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On Your Mark

Summary:

Kiyoomi doesn't win gold in Rio, but he doesn't return to Japan empty handed.

Notes:

Disclaimer: I know Japan didn't compete in Men's Volleyball at the 2016 Olympics, and we have no way of knowing who would've been on the National Team's roster at that time. So, this is alternate canon that assumes Japan qualified for the event AND that their roster is similar to 2021's for the sake of getting both Sakusa and Atsumu to Rio.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

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2016

Kiyoomi is sweaty.

Japan has hot and humid summers, but Rio is a different beast.  The sun is relentless, beating down on hot sand and concrete until the heat distorts the near horizon.  Sakusa Kiyoomi quietly resigns himself to being cooked alive, collapsed on a sticky public bench as they wait for their twice-delayed bus.  The rest of Japan’s Men’s Volleyball national team seem unaffected.  Bokuto practices his Portuguese to Kageyama, who blinks owlishly as he tries to follow along.  Ushijima stands dutifully with the luggage.  Komori talks excitedly at his camera, already vlogging.

Whenever he thought about his Olympic debut, he didn't consider the hellish travel times.  He's hot.  He's tired.  He really wants to burrow into fresh sheets in a frigid hotel room.

“Ya good, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi opens his eyes, squinting against the sun until Miya Atsumu comes into focus.  "Hrgh," is his answer.

Atsumu laughs.  It's as loud as he remembers.  Ever since high school, at Nationals their first year, Kiyoomi's heard that laugh boom in a crowded gymnasium as if they were right next to each other.  Too loud.  Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose and leans away.  It’s not like Atsumu and he were ever on unfriendly terms.  In fact, they once carried on a Snapchat streak for forty-eight days until Kiyoomi overslept after a late study session.  But, Atsumu is one of those sunshine types.  From the freckles dusting his cheeks to the golden glint in his eyes, he shines brighter than Kiyoomi’s fair complexion can handle.

“There’s a little ice cream stand over there.”  Atsumu plops onto the bench.  “Maybe a popsicle would help ya cool down.”

“I’m not eating sweets before the Olympics, Miya,” Kiyoomi mutters.

“Such a stickler,” Atsumu chides.  “Fine.  Roast then.”

Kiyoomi’s lips twitch upwards.

Atsumu’s phone rings once, a soft two note bell tone.  It doesn’t match the Atsumu he’s come to call a friend over the years, but Kiyoomi tries not to follow that thought.  He already spends more time thinking about his teammate than he should.  “Samu says hello,” Atsumu says like they’re all great buddies.

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow.  “Really?”

“Well, no,” Atsumu admits, “but I’ll tell him ya said hi back.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Atsumu’s phone pings again.  “Doesn’t matter.  He’s a jerk anyways.”

Kiyoomi feels like he’s missing half of the conversation so he closes his eyes again, content with listening to Atsumu rant about his brother.  Then, twenty minutes later, a coach bus pulls up to their stop.  An immaculate shout of relief rises from their teammates and they begin stowing their luggage in the storage underneath.

The bus’s air conditioning is pure bliss.  Kiyoomi drops into a window seat with a relieved sigh.  A small red duffle bag drops into the empty seat beside him.  “Ya don’t mind, do ya?” Atsumu asks as he sits in the open seat across the aisle.  “Need the leg room.”

Kiyoomi frowns, but he shrugs.

“Scoot over, twin one,” Aran Ojiro says, shooing Atsumu into the next seat over and sitting down beside him.  “I’m under strict orders to make sure ya don’t over do it before our matches start.”

“Aran,” Atsumu groans, “I’m not a little kid.  I’m a freakin’ professional athlete.  I know how to take care of myself.”

“Shin just worries.”

“Yer just whipped.”

Aran doesn’t reply.

The drive to the Olympic village is short and relatively peaceful.  Most of his teammates are just as exhausted as him from the long flight to make conversation.  Even Atsumu tries to keep his voice down, only muttering something indistinct to Aran a few times.  Aran snorts, but doesn’t reply.

It’s only when Atsumu picks up his duffle and asks, “Manage to get a little rest, Omi-kun?” that Kiyoomi realizes Atsumu ensured he didn’t have to put up with a seatmate.

“A little,” he agrees.

Atsumu nods.  “Good.  No teammate of mine is gonna be at anything but the top of their game.”

Kiyoomi shakes his head, smiling.  “Right.”

The village itself is like a tiny city.  Thirty-one buildings in total, it’s the largest Olympic village in the games’ history.  Their luggage is taken by staff, their room assignments handed out, and Kiyoomi follows Komori, Ushijima, and Bokuto to their shared apartment.

