to follow. “Maybe grab a glass of fancy wine in Nappa.”
“We could visit the world’s biggest monopoly board,” Kiyoomi deadpans.
“Hard pass,” Atsumu says, still glued to the map.
Warm summer days are spent traversing from natural wonder to natural wonder.
They hike the short loop of the Petrified Forrest. Atsumu admires Old Faithful through several sulfuric eruption cycles. At the car, Atsumu takes a clean wipe and addresses the smudge of dirt that somehow got on Kiyoomi’s top.
Narrow tunnels imbedded in monstrous redwoods nearly scrape the roof as they wind through the Avenue of the Giants. Atsumu pulls onto the shoulder to stand, murmuring words of admiration to the towering branches.
As they explore, Atsumu pauses to stand in the path directly underneath a split tree, breathing in the scent of earth and spice and citrus; finding peace in overlooked details.
A short bridge made from a log sliced in half wobbles under Kiyoomi’s weight as they cross. Whirlwind thoughts of termites, broken bones, and falling to his death end with gentle words of encouragement and an extended hand.
“Yer alright,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi believes him.
Kiyoomi grips Atsumu’s hand tighter. Balancing one foot in front of the other, he slowly makes his way back. Once close enough, Atsumu carefully wraps a strong arm around Kiyoomi’s waist to hold Kiyoomi close. “I got ya,” he says. Kiyoomi’s heartbeat slows, feeling more safe in Atsumu’s arms than he’d had in years.
“These trees make me feel so small…” Atsumu says. The woods are silent aside from bird songs and the occasional twig snap. “Not in a bad way or anythin’,” Atsumu continues. “S’ a reminder that people are a blip in the grand scheme of things. Makes my problems feel less catastrophic.”
Bushes rustle nearby.
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut,” Kiyoomi says. “There are records that go back thousands of years, documenting stars that grow brighter and brighter until one day they’re simply gone. Back then, they didn’t know what a supernova is or that light can take light-years to reach earth. Those stars could have gone out thousands of years ago. Yet, ancient people bothered to write it down anyway. It’s almost like watching time travel. I often wondered if those ancient people felt the same as me.”
“Who knew ya could be such a romantic?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Favorite color?” Atsumu asks.
“Yellow.”
“Animal?”
“Cat.”
“Sex position?”
“I hate you.”
“Liar,” Atsumu says, grinning.
San Francisco is dirtier than Kiyoomi remembers; but a person tends to remember things differently through rose colored glasses and summer romances.
A couple miles of cutting through steep residential streets later, Kiyoomi finds the correct block and pulls up to the second house on the left.
Picturesque, a large house with a two-car garage takes up most of the plot. Stark whites panels ask for grass stains. After all this time, Kiyoomi still hates the black trim.
Atsumu whistles as they approach the front door. “Damn Omi. Ya lived here?”
“For a few summers.”
While Kiyoomi’s family occasionally stayed in one of his father’s properties, he frequently referred to them as “business expenses.” In hindsight, perhaps this house was never a vacation home to begin with. An empty shell. A love letter to an empty lot.
“Ya grew up in Tokyo then?” Atsumu asks, examining the lanes of smooth rocks placed on either side of the porch in lieu of flower boxes. He picks up a fist-sized rock.
“Yes.” Kiyoomi confirms, checking under the mailbox. “There should be an extra key…”
Glass shards tinkle. The rock clatters to the ground. Atsumu reaches through the hole he made in the glass siding and unlocks the front door from the inside. “Hope ya know the alarm code,” he says, pushing the door open.
Kiyoomi crosses the room and enters the vague memory of what the alarm code should be. He gets it correct on the second try. It’s funny what your brain decides to remember and what it decides to forget altogether. Deep-cutting parental criticisms. Incorrect quiz answers. The alarm code for a house he hasn’t entered in over a decade.
Odd decorations reveal the duality of his parents; conflicts hidden until Kiyoomi turned 19. His father insisted on sleek, Western style decor. Uncomfortable white walls, fluorescent lights, and gray linoleum floors laid to resemble wood panels. Artificial. Sleek sculptures that collectively cost more than Kiyoomi’s condo sit confidently on stands. All it needs are the cushions institutions use to line padded rooms. Perhaps if his father’s home felt like an office, the workday would never truly end.
“Yer father loaded or somethin’?” Atsumu asks, picking up a shiny black sculpture. Kiyoomi smiles, thinking about his father’s silent rage if he noticed the fingerprints Atsumu leaves behind.
“Something like that,” Kiyoomi says.
Atsumu wanders through the stale living room into a spacious kitchen with marble countertops and brand new stainless steel appliances. Two Tuscan style wooden ducks decorate the windowsill above the sink. A whisper of defiance against a sea of black and white.
“M’ gettin’ hungry. What do ya think about dinner?” Atsumu asks, opening the refrigerator.
Kiyoomi sits at the island. The stools are as uncomfortable as he remembers. “I could eat.”
The freezer doors are full, while the rest of the refrigerator is empty apart from a few cases of beer, sparkling water, and a moldy orange. “No offense, I hate this house,” Atsumu says. “But I think I can work with this.”
Taking inventory, Atsumu opens the pantry, and begins taking ingredients from the shelves.
Kiyoomi stifles a yawn.
“Check the bedrooms,” Atsumu says with his back to Kiyoomi as he raids the spice cabinet. “I’ll wake ya when dinner’s ready."
“Don’t let me sleep too long.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ascending the stairs feels like entering a dream; the ones that combine all the places you’ve lived into one undifferentiated setting. A missing room here, an additional hallway there. But many things are just as he remembers. An ugly chair at the end of the hallway. The creepy painting hanging in the hall outside the bathroom.