“This is so cool,” Bokuto drawls as the door swings open.  “Look, we got a mini-fridge and everything!”

Ushijima follows Bokuto, seemingly just as interested in the fridge, as Kiyoomi squints at the small living room.  It’s basic but clean with the slightest whiff of artificial lemon cleaner lingering in the air.  Komori sighs.  “I kinda thought it’d be a little nicer.”

Kiyoomi shrugs.  After living in the university dorms, his standards of living have lowered significantly.

They have a short practice the next day.  It’s just meant to refocus the team, shake off the jetlag and get everyone back into the right headspace.  They’re placed in a gym that’s even smaller than the one in his high school.  Komori squints at the floor with pursed lips.  “I thought it’d be nicer,” he admits again.  This time, Kiyoomi is inclined to agree with him.

Atsumu and Kageyama talk in the corner.  During their practices back home, Kiyoomi once tried to figure out what they discussed in their little huddle, but Atsumu shooed him away each time.  “A ritual between setters,” he declared, waving his arms.  “No outside hitters allowed!”

Kiyoomi wouldn’t call Atsumu and Kageyama friends, but they do have a begrudging respect for each other.  They work well together, which is all that matters, but today Atsumu’s smile goes too tight and his eyes narrow too sharply when Kageyama is on the court.

“Miya,” he calls over, “toss some to me.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow, glances at Kageyama again, then shrugs.  “Fine, but just a few.  I wanna get some serves in before our time’s up.”

After practice, Atsumu sits beside Kiyoomi on the floor.  He holds out a small bag.  “Peanut?” he offers.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but he takes one anyway.

“We’re going to win this thing,” Atsumu says confidently.

Kiyoomi takes another peanut.  “We will.”

.

The games begin and end in a similar way: fast.  It’s not that they play badly, though Kiyoomi knows they’re all frustrated with themselves anyways.  In the Olympics, anything beneath first place is a failure.  Fourth place is heartbreaking.

Kiyoomi replays the last match over and over again in his head in the locker room.  Each spike, every receive, he could have done so much more.

Komori pats his shoulder before he leaves.  “Next time,” he says, with more of a challenge in his voice than comfort.  “I’m gonna order the biggest, greasiest fried food I can find.  Care to join?”  Kiyoomi blanches, which is the response Komori expected.  “Get some rest, Sakusa,” he adds.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already planning on barricading himself in his room and flipping through delivery services for some familiar foods.  “Don’t die in Rio, please.”

“No promises,” Komori says as he pushes open the door.

The team filters out in various degrees of distress.  Some are just disappointed, some are a little angry, some tears are shed, and some just bury it with more ambition.  Atsumu is surprisingly quiet, sitting with a cooling towel draped over his head.  At the sound of a sniffle, Kiyoomi’s steps redirect from the exit to the bench.  He sits down, leaning his forearms on his knees and twiddling his thumbs awkwardly.

“Want to talk?” he asks, then cringes immediately.

Atsumu lets out a bitter laugh.  “I’m fine.  Ya don’t gotta coddle me.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he mutters, “but sulking alone isn’t going to change anything.”

“Isn’t that what yer planning to do?”

Kiyoomi shrugs.  “The point still stands.”

Atsumu pulls the towel off his head.  “I’m not mad we didn’t medal.  Well, okay, I am, but… it wouldn’t have mattered anyways.”

“You wanted to play more,” Kiyoomi realizes.  “More than Kageyama.”

“He’s a good setter,” Atsumu grumbles, “but he’s still got a lot to learn on his own.  That partner of his in high school spoiled him.  I would’ve played it differently.”

“That’s why we have two setters,” he says.

“Still doesn’t seem to matter.”

This is foreign to Kiyoomi.  He’s too blunt and honest to navigate through tricky emotional conversations without turning into a mess.  He cracks his knuckles.  “So what are you going to do about it?”

Atsumu looks at him.  For a moment, he considers the question.  Then, Kiyoomi thinks he sees a smile twitching at his lips.  “Well,” he says, “sulking alone isn’t gonna change anything.”

“I just said that.”

“And I’m sayin’ yer right.  When we get back home, I’m gonna train until I drop.  And, next Olympics, I’m gonna be on the court when we win gold.”

“And what are you going to do before we get home?” Kiyoomi asks.

“Hm.”  Atsumu touches his chin.  “Yanno, I haven’t had alcohol since my eighteenth birthday.  Too busy trainin’.  I could really use a drink.”