This house was meaningful once. A representation of hopes and aspirations, that one day, Kiyoomi could own a place like this. Or two, or three. Now, Kiyoomi visualizes the expectations he couldn’t possibly reach.
He pauses at the door to his old bedroom, the first of many prisons of his own design. Kiyoomi enters, leaving the door cracked.
It smells of dust and disillusionment. Muted blue, the walls are barren of posters. Bookshelves display the classics. The full bed is made, like he woke up one morning, made it, then never returned. Kiyoomi picks a book off the shelf and flips through the annotated pages, written by a person he no longer knows.
When he gets into bed, he sees something carved into the white headboard. A name in a secret place where his parents could never find. Fingers trace the jagged letters carved with a rusty pocket knife they found in the sparse woods behind the house.
Kiyoomi drifts off to the distant sound of sizzling pans accompanied by off-tune humming.
It’s evening by the time Atsumu wakes Kiyoomi up.
“How long was I out?” Kiyoomi asks.
“A couple hours. I thought ya might need it,” Atsumu says. He brushes the tangle of curls from Kiyoomi’s forehead to kiss him on the moles above his right eyebrow. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
“Okay.” Kiyoomi yawns, wiping sleep from his eyes.
The dining room table is draped with a white table cloth, illuminated by soft, warm candlelight. An uncorked bottle of red wine sits between several dishes of beautifully plated food that smells amazing. From the dimmed lights to correctly placed utensils, it’s obvious that Atsumu planned all of it down to the last detail.
“I raided the wine cellar, sorry about that.” Atsumu pulls out a chair, Kiyoomi takes a seat. “I was imagining winin’ and dinin’ ya a bit differently. Salmon is better fresh, but this’ll have to do.”
“It’s not like anyone’s going to drink it,” Kiyoomi says, folding the cloth napkin on his lap. “It looks great.”
Atsumu pours each of them a glass of wine.
Kiyoomi swishes it in a circle and takes a sip. Earthy, it pairs perfectly with the pasta dish Atsumu put together. He sighs, shoulders slumping. It’s been far too long since he has had a nice home cooked meal.
Atsumu takes a compulsory sip before dumping the rest of his wine into Kiyoomi’s glass. “Here. Not to yuck yer yum, but I can’t stand the stuff.” He gets up to take a beer out of the fridge. “Picked it cause ya like yer reds.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“I dunno. Is it workin’?”
“We’ll see.” Kiyoomi takes another sip. “How did you guess my wine tastes?”
“Ah,” Atsumu cracks open his beer and takes a sip. “Looked in yer cabinets. Ain’t exactly subtle. Can’t imagine someone like ya holding a dainty glass of chilled white on a summer day.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kiyoomi asks. “Also, first my bookshelves, then my wine cabinet? What else did you snoop through?”
“Yer intense is all. I bet that it could be a million degrees out and you’d still reach for a pinot. Or a glass of whiskey,” Atsumu says with a sly smile, ignoring the second question. “S’ not a bad thing. Just not always the most conventional.”
“That’s rich coming from someone purposefully drinking an IPA. They taste like piss.” As if anything that’s happened in the last week has been conventional.
Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “Drinkin’ a lot of piss these days? Don’t worry, I don’t kink shame.”
Kiyoomi glowers, resorting to letting this one drop. The more he doubles down, the further Atsumu will dig his claws in.
Atsumu laughs. “Walked right into that one didn’t ya Omi-Omi?”
“You’re the worst,” Kiyoomi says, deciding to fill the silence with something.
“Ya really are the worst liar,” Atsumu says.
“At least I have decent taste.”
“Of course ya do.”
Whatever sauce Atsumu made bursts with flavor with a slight kick at the end. The salmon skin is crispy, flavored with citrus. If Atsumu doesn’t humiliate Kiyoomi first, he might offer a positive contribution to Wakatoshi’s dinner parties.
“Where did you learn to cook?” Kiyoomi asks.
“Samu and I used to cook together all the time. He owns a restaurant back home in Hyogo.” Atsumu beams with pride. “Ma worked a lot when we were little. Dad dipped for a couple years, but came crawlin’ right back. Couldn’t stay away I guess. Ma always said that he was the right person at the wrong time. Not sure what the right time was, cause he literally married her. Anyway, she worked overnights sometimes, so we learned to feed ourselves,” Atsumu says, tone wistful and nostalgic.“It was somethin’ cheap we could do that would make people happy.”
Nostalgia is an odd thing indeed.
“When I get home, Samu and I are gonna cook for the whole family again. Just like before.”
Kiyoomi downs the rest of the glass. “Why volleyball then?”
“I guess it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. I was kinda sh*t at school. Couldn’t concentrate or stay in my seat. I was always gettin’ in trouble and annoyin’ the f*ck out of the other kids. I didn’t mind that the other kids didn’t like me cause I had Samu.” Atsumu’s expression falters. “But I was I was really good at sports. Like, really good. On the court I could be like everyone else.”
“I assume you became more tolerable,” Kiyoomi says.
Atsumu laughs. “Course not. The team still hates me, just for different reasons. M’ better at gettin’ my dick wet, it can’t be helped,” he says, shrugging.
“Insufferable and a slu*t,” Kiyoomi says. “Fitting.”
“Doesn’t seem to be a dealbreaker.” Atsumu winks.
“That’s still up for debate.”
Kiyoomi scoops more pasta onto his plate and refills his glass. “You’re great at this,” he says. “Did you ever think of working with your brother?”
“Nope. I was gonna play volleyball until I needed both hips replaced. So here I am, no job skills but I can pass a ball like no one’s business.” Atsumu meets Kiyoomi’s gaze. “Guess it doesn’t matter now huh?”
“Not at all,” Kiyoomi says.
Atsumu puts down his fork, expression shifting. “I was about to retire,” he admits. “My knee…I have no degree or anythin’. I was kinda f*cked if I’m bein’ totally honest. I didn’t plan for my career to be over at 26. Then a couple months later…well, let’s just say it wasn’t a problem anymore.” Kiyoomi reaches across the table and interlaces their fingers. “It sucks, but in a way I feel almost relieved. I don’t have to tell my parents that they were right. That I failed at the one thing M’ supposed to be great at.”
“What are you going to do when you get home?” Kiyoomi asks.
Atsumu’s face brightens. “M’ gonna cook a huge dinner with Samu for all our friends. Play volleyball with the old team. Gonna tube in the river behind my parents’ house. Sit in the reading room with Ma and tinker in the garage with Dad. M’ not gonna waste anymore time y’know? No more pickin’ out what I’m gonna wear for nights that don’t mean anythin’. And, I don’t hafta deal with all those bullsh*t questions about whether I’m havin’ kids or gettin’ married or if this one is actually ‘the one.’” He takes a deep swig of beer. “It feels f*ckin’ good. Liberatin’ actually.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Kiyoomi says.
“It is,” Atsumu says, cheerful. His eyes soften. “Kiyoomi, yer a really kind person.”
“You’re an awful judge of character.”
“M’ serious,” Atsumu insists. “Ya could’ve easily left me to die, especially after all the grief I caused over the years. Accept the damn compliment.”
Before Kiyoomi can argue, Atsumu’s lips are on his.
Every click of their mouths, every caress of tongues makes it harder to let go. And a tiny, selfish part of him says, you don’t have to. But Kiyoomi learned long ago that the tiny voice isn’t always correct. For expectations inevitably lead to disappointment; just at love leads to heartbreak.
Still, he allows Atsumu to straddle him, cheap IPA on his breath; dirty dishes and half-empty glasses forgotten. Messy, uncoordinated, frantic, Atsumu yanks at the hem of Kiyoomi’s shirt. And of course, he obliges, lifting his arms to let Atsumu discover the places that makes Kiyoomi shiver; to mouth at his neck, to press chaste kisses to every mole he can find as he works his way down Kiyoomi’s chest.
“Ya look so gorgeous under me,” Atsumu murmurs, palming Kiyoomi over his slacks.
His hands grip tightly against Atsumu’s hips. Desperate for friction, Kiyoomi rolls his hips up, fingers digging into his hips. But Atsumu sits back on Kiyoomi’s thighs, prevent him from moving. He chuckles, hands traveling up Kiyoomi’s chest, barely grazing his skin. His touch is so soft, so fond; feather-light touches constructed from pure adoration. Like merely having the privilege of touching Kiyoomi’s skin is enough. As if he took too much, there would be nothing left.
“Since the lake, I can’t stop thinking about how rough your voice sounded as ya begged for me. How my name on yer lips after I reduced ya to a babblin’ mess.” Atsumu runs a finger over Kiyoomi’s nipple. Biting his lip, Kiyoomi fails to choke out a moan. “The goosebumps on your skin after I finally touched your co*ck. f*ck Omi, the face ya made when you came for me. Can’t get ya outta my head,” Atsumu says, finally scooting up, settling his ass on Kiyoomi’s erection. He tentatively grinds onto him, eliciting a moan from both of them.
“f*ck, Atsumu—” Kiyoomi gaps. Atsumu’s face is illuminated by flickering candle light. In that moment, Kiyoomi doesn’t think he has seen a single person more beautiful.
“So pretty,” Atsumu manages between messy kisses. “I’ve never, ever wanted anyone so bad.”
Kiyoomi groans, praise going straight to his co*ck. “You have me.”
It’s a miracle that they make it up the stairs at all. Between grasping hands, dragging tongues, and desperate whines, they stumble in Kiyoomi’s bedroom.
Kiyoomi is on him in seconds, pushing Atsumu against the wall. Atsumu pliantly spreads his legs, leaving ample room for Kiyoomi to slide a knee between his magnificent thighs. Kiyoomi grins into him, rubbing their clothed co*cks together, leaving Atsumu gasping into Kiyoomi’s mouth. A wet spot has already formed on the front of his joggers.
“You look so good like this, Atsumu.” Kiyoomi thrusts forward, shoving their hips together, seeking relief. Atsumu’s head falls backw against the wall as he chokes back a moan. f*ck, just the sounds Atsumu makes has Kiyoomi straining in his slacks and they’ve barely even started. “Can I undress you?” Kiyoomi asks, running his hands over his torso under his shirt.
Atsumu nods, lifting his arms over his head for Kiyoomi to unwrap.
“Words, Atsumu. I want to hear you,” he rasps.
“Yes,” he chokes out. “Undress me.”
“And you had the audacity to call me desperate,” he says, nipping at Atsumu’s pulse point.
Finally skin on skin, Atsumu licks into Kiyoomi’s mouth like a drowning man coming up for air, tangling his fingers in his hair to pull him impossibly closer. Kiyoomi feels the warm length of Atsumu’s co*ck growing harder as he grinds forward, whining, shuddering, knees buckling as if he was about to…
Kiyoomi removes his knee from between Atsumu’s thighs, chuckling as Atsumu grabs his ass and tries to reinstate contact. He playfully grabs Atsumu’s wrists as he catches his breath, flushed pink, scattered, realizing that Kiyoomi knows the mortifying truth. Kiyoomi leans in close, mouth brushing against Atsumu’s ear. “There’s no rush Atsumu. We have time.” Kiyoomi teases, playfully catching an earlobe between his teeth.
What’s wrong with a little white lie now and again? If he says it enough, it might become true.
Frustrated, Atsumu lets out a throaty whine when Kiyoomi takes a pert nipple into his mouth.