Kiyoomi snorts.  “I don’t trust that you’d be able to find your room drunk.”  He stands up.  “I’ll sit with you.”

Atsumu’s jaw drops.  Whatever lingering disappointment is washed away by surprise.  “Omi-kun,” he exclaims, “ya drink?!”

“No,” Kiyoomi answers.  But, Atsumu’s optimism is alluring.  His vision for the future is one that Kiyoomi shares, and he thinks he needs to imagine that possibility for a bit longer.  Even if that means sitting at a crowded bar in a foreign country with the guy he’s probably a little bit interested in.  “But I might tonight.”  He has no idea how Atsumu would react if he knew that, but, as Atsumu’s face lights up, he doesn’t see the harm in hoping.

Atsumu finds a bar close to the village, and they plan to meet up in an hour to walk over together.  “First round is on me,” Atsumu declares, which quickly makes Kiyoomi realize that he has no idea what he’s supposed to order.  He spends a half hour deciding which shirt to wear and another half hour scrolling through Pinterest boards for cocktails before realizing that he’s being ridiculous. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Komori calls as Kiyoomi leaves.

“Tell Tsum-Tsum I said hi!” Bokuto shouts.

“Have a nice evening,” Ushijima says.

Kiyoomi ignores them.

The bar is filled with more tourists than locals, which is probably expected in the middle of the Olympics.  Atsumu is dressed down in normal shorts and a Team Japan shirt.  It’s almost identical to what Kiyoomi is wearing.  They didn’t exactly pack for nightlife.

Kiyoomi orders whatever Atsumu does, not saying anything as Atsumu fawns over the apparent fact that they share a preferred taste in alcohol.  “Not as uptight as ya look, Omi-Omi,” he says with an approving nod.

Kiyoomi sips the drink and immediately blanches.  “Ugh.  Yep.  Tastes great.”

Two rounds later, Kiyoomi feels a little spinny.  He watches the television replay some of the games from earlier with a frown.  The weight of their defeat pushes at his chest until Atsumu bumps their knees together.  “Yanno,” he slurs, “we could be doin’ more than just sittin’ around for drinks.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Well, we got a few more days,” Atsumu says.  “It’d be a waste if we just sat around.”  He finishes his drink.  “Let’s go sightseeing.  Together.  All the typical tourist stuff.”

Kiyoomi considers that offer.  On the one hand, he hates crowds and public spaces with a fierce passion.  Tourist traps are often filthy and expensive.  Not to mention, the summer heat is oppressive and Kiyoomi isn’t well-equipped to deal with it.  “Okay,” he answers.  “That sounds nice.”

Atsumu pumps a fist in the air.  “Yeah!  I’ll meet ya outside yer building tomorrow, then?  Say, eight o’clock?”

“In the morning?” Kiyoomi asks, aghast.

“Lots to do.  Might as well get an early start.”

Kiyoomi must be losing his mind.  He can’t believe he’s going to agree to waking up early just to stand around a bunch of strangers in tight spaces.  “Okay,” he says again and resigns himself to his new fate.  Atsumu’s smile has a strange persuasive power.

They have one more round of drinks before calling it a night.

“Ya sure yer good to walk back on yer own?” Atsumu wonders even as he wobbles a bit on his own feet.

Kiyoomi waves him off.  “M’fine.  Not that drunk.  But, really, eight in the morning?”

Atsumu laughs.  “For you, we can make it nine.”

He hates how that makes him blush.  Luckily, he can pass it off with alcohol.  “Nine, then.”

“Don’t be late.”

They part ways once they get back to the Olympic village.  Kiyoomi watches Atsumu stumble away, making sure he knows where he’s going, before slipping into his own.

Everyone else is already asleep.  Kiyoomi, drunk and desperately unused to the feeling, drops into his bed with a groan.  He doesn’t shower.  He doesn’t even take off his clothes.  But he makes sure to stay awake just long enough to set an alarm.  His thumb barely taps the on button before he falls asleep.

The alarm goes off at eight.  Kiyoomi snoozes it once, still groggy, but he shoots out of bed at the second reminder.  “Fuck,” he grumbles.  His head is pounding.  His mouth is disgusting.  His hair is atrocious.  He catches his reflection in the tiny mirror above his dresser and winces.

He manages to slip into the shower unnoticed.  He brushes his teeth twice and pops three ibuprofen before dressing and checking the time again.  It’s almost nine.

“Well, look who’s alive,” Komori teases as Kiyoomi leaves the bathroom.  His expression ripples as he gives an exaggerated sniff.  “Are… are you wearing cologne?”