“Omi…”
Kiyoomi still has trouble comprehending how sunning Atsumu looks. He sounds he’s making, the way his abs tense and flex as he approaches the edge. Unbelievably thick thighs shaking under Kiyoomi’s touch. The bruises that litter his chest that Kiyoomi couldn’t resist leaving behind, hoping that Atsumu thinks of him whenever he looks in the mirror; when he accidentally brushes the sore spots, and the faint ache reminds him that they were real.
Because on some level, Kiyoomi is afraid that this whole thing might just be a dream, and that soon he’ll wake up alone in that empty Seattle apartment. But the high pitched moan Atsumu lets out when Kiyoomi pinches his other nipple while licking a flat stripe over the sensitive bud currently in his mouth reminds him that Atsumu is here, under his hands, enthusiastically taking whatever Kiyoomi decides to give him.
“Kiyoomi, want ya in my mouth,” Atsumu pants. “I’ll make ya feel so good.”
“Never would have thought that you’d be so eager to suck me off,” Kiyoomi says. He co*ck twitches. “I thought you said that you would make me fall apart on your co*ck, but here you are, desperate for me to f*ck your mouth.”
“S’ not off the table if ya don’t—ah, ah.” Kiyoomi interrupts him by rolling his puffy, spit soaked nipple between the pads of his fingers. “Jesus Omi, don’t be a dick.”
“You like it when I’m a little mean, don’t you? I haven’t even touched your co*ck yet, but you’re already leaking for it.
“f*ck—” he breathes impatiently, which just makes Kiyoomi want to make him wait all the more.
“Answer me, Atsumu,” he purrs.
Atsumu shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.
“I want to hear you say it,” Kiyoomi says.
“W-want you," he says, opening his eyes; meeting Kiyoomi's gaze. Pleading.
“Why?” Kiyoomi asks with a smirk.
“Yer f*ckin’ impossible,” Atsumu, voice rough. “ I want it to be good for you. I’ll be so good if ya let me—”
So he wants it that way. Kiyoomi is more than happy to play along. “Say please.”
“What the f*ck Omi? Only you’d say no to someone wantin’ to suck their dick,” Atsumu says, wiggling to get loose.
“Don’t move,” Kiyoomi commands, holding him still. “It’s sexy when you tell me what you need.”
“Have I ever toldya how annoying ya are? A real pain in the ass.”
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Why should I give you anything? I thought you said you’ll be good for me. Only good boys get rewarded.”
“Oh G-d,” Atsumu moans. Hooded eyes wide, pleading, lips formed in a ‘o’, Atsumu is an absolute vision, and if Kiyoomi was a man with less self control, he would take him right there. But Atsumu started it, and he wants to make him work for it.
Kiyoomi finally lets go, taking several steps backward. He unbuckles his belt, achingly slow, watching as Atsumu licks his lips. Reaching under his slacks, Kiyoomi adjusts his co*ck from outside of his underwear.
“Why’d ya stop?” Atsumu asks with a slightly panicked expression.
Atsumu stares hungrily as Kiyoomi starts stroking himself, gaze locked onto Atsumu whose mouth has gone dry. When he presses his thumb against the head in the way he likes, Kiyoomi makes a show of moaning. “I can always take care of this myself.”
Knees hit the carpet and Atsumu crawls forward. What a sight it is, Miya Atsumu on his knees sitting on his heels and staring up at Kiyoomi intently. “Don’t, please. Kiyoomi,” he begs.
“Please what?” Kiyoomi prompts.
Atsumu starts to snap back, but one look from Kiyoomi has him biting his cheek, finally giving in. Breaking down. “Kiyoomi, can I please suck yer co*ck? I wanna taste you.” The ‘please’ comes out strained with a hint of defiance.
Kiyoomi hums, gently but firmly tilting Atsumu’s face up by his chin. “See, that wasn’t so hard,” he coos.
On this trip, Kiyoomi had seen a great number of incredible things, but nothing could compare to Atsumu’s blown pupils and needy mouth begging for the dirtiest, most glorious things.
Kiyoomi twists through his hair, nails running gently across Atsumu’s scalp. He hums, content, sweet, and entirely too trusting. Considering Atsumu’s previous reaction, Kiyoomi grabs a fist of his hair and tugs, hard. Eyes watering, dark eyelashes rest on his flushed cheeks. The whimper that escapes from Atsumu’s pretty mouth has Kiyoomi leaking. He wants to f*ck Atsumu’s mouth until glistening tears trail down his beautifully flushed cheeks, to reduce him to a sobbing, incoherent mess. So much for the athlete who cleverly wears a mask of control.
“Look at me, Atsumu,” he commands, voice calm like the sea before a tsunami. Gold eyes blink open, meeting Kiyoomi’s gaze. The look Atsumu gives him further fuels the desire pooling in the pit of Kiyoomi’s stomach. In that moment of connection, of rain clouded lust, Kiyoomi swears to ruin him.
“Is this okay? Am I being too much?” Kiyoomi asks, relaxing the grip in his hair, momentarily dropping the dynamic.
“I’d tell ya if it was. Yer perfect, Kiyoomi.” Atsumu drags out the syllables of his name. “Besides, I like it when yer too much.”
Kiyoomi curses. “You’re unreal.”
“I’ll tap twice if I need a break,” Atsumu says, running his hinds up Kiyoomi’s thighs.
With confirmation, Kiyoomi allows Atsumu to pull out his co*ck, letting his pants collect at his ankles. The tip of his co*ck is red, drops of pre-come beading at the head. His dick twitches with his heartbeat. Simply feeling Atsumu’s hot breath on his co*ck, seeing how f*cked out Atsumu already looks could have him coming sooner than he would like. With a shaky inhale, he slowly pushes into Atsumu’s waiting mouth.