“I’m going out,” Kiyoomi mutters.  “I’ll probably be back late.”

“Wait, wait, wait.”  Komori shakes his head.  “Back up.  You’re going out?  With who?”

“Atsumu.”

“Atsu-- Miya Atsumu?  You’re going on a date with our teammate?” Komori exclaims as he follows Kiyoomi through their shared living room.  “Are you feeling okay?  Are you still hungover?”

“It’s not a date,” Kiyoomi whispers back, glancing at their roommates’ closed doors warily.  “We’re just sight-seeing together.”

“Oh, really?  What sights are you planning to see?”

“Sugarloaf mountain, the Jardim Botanico, and the Parque Lage,” Kiyoomi lists.  “Couple other spots he mentioned.  Why?”

“Because that literally sounds like Trivago’s top ten ‘most romantic places in Rio de Janiero’ article.”  Komori crosses his arms.  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?  What if he thinks it’s a date?”

A hopeful flame flickers in his chest.

“Would that be bad?”

.

“Omi-kun!” a loud voice shouts.  Atsumu waves him over.  He’s in khaki cargo shorts, a red t-shirt, and sunglasses.  It’s a basic outfit, but Kiyoomi rarely sees him out of workout clothes.  And, Kiyoomi has to admit, red has always been Atsumu’s color.  “Ya look nice,” Atsumu says as Kiyoomi approaches, “but won’t ya get hot?”

Kiyoomi looks down at his own outfit: a loose long-sleeved henley and dark jeans.  “I burn easily,” he says.  “The heat won’t bother me.”

“If ya say so.”  Atsumu shrugs.  “Anywhere ya wanna go first?”

“National History Museum,” Kiyoomi answers immediately.

Atsumu blinks.  “Oh.  I forgot yer one of those people.”

“One of what people?”

“Smart.”

Kiyoomi knows for a fact that Atsumu got fantastic grades in school.  But, if he wants to pretend like he’s too cool for a book then Kiyoomi won’t push.  He shrugs.  “This might be the only time I’m in Brazil.  Might as well see it while I can.”

“All right,” Atsumu agrees.  “Let’s look up some tickets.”

The museum is dark and cool and quiet.  Perfect for Kiyoomi, who peruses the exhibits and takes the time to read the placards describing the artifacts around them.  Kiyoomi isn’t totally fluent in English, but he gets the gist.  He expects Atsumu to get bored or impatient, but he reads the descriptions, too.  His Portuguese is stronger than Kiyoomi’s so, between the two of them, they learn quite a bit.

“That was actually kinda fun,” Atsumu admits.  “I liked seeing all the swords and shit.”  Kiyoomi smirks.  “What?  What’s that face for?”

“You’re a nerd,” Kiyoomi taunts.

“I am not.”

“You are.  You knew what date Brazil became an independent country without even looking at the sign.  You studied it.  Because you’re one of those people.”

Atsumu squawks, voice echoing loudly through the tall ceilings.  “Take that back.”

“That’s not a bad thing, you know.”

Atsumu’s shoulders rise.  He toys with his sunglasses, folded into the collar of his shirt, and mutters, “Even though I didn’t go to college?”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi breathes.  He’s unused to this side of Atsumu.  Quiet, insecure.  “You don’t need to go to college to be smart, Miya.  It’s just another path.  That’s all.”

Atsumu relaxes.  “Thanks,” he whispers, and something flutters in Kiyoomi’s chest.

After the museum, they head for Sugarloaf mountain.  It’s Kiyoomi’s turn to be uncertain.  He takes one look at the little rickety lift that’s supposed to transport them over the city and feels faint.  “Nope,” he states and turns around.

Atsumu grabs the back of his shirt.  “C’mon, Omi!  It’s gonna be fine!  Look, these things have gone back and forth a million times and no one’s ever been hurt.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Kiyoomi cries.  “Everything breaks eventually.  What if the limit is a million and one?

“Nothing’s gonna happen.  I promise.  Ya can push me out the window if I’m wrong, okay?”

Kiyoomi frowns.  “I don’t want to do that, but fine.  I’ll… go on the old cable car.”

When it’s their turn, Kiyoomi still hesitates.  The glass gondola doesn’t look especially strong, and the lift seems even higher now that they’re at the base of the ground station.  Atsumu urges him into the cable car with an impatient shove.  Kiyoomi glares at him over his shoulder, and Atsumu pacifies him with a pat on his back.

As the cart begins to rise on the cables, Kiyoomi gets lightheaded.  He doesn’t like heights.  He took some allergy meds on the plane and took a long nap to avoid the stress of being miles high.  As the trees begin to look smaller and smaller, and people become indistinguishable from the city landscape below, Kiyoomi thinks he could actually faint.

“Hey,” Atsumu bumps their arms together, “Kiyoomi, look up.”  Kiyoomi makes a weak noise and does.  “See how far we’ve gone already?  Almost there.  Yer doin’ great.”  He’s using his game voice.  The same confident tone that he has when he’s figured out a way to get past the other teams’ blockers.  That familiarity soothes him more than anything.

“Almost there,” Kiyoomi parrots.

The entire ordeal lasts all of six minutes, but that’s six too many.  Once they’re back on solid ground, Kiyoomi feels much better.  The mountain does give a spectacular view of the city.  He can see everything from the iconic Christ the Redeemer statue to the distant mountains.

“Feelin’ better?” Atsumu asks after he’s taken his fill of pictures.

Kiyoomi nods.

“Good.  Because it’s time to head back down.”

Kiyoomi could cry.

The way down isn’t as bad as the way up.  The sun is setting, which paints warm colors into the ocean ahead, and it’s much quieter.  Regardless, he’s fine with never doing that again.  He wonders what Komori would say if he could see him right now.

“Man,” Atsumu glances at his phone, “it’s gettin’ late.  The Botanico is already closed.”

Kiyoomi shrugs.  “We can just go tomorrow.”

Atsumu stops mid-step, head snapping up to Kiyoomi in surprise.  “Really?” he asks quietly.

Kiyoomi tilts his head to one side.  “We’ve got a few days left, remember?”

“Sure, but yer not, yanno, tired?”  His tone is uncertain again, his eyes flicker to the side, and his fingers tangle together.

“I may not be a professional V.League player,” Kiyoomi says, “but I am an Olympian.  I don’t tire out that easily.”

“That’s not what I…”

“I know what you meant,” Kiyoomi says, softer.  Because Atsumu is like him.  Easily misunderstood, easily dismissed.  People see Kiyoomi’s quiet realism and think he’s not enough.  People see Atsumu’s loud optimism and think he’s too much.  It could be wishful thinking on Kiyoomi’s part but, together, maybe they balance out.  Maybe they’re just right.  “I want to go tomorrow.”

Atsumu lights up.  “Then I’ll see ya tomorrow.  Same time?”

“Same place,” he agrees.

There’s a moment before they part that feels charged.  Both of them wait for something they’re not quite brave enough to do yet.  Then, awkwardly, Atsumu claps Kiyoomi on the shoulder and blurts, “Thank you,” before turning on his heels and heading towards his room.

A smile pulls at Kiyoomi’s lips.  It stays on his face for the rest of his walk back to his shared apartment.  Komori and Bokuto are on the couch, playing cards in hand.  Komori raises an eyebrow at Kiyoomi’s expression.  “So, um, I guess you had fun with Atsumu today?”

Kiyoomi pauses with his hand on the door handle.  “It was a date," he says and then disappears into his room before anyone can ask further questions.

.

The next day, they end up missing the botanical gardens again.  On the way, Atsumu spotted an interesting street market.  They spent longer than necessary viewing each booth.  Vendors sell everything from handmade jewelry to fresh fruit.  Locals give them recommendations of places to check out.  Atsumu’s conversational Portugeuse is surprisingly good, though they do have to rely on their translator apps to carry a full conversation with anyone for long.

“That island sounds kinda fun,” Atsumu admits as they leave.  “But it’s like a thirty minute boat ride away.  What d’ya think?”

Kiyoomi hums.  “If the views are half as good as those guys said, then it’s worth the trek.”

Atsumu agrees, and so they go.  The boat ride itself is fun, though that’s mostly because Kiyoomi snickers at Atsumu’s slight discomfort despite the fact that the water is calm.  The hike, however, is grueling.  The humidity is worse under the canopy of foliage.  Kiyoomi’s hair is a frizzy nest by noon.  Atsumu makes it a point to tease him about his new hairdo at least once an hour.

Once they reach the summit of the hike, Kiyoomi’s irritation disappears.  The island is as untouched by humans as it can be.  There are no sounds of traffic or bustling crowds.  Just birds chirping and water hitting the shore.  Kiyoomi takes a deep breath.  Not even the bugs swarming at their heads dampens his mood.  He almost feels like a different person as they descend the mountain again.  He feels revived - confident and calm at once.