G-d, his mouth is hot and wet and so inviting that Kiyoomi thinks he might die. Atsumu groans around it, swirling his tongue around the head before taking it deeper between his spit soaked lips. He alternates between taking his co*ck as far as he can go, and working his way back up to the head, tongue experimentally licking over his slit.
Kiyoomi grips his hair with both hands, holding his head steady as Atsumu takes his co*ck into his throat. Kiyoomi moans as Atsumu hollows his cheeks.
“You feel amazing, Atsumu. Such a good boy, taking me so well.”
Atsumu groans around him, the vibrations sending sparks up Kiyoomi’s spine. He sputters, swallowing around him, throat spasming.
Kiyoomi pulls out with string of spit and pre-come connecting between Atsumu’s mouth and his co*ck. Tilting Atsumu’s head up with a finger, Kiyoomi kisses him sweetly, Atsumu still breathing heavily. “You’re doing so well baby,” he praises. “Making me feel good.” He runs his hands lovingly through Atsumu’s hair. “Can I f*ck you?” Kiyoomi breathes, tone on the verge of begging. “Feel you come on my co*ck.”
“Yeah,” Atsumu says, voice scratchy, rough from Kiyoomi’s co*ck down his throat. “f*ck me, say sweet things to me, tell me I’m good…” he begs.
Kiyoomi joins him on the floor, taking Atsumu into his arms. “Of course sweetheart. Whatever you need.”
Soon, Atsumu is splayed on the bed, one leg pushed to his chest with two of Kiyoomi’s slender fingers inside him, squelching obscenely, glistening wet from the packet of lube stored in Atsumu’s back pocket, “just in case.” He gasps and moans and begs to the point of tears as Kiyoomi fingers him open painfully slow, grazing his prostate with every drag, committing every muscle twitch to memory as Atsumu grinds down on his fingers, desperate for more.
“Close, close, close,” Atsumu warns when Kiyoomi adds a third, curling his fingers cruelly inside him.
Atsumu lets out a high pitched whine as Kiyoomi eases his fingers out of him. “I’m clean, but I have condoms downstairs if you want,” Atsumu pants. “I don’t mind either way, but I’d prefer to feel you. Completely.”
“Atsumu…”
“I can go get them if—” Atsumu says, motioning to get up.
Kiyoomi places a flat palm on his chest, gently guiding him back down. “No baby. However you want me, I’m yours.”
It takes everything in him to not come the second Kiyoomi enters Atsumu. He pauses, nestled to the hilt inside him, breathing slowly; gathering the little self control he has left as he adjusts.
Of course Atsumu takes him like a dream. The first thrust is shallow, pulling out just a couple centimeters before pushing back in. He pushes Atsumu’s legs up to his chest, angling him to hit his prostate with each thrust, setting a place that has Atsumu writhing and whimpering under him.
The trust, the reverence in which Atsumu clings to his back, the sweet words playing on loop in his ears, that fall effortlessly out of his own mouth. Atsumu’s hole clenching around him as he approaches the edge…
Kiyoomi comes first, spilling deep inside Atsumu. Arms shaking, hips stuttering as he rides it down; groaning when Atsumu follows, clenching around him, making it hard to breathe.
The only thing Kiyoomi can think is: Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.
Steam clouds the shower door. Scalding hot water cascades down Kiyoomi’s back as he lathers shampoo into Atsumu’s hair. He sighs, satisfied, when Kiyoomi guides his head further back to thoroughly massage his hairline, his temples. He rinses the shampoo out with care, careful to keep the soapy water out of his eyes before running conditioner through the ends. A dark trail of bruises line the column of his throat, his chest, his thighs. In the afterglow, Atsumu’s easy smile is unwavering, limbs heavy and pliant to Kiyoomi’s touch. Quiet. Content. And Kiyoomi, the one who had took him apart, has the privilege of putting him back together.
Kiyoomi wraps Atsumu up in the fluffiest towel he can find while he blow-dries his hair, combing it all the while to prevent tangles.
Settling in Kiyoomi’s bed is familiar, barely large enough to hold Kiyoomi let alone two grown men. But Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to sleep in the bed his parents once shared.
Hair still slightly damp from the shower, Atsumu cuddles up beside him, resting his head on his bare chest, running his hands over his chest, listening intently to the steady thump of his heart, holding Kiyoomi like he is the most delicate, wonderful thing in the world. Like he is the only thing that matters.
Showering. Cuddling. All terrifying symptoms of domesticity. With hookups come very specific rules Kiyoomi typically sticks to. No sleep overs. No feelings. Never in his house, as home was for Kiyoomi and Kiyoomi alone. Protocols to keep people out. To prevent vulnerably, honesty, and situations such as this.
“Who’s Charlie?” Atsumu asks as he traces the name etched into his headboard.
“A boy who used to live down the street,” Kiyoomi confesses, interlacing their fingers, mouth dry.
“My friend’s sister wrote her crushes name in the corners of her notebooks.”
“I suppose I was more…pent up.”
“Should I be jealous?”
“I was 14.”
“Hey! Some idiots never get over their first loves. Take my idiot brother for example. That jerk knew he was gonna marry Suna the second his ass walked through the door.”
“It was the last summer I spent here,” he says with a voice like sandpaper. “Our parents were friends. My father said that I needed to get outside and spend time with boys my age. He thought that my…eccentricities were off-putting. One day, he kissed me. I had a girlfriend back home who my parents adored, but no matter how much I touched her or kissed her, I felt nothing. When he kissed me, everything clicked. My parents didn’t know for a couple years. Until they did…Let’s just say that I never saw him again.”
Atsumu squeezes his hand tight.
“Oh, love.” Kiyoomi shivers when Atsumu places a sweet kiss to Kiyoomi’s neck before burying his face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. “Thanks for tellin’ me.”
And that was that. No I’m sorry’s or you deserved better’s. Both are things that Kiyoomi already knows. Besides, why should he dwell on the past when his future is right here?
“Were ya mean to him too?”
“Definitely.”
Atsumu chuckles. “As mean as ya are to me?”
“Much meaner.”
“Damn Omi, can’t imagine ya much meaner.”
“Would you prefer indifference?”
“That sounds so much worse.”
“Consider yourself special.”
“Aw, ya think I’m special?”
“I’ll be meaner next time? It seems like you’d like that.”
“f*ck. Ya can’t be sayin’ sh*t like that.”
“I can say whatever I’d like,” Kiyoomi challenges.
“We’ll see about that,” Atsumu says, yawning. “Don’t worry, darlin’, M’ a sex magnet. I know ya can’t resist.”
“A sex magnet,” Kiyoomi repeats, deadpan, processing the fact that a 26 year old man would think to call himself a sex magnet.
“I postpone all further comments until tomorrow’s press conference.” He yawns again, nuzzling closer, holding Kiyoomi tighter. “G’night baby,” he mumbles, the rest of the sentence unintelligibly murmured into Kiyoomi’s hair.
“Good night.” Kiyoomi maneuvers onto his side. Atsumu curls up behind him draping an arm over Kiyoomi’s waist.
“Atsu?”
“Hm?”
“How long have you wanted me?”
“‘Bout a week after I moved in,” Atsumu says, groggy. “Yer personality is sh*t, but my dick apparently doesn’t mind.’
“You only want me for my body.”
“Pretty much.”
“You’re vile.”
“Love ya too.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t process what Atsumu said until the next morning when he wakes up panicked in an empty bed to warm scent of brewing coffee.
As they reload their things along with an entire case of wine, Atsumu’s words repeat in his head over and over again. Locking his seatbelt into place, he glances at Atsumu who has his seat reclined and once again, decidedly isn’t wearing his.
“You’re going to get a concussion like that. But you’re already too much of an idiot to even notice,” Kiyoomi says.
“Why does it matter?” Atsumu asks.
“You’re going to get hurt.”
For once, Atsumu doesn’t argue as he clicks his seatbelt into place. “Omi—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Kiyoomi snaps with none of the bite it used to have.
“How sweet, my Omi cares.”
“Why do I even bother?” Kiyoomi mutters under his breath as he puts the car into reverse.
My Omi.
Cat Stevens plays over the stereo; Atsumu’s choice. The guitar croons. Atsumu mouths along to the words. Air rushes in through a cracked window, ruffling his hair. Kiyoomi steals glances when he thinks Atsumu isn’t paying attention.
“Ain’t exactly subtle, are ya?” Atsumu says when he finally catches Kiyoomi’s eye.
“You’re different than I expected.”
“Gotta keep ya on yer toes, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu teases. “Yer alright I guess.”
“How thoughtful.”
“Hey! That’s plenty nice considerin’ how sh*tty ya were to me since I dunno,” he checks his empty wrist like he’s wearing a watch. “Forever?”
“You started it,” Kiyoomi says.
“In yer dreams.” Atsumu pauses. “Seriously though, why did ya hate me?”
“Habit I suppose. I’ve always had a thing for people who are no good for me.”
“Oh, you were into me.”
“On second thought, you’re loud, annoying, frustrating…” attractive, accomplished, carefree. While those attributes may be true, Kiyoomi has come to realize why they made Kiyoomi want to bash his head against a wall. Jealousy. Atsumu got to live a life full of meaningful experiences, able to pursue his life’s passion, while Kiyoomi was left to ponder why their lives turned out the way they did. All the while, blaming Atsumu for the conclusions he jumped to.
“Aww, Omi has a crush.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yer blushin’,” Atsumu says, smug.
“I don’t need a crush when I already have you in my bed.”
“S’ different!” Atsumu says. “Just cause it’s physical doesn’t mean anythin.”
“Tell that to the Atsumu who was begging for my co*ck.”
“M’ never sucking ya off again,” he pouts.
It’s a fairly common behavior; pouting then moving on. Hotheaded. Quick to annoyance and sometimes anger. On the other side of the coin, quick to forgiveness too. Perhaps there’s something about being a twin that does that to a person. If nothing else, Miya Atsumu is full of surprises.
As Kiyoomi sneaks another glance, his stomach drops, remembering that he will never have the opportunity to learn absolutely everything about the man he…
There’s that word again. The word Atsumu wears readily on his sleeve. The word that has Kiyoomi’s blood running cold: something hidden under the floorboards of the house in San Francisco.
“Favorite movie?” Kiyoomi asks.
“Jennifer’s Body.”
“Really?”
“Needy is the definition of gay panic. Swear, it’s gonna be a cult classic in a couple years, just ya wait. Critics can’t recognize art if it punched em’ in the face. Have any allergies?”
“That’s a dumb question,” Kiyoomi says.
“Yer a dumb question. Now answer.”
“Penicillin.”
“Oh good, I thought it might be peanuts,” Atsumu says. “You seem like the type.”
“What?”
“Some people don’t date short guys. I don’t date people allergic to peanuts. Too high-maintenance.”
“I could never date someone high-maintenance,” Kiyoomi deadpans.
“Me? M’ not high-maintenance, just…labor-intensive.”
“Sure Atsumu. I’m not a ‘jerky dipsh*t,’ just a ‘free-spoken imbecile.”
Atsumu laughs. Bright and colorful and warm and comforting. So, so comforting. He relishes in the way Atsumu steadies himself on Kiyoomi’s shoulder while he doubles over. “Did I really call ya a ‘jerky dipsh*t?’ That’s amazin’.”