Atsumu slips on a wet rock halfway down.  He cries out and flails his arms.  Kiyoomi steadies him quickly, one hand on Atsumu’s shoulder and the other gripping Atsumu’s hand.  “Careful,” he hisses, sounding more annoyed than he feels.  “You know, you’re kind of clumsy.”

Atsumu scoffs.  “It’s not my fault that the ground is slippery!”

“Right,” he concedes, “but you’re the one charging ahead without looking where you step.”

“It’s a good thing you’re here with me, then,” Atsumu murmurs.  A bead of sweat rolls down Atsumu’s forehead.  Kiyoomi follows it down to his lips and swallows around the knot in his throat.

Oh.

“Moron,” Kiyoomi mutters.  He takes the lead, but their fingers are still interlaced as they walk.  Safety isn’t a strong enough excuse to warrant the touch, but neither of them let go until they return to the docks.

Another half hour boat ride gets them back to the mainland, where Atsumu declares that he’s starving.  They choose to stroll down a nearby street filled with shops.  Samba livens up the evening as live bands play for the crowd.  Kiyoomi points out a street vendor selling picanha so they grab some food and listen to the music.  Couples dance together, spinning and smiling as the night goes on.  Atsumu risks a glance at Kiyoomi then back at the dancers, and Kiyoomi feels an anxious swoop in his gut.

Atsumu doesn’t ask him to dance, but he does bob to the beat where he stands.  When he notices Kiyoomi watching him, he gives a little shuffle and winks.  Kiyoomi snorts, shakes his shoulders back, and revels in Atsumu’s answering laugh.

They promise to finally hit the botanical gardens the next day.  It’s their last full day in Rio.  The thought leaves Kiyoomi feeling conflicted.  He misses home.  He wants to go back to his regular life and his college team and his family’s dog.  But he thinks he’s going to really miss Atsumu, too.

.

The next day, they meet up a little later.  Atsumu emails him the link to their prepaid tickets and suggests they get something to eat before their tour.  Kiyoomi’s not very hungry so he settles for a frozen lemonade and eats as they wait for their bus.

“It’s nice to have someone familiar around,” Atsumu admits.  “As much as this whole week has been a dream come true, it’s a little scary being so far from home.”

“So why didn’t you invite Aran?” Kiyoomi asks.  “You’ve known him a long time, right?”

Atsumu shrugs.  “Why didn’t ya invite Komori?”

Kiyoomi just takes another lick at his frozen lemonade.  Atsumu smiles at him before doing the same with his own.  Somehow, they both hear the silent answer.  Because I’d rather be with you.

The Jardim Botanico is beautiful.  Kiyoomi isn’t one to wax poetry or exaggerate, but even he is taken with the gardens.  There are plants and trees of every variety, from every corner of the globe.  A room full of strangely shaped cacti, a gorgeous path lined by tall palm trees leading to a black fountain, an indoor gazebo adorned with orchids in the center of a little pond.  Pictures aren’t allowed, which is a tragedy because, among all these delicate flowers, Miya Atsumu is the most striking.  A butterfly flutters past them and Atsumu holds out a hopeful finger, smiling as he swears it touched him.

Kiyoomi wants to remember this moment forever.

They visit the Japanese garden last.  It’s almost like home with red bridges, some cherry trees, and azaleas.  Atsumu stops them halfway across the bridge, pointing excitedly into the small creek beneath them.  Dozens of colorful koi swim eagerly against the current, looking for treats.

“Look at that one!  By the rock!”  Atsumu grins.  “It’s got two little dots on his head.  He’s so cute.  He looks like ya.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t see it, but he nods anyway and pretends like his stomach isn’t currently in knots.

As the afternoon wears into evening, Atsumu stretches out his back and sighs.  “I guess that’s everything.  We kinda cleared out our list.”

“Already?” Kiyoomi blinks in surprise.  Over the last three days, they've managed to cover a lot of ground.  From museums to street markets to a hiking trail, Kiyoomi's stepped out of his comfort zone and into a fairytale.  It's almost funny how it took travelling to a new country to learn how to relax.  He could get used to this feeling.

He glances at Atsumu out of the corner of his eye.  He's taking a picture of a large bird sitting on a road sign, tongue poking out in concentration.

Kiyoomi could definitely get used to this.

"We should do something else," Kiyoomi says.

"Like what?" Atsumu looks up from his phone.

.

"I thought ya hated the beach."

"I do," Kiyoomi admits, rolling up his trousers up his calves.  "But it's been days since I even held a volleyball, and all the indoor gyms are closed by now."

Atsumu kicks off his sandals.  "Copacabana beach."  He whistles.  "Look at all the nets!"