Not just ‘end of the world sex.’ Dating.
A frightened shout interrupts his ruminating. “OMI!”
Kiyoomi slams on the brakes. The cars skids, but gratefully comes to a jerky stop. Kiyoomi drops the arm that shot up instinctively to protect Atsumu from danger. His palm is warm from where he pressed firmly into Atsumu’s chest.
“I really, really hate when you do that. You could’ve died.”
Atsumu ignores him, getting out of the car unbothered.
Still catching his breath, Kiyoomi follows.
“What’s goin’ on?” Atsumu asks.
As it happens, Atsumu had a legitimate reason to scare Kiyoomi half to death. A long line of people cross the road in pairs. Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. Some carry children in their arms, while other push strollers or walk dogs.The line extends well inland, starting somewhere over a hill Kiyoomi can’t see over and descends down another toward the ocean. Taught with strange tranquility and the salty tang of sea water.
Perhaps it’s an uncharacteristic sense of curiosity, or a G-d sent diversion from the feelings lingering on Kiyoomi’s taste buds. Either way, he backs the car up, bashfully waving to the people giving them questioning looks. He readjusts and parks the securely on the shoulder. “Let’s look,” Kiyoomi says.
A couple graciously waves them into the spot in the line in front of them. Nobody speaks apart from the occasional whisper or babbling child. Kiyoomi doesn’t mind the silence, he never has. Atsumu, however, is another story entirely. He nervously rocks back and forth on his heels, constantly rotating one of the silver rings on his ringers.
At the first rest stop back in Washington, Kiyoomi calculated the driving time between Seattle and Los Angeles. Exactly 18 hours and 7 minutes. A journey of approximately 1828.6 kilometers. A drive that could be made in two days of less if they took turns driving. Yet here they stand, nearly an entire week later, marching forward into the unknown.
He’s learned that a great many things have the incomprehensible power and unimaginable magnitude of the cosmos. With solemn and terrifying understanding, Kiyoomi realizes that he is staring at one of them. A sun that he can’t help but be destined to orbit around. Then Atsumu smiles at him. A mere nervous twitch of his lips asking “you okay?”
Kiyoomi nods, extending his hand. Atsumu readily takes it.
As they reach the top of a hill, Kiyoomi squints, cupping a hand over his eyes to block out the harsh sun. Waves crash over soft white sand. And while they still have a ways to go, he sees a person standing calf-deep in the water, speaking calmly with a couple who embrace each other, before wading out of the water hand in hand.
A short but sharp intake of breath draws back Kiyoomi’s attention back to the man beside him. Not that Kiyoomi could divert his attention for long anyway.
Atsumu is already staring up at him between dark eyelashes when Kiyoomi dares to look at him. Somehow, his eyes glitter even more in this weather. A new tiny freckle decorates Atsumu’s top lip. It makes Kiyoomi wonder why either of them chose Seattle to begin with when Atsumu could look this beautiful somewhere else. Then again, Atsumu has a way of bringing light wherever his goes.
Sun-kissed and unabashed, it’s perfect. Atsumu is perfect. And for once, when Atsumu squeezes his hand, Kiyoomi accepts that he deserves it.
Love ya too.
Tentatively, they approach the man standing in the cool water. “Marriage or Baptism?” he asks.
Atsumu clasps Kiyoomi’s hand tighter, tensing. “Omi, will ya marry me?” he ask, picking at his nails.
Kiyoomi suppresses a laugh. “This is stupid.”
“Seriously, marry me,” Atsumu says, with an intense, pointed look.
“Anything,” Kiyoomi says, meaning it with every fiber of his being.
Water lapping at the hems of their rolled-up pants, they stand before each other, souls bare. The ordainer is speaking, but Kiyoomi hears practically none of it. He drowns it out, instead finding the universe in the way his eyes sparkle in nothing short of adoration. In the way Atsumu’s lips part when he says, “I do.” People have lived and people have died by those lips. When Kiyoomi repeats those words without an ounce of trepidation, Atsumu launches himself into Kiyoomi’s arms, knocking them both into the water. And when Atsumu kisses him, Kiyoomi kisses back like he’s coming up for air after a lifetime of treading water. He tastes like home.
When they finally pull apart, cheeks wet with tears, Kiyoomi tenderly traces his thumb across an endless sky of freckles.
For the second time, Kiyoomi is reminded that all things are made of stardust. Why all things are made of stardust. “You are a wonder, Miya Atsumu.”
“Don’t get all mushy on me.” Atsumu’s smile tells him that some way, somehow, everything will be okay.
“Divorce isn’t off the table.”
“I’m gettin’ the house and full custody.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“Love ya too, Omi.”
Waves crash gently on the shore. Children flip rocks, searching for treasures. They point out sea creatures to their parents and carefully walk around small sand dunes holding tiny crabs in their palms. A group of college students recline on the water in a giant float shaped like a swan, drinking beers and cheering on the surfers catching waves farther out.
Atsumu is lower on the beach near the tide, surrounded by several ecstatic children meeting their hero, while Kiyoomi relaxes on the sidelines, far enough away from the action to avoid getting sand kicked in his face.
Seeing that look on Atsumu’s face, of pride in his work, makes the days spent in places he doesn’t usually seek out more than worth the trouble. He squats down so to be perfectly eye level with his little fan club. He flashes a smile while he speaks to a parent who approached with stumbling apologies.
A little girl takes Atsumu by the wrist and drags him over to a net occupied by a group of teenagers who play by suggestions rather than rules. From his spot, Kiyoomi hears the little girl say, “Pleaseeee teach me the floaty serve Atsumu!” Followed by a boy saying, “Teach me how to do a back set!” Atsumu looks over and shoots an apologetic look toward Kiyoomi, who waves in encouragement.