The beach is expectedly crowded.  Beyond the neat rows of volleyball nets and assorted umbrellas sticking out of the sand, the ocean stretches out into a blue horizon.  The familiar sound of volleyballs hitting palms brings them forward, but then Atsumu points at an empty net and grabs Kiyoomi's wrist.  "How bout a one-on-one, Sakusa-san?"

Kiyoomi rolls his wrist until their fingers slot together.  "If you think you can keep up."

Atsumu's grin turns sharp, but he squeezes Kiyoomi's hand twice before letting go and picking up a faded volleyball left by the net pole.

"If yer feelin' that confident," Atsumu throws the ball into Kiyoomi's chest, "then I'll even let ya serve first."

"You sure?"

"Bring it on, Omi."

They take either side of the net.  Four wind-torn flags mark the boundaries of the invisible court, and Kiyoomi checks the ball's pressure with a squeeze as he makes sure he's lined up with them.

"Ya gonna play or ya gonna stare at the sand?" Atsumu shouts over to him.

Kiyoomi throws the ball into the air, but the sand dogs down his balance as he steps forward and, thrown off, completely misses.

Atsumu erupts into ear-splitting laughter.  "What the heck was that?"

"Shut up," Kiyoomi grumbles.  "I lost my footing.  That doesn't count."

"Right, right."

The second attempt is just as hard as the first, but he manages to send the ball over the net.  Then he has the great pleasure of seeing Atsumu slip as he attempts to receive it, falling face-first into the sand.

"How's that taste?"

"Shuddup, Omi…"

Terrain challenges aside, it's the most fun Kiyoomi's had playing volleyball in a long time.  They give their all into every jump and each spike, tiring out faster than normal both because of the heat and because of how hard they laugh.  Somewhere between Kiyoomi falling on his ass and Atsumu getting tangled in the net, they lose any pretense of a competition.  Instead of counting points, Kiyoomi counts each time Atsumu snorts or whoops or flips him off.

Eventually, they can no longer ignore their empty stomachs.  Atsumu drops to his knees, trying to catch his breath.  Kiyoomi isn't much better, but he ducks under the net to clap him on the back.  "Good game," he wheezes.

"That wasn't a game," Atsumu chuckles.  "That was a disaster."

Sunlight glitters on a calm sea, on coarse sand, and on a careful smile as Atsumu cards his hand through his hair.  The heat evaporates in an instant when Atsumu directs that smile at him.  Affection crashes over him like a cold wave, refreshing and frightening all at once.

“Ya’ve got sand in yer hair, too,” Atsumu laughs.  He raises a hand.  “Can I... ?”

Kiyoomi lowers his head, bending awkwardly in a silent invitation.  There’s a second of hesitation before Atsumu brushes his forehead.  It’s just a quick swat, gentle but nervous, but it affects Kiyoomi regardless.  The second touch is, if possible, even gentler and far more deliberate.  Atsumu’s fingers tangle into his curls while his thumb swipes away the sand.

At some point, Kiyoomi risks a glance.  Atsumu’s expression isn’t unlike when he’s planning where to send his next serve, but his eyes betray a bit of nervousness in the way they flicker away.  Slowly, Kiyoomi places his own hand overtop Atsumu’s, garnering his attention again.  He’s learning how to swim through a confusing sea of emotions.  Though he may not be very good at navigating this yet, he’s ready to start kicking.  “Atsumu,” he starts and moves Atsumu’s hand down to his cheek, “there’s something I should--”

“There you guys are!” a familiar voice calls over the wind.  “We’ve been looking all over for you!”

Kiyoomi’s back cracks as he snaps upright again.  Atsumu snatches his hand back, folding his arms behind himself and looking up at the clouds as if they hadn’t been talking at all.  “Wow, yer right, Omi!  That seagull is huge!”

Komori approaches them with a confused look.  “You guys came all the way out here to look at birds?”

Atsumu is holding back laughter.  Kiyoomi feels like his face is sunburnt.  And Komori glances at them with an amused smirk.  “We’re all going to dinner to close out the trip,” Komori tells them.  “The whole team.  You guys coming or should I leave you to your seagulls?”

Atsumu turns to Kiyoomi, letting him decide for them both.  Like they’re together.  Like a couple.  Kiyoomi nods.  “Yeah.  We’ll come.”

.

Turns out, Kiyoomi is sunburnt.  “Ow, ow, ow,” he hisses as Atsumu prods at his nose.  They’re in Atsumu’s room after the final team dinner.  Under the fluorescent restaurant lighting, Atsumu was quick to spot Kiyoomi’s abnormally red face and heroically offered to give him some aloe vera gel.  “That hurts.”