As soon as the ongoing game ends, Atsumu lowers the net to make it easier for the kids to hit over. He gently tosses his ball to them in a high arch for them to hit to the other side. When a boy misses, trips, and falls face first into the sand, Atsumu helps him up, comforts him and encourages him to try again, and again, until the ball finally hits the other side.
Patient. Another word that Kiyoomi would never think to use to describe Atsumu a week ago. Now, he couldn’t image seeing him as anything else. G-d, he’s wasted so much time.
“Show us the floaty serve!” the girl demands, echoed by a chorus of agreement.
He draws a line in the sand where the boundary would be, then takes four paces. He turns, takes a deep breath, then throws the ball high into the air before jumping and hitting it down to the other side. The ball wobbles with the wind, landing in the far left corner where it would sneak right past the other team’s defense.
The kids cheer and demand that he teach them all how to do the “floaty serve.” So he does.
By the time all the kids have tried the ‘floaty serve’ with various levels of success, Atsumu puts them into three-on-three teams and sets up a practice game. He jogs back up the beach to Kiyoomi, who is sitting up, alternating between reading his book and watching his husband’s ridiculously toned thighs and back muscles flex while demonstrating different moves.
Once the kids are engrossed in their practice game, Atsumu jogs up the beach toward him. “Droolin’ yet, Omi-Omi?”
Kiyoomi turns his attention back to his book, pretending to read. “In your dreams.”
Atsumu collapses next to him. In classic Atsumu fashion, this is the first time he actually rests all afternoon.
The comfortable moment of silence is interrupted by a kid screeching and jumping up and down when one of his serves land on the other side of the net. Atsumu doesn’t sit up, but he holds up a thumb for the kid to see. “Nice job Michael!” he calls out. Overjoyed, the kid serves again.
“Wanna lesson?” Atsumu asks, challenging.
“Sports and I don’t get along,” Kiyoomi says. Just the thought of being covered in sweat and dirt makes Kiyoomi’s skin crawl.
“Come on, yer what, 190 centimeters? And nobody told ya to play sports?”
“193. I'm taller than you.”
“Height is just a number,” Atsumu waves off.
“Besides, I was told that sports were a waste of time.”
Atsumu scoffs. “Those people are objectively wrong.” He gets back on his feet, holding a hand out to Kiyoomi. “Let yer husband teach ya a thing or two.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but lets himself be pulled up anyway.
“S’ real easy. All ya gotta do is bend yer legs like this…perfect Omi, that’s great.” Atsumu adjusts Kiyoomi’s form, bending his knees lower and bringing his forearms up higher. “Hold yer wrists like that…yer a natural.”
He steps back a couple feet. “Just pass it back to me. Don’t move yer upper body too much. Imagine where ya want the ball to go when ya bump it.”
Like everything else, Kiyoomi fully commits to doing the task well.
Atsumu tosses it slowly, nice and high to give the ball more air time. Kiyoomi takes a decisive step forward, keeps his body low, then bumps it right back to Atsumu’s waiting hands.
“That was so hot,” Atsumu says.
“Again,” Kiyoomi says, still in position.
Atsumu tosses again. Kiyoomi bumps it a little too far over to the right. “Again.” Atsumu obliges.
After about 20 more ‘agains,’ Kiyoomi and Atsumu manage to pass it back and forth a few times. Before long, a boy approaches them and asks for help with his receives too.
Sunset quickly approaches. Atsumu is sweaty, sprawled on the ground with his hands over his head. His breaths are slow and controlled. “f*ck, I’m rusty.” Turning on his side, propping his head in his hand, Atsumu asks, “havin’ fun?”
“Regretfully,” Kiyoomi says.
The sky transitions to shades of oranges and magentas and purples as it falls over the horizon, tinting puffy white clouds. Waves subside. Surfers return to shore. Families disburse, some waving goodbye to Atsumu as they leave.
“You’re great with them,” Kiyoomi says, gesturing to the straggling kids still practicing their spikes on the lowered net.
“Guess so. How can anyone not like them? They’re funny as hell.”
“More like sticky and germ-ridden.”
“That too. But I think they’re smarter than we give em’ credit for. Good thing we never have to have the ‘kids’ talk eh,” Atsumu says, lightly bumping Kiyoomi in the side with his elbow.
“I suppose so,” Kiyoomi says. A pang of emotion punches him in the stomach. “I don’t understand. Why did you take so much time to help them?”
“Do I need a deep reason to do everythin’?” Atsumu asks exasperatedly, tone unserious. “Sometimes ya wanna do something, just to do it.” Atsumu pauses for a moment, considering his next words carefully. “If ya must know, I was thinkin’ about when the end comes, and that giant f*ckin’ rock hurls towards us at a million miles an hour. I’d like em’ to remember the midday sun. The kites flyin’, their parents laughin’. I want em’ to remember the seagulls callin’ and the feeling of coarse sand between their toes. I want em’ to imagine how the ball fits perfectly in their palms, and that sting when you get it just right," he says, miming the motion of a spike.
Atsumu sits upright and leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, taking it all in. A deceivingly normal day at the beach in the most abnormal of times. “Keep thinkin’ about how if that damn asteroid looks like it does in movies,” he continues, “I want em’ to imagine the sun peeking from over the horizon. To remember today, y’know? Not the end of days."
“You would be a good dad,” Kiyoomi ends up saying, because there are no words he can think of to fix the predicament they’re in, as much as he longs to.
“Thanks,” Atsumu says with strained acceptance, glassy eyes glued to the sun just about to disappear into the skyline.
Kiyoomi lets his head fall on Atsumu’s shoulder. “I love you,” he whispers, quiet as subtle waves crashing on an empty shore.