“Ya have such fair skin,” he mutters.  He squeezes more gel onto his thumb and massages it onto Kiyoomi’s cheek.  “Next time we gotta bring some stronger sunblock.”  Kiyoomi smiles at the idea of ‘next time’ but the stretch makes his face sting.  Atsumu grabs his chin.  “Stay still, dammit!  I’m worried I’ll poke yer eye or something.”

Kiyoomi pouts, but he lets himself be cared for.  He’s never had someone like this - friend or family or more.  His parents were busy.  His siblings were older.  Even Komori wouldn’t step into his personal space like this.  Atsumu’s hands are soft and gentle and all Kiyoomi can think about.  He’ll have to pay closer attention to how they look in the middle of a game.  He smiles wider.  Next time.

“What?” Atsumu murmurs, cheeks pink.  “Why’re ya lookin’ at me like that?”

The confession flies out of him like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.  “I like you.”

Atsumu’s fingers go still.  His eyes crinkle with his smile.  “I like ya, too.”

Kiyoomi knows, but hearing it for the first time makes the stinging sunburn worth it.  He leans forward, but Atsumu pulls back.  Kiyoomi freezes.

“Will ya still like me when we get back to Japan?” Atsumu’s voice is barely above a whisper.

Kiyoomi blinks.  “Is this a trick question?”

“I’m serious.  Things like this happen all the time.  Holiday flings.  People cling to each other because they want company in a foreign place and because they want comfort after a disappointing loss.”  Atsumu looks away.  “I’m not interested in being a weekend retreat.”

“Atsumu,” he interjects, “I don’t think that applies to us.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No.  Look, I… it’s not Rio that made me like you.”  He fidgets in his chair.  He wishes he had a facemask on to hide the way he nervously chews on his bottom lip.  His face has to be as red as a steamed lobster by now.  “I liked you in Japan, too.  Way before we got here.”

Atsumu’s expression widens in shock.  “Wha--ya did?  Since when?”

“Since a while.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

Kiyoomi laughs.  He grabs Atsumu’s hands and pulls him a little closer.  “I like you there.  I like you here.  I’ll like you anywhere.”

“Okay, Dr. Seuss,” Atsumu teases weakly, but his tone is far too soft for the jab to stick.  “For the record, I bet I liked ya first.”

Kiyoomi hums.  “But I like you just as much.”

They lean forward, lips just centimeters apart, before Atsumu pulls back again.  “But what about school?”

Kiyoomi groans.  “What about school?”

“Ya’ve still got one more year, right?  Yer in Tokyo and I’m in Osaka and--”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi interrupts, clapping his hands over Atsumu’s cheeks, “I’ll like you anywhere.  Okay?”

Atsumu relaxes.  A dopey smile spreads across his face, awkward because of how Kiyoomi’s squishing his cheeks.  “Yeah, okay.”

This time, neither of them pull away.  Atsumu’s lips are every bit as soft and gentle as his touch.  Kiyoomi kisses back, eager to return all the affection and kindness Atsumu has showered on him over the last few days.

Japan doesn’t medal in Rio.  It’s a bitter disappointment, but Kiyoomi’s frustrations are left on the court.  The only thing he carries with him is the promise of another Olympics at Atsumu’s side.  Maybe the next one, too.  And many, many happy memories in between.

.

2021

Kiyoomi is sweaty.

Japan has hot and humid summers, and this year is no exception.  The sun is relentless, streaming through the arena windows and casting everything in a bright glow.  The crowd roars as Japan’s national anthem buzzes out of the loudspeakers, but all Kiyoomi can hear is his own heartbeat pounding in his ears as he watches his nation’s flag rise higher than all the others.

The gold medal around his neck, made richer by the gold ring hanging on a chain underneath his jersey, burns into his chest.  He still can’t quite believe it.  Five years of studying, training, and dreaming have culminated into one startlingly real moment.

It’s the 2021 Tokyo Summer Olympics, and Japan has placed first.

“Ya good, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi turns his attention to the man beside him, smiling as he feels fingers lock with his own.  Miya Atsumu bumps their arms together, double gold on his chest, and adds, “Yer lookin’ a little misty-eyed.”

Kiyoomi squeezes Atsumu’s hand in a weak attempt to scold him.  “We did it,” is all he can say.

Atsumu beams.  “What, did ya ever doubt us?”

Five years of phone calls, burnt dinners, and gentle touches.

“You never gave me a reason to,” Kiyoomi replies.  “But what now?”

“We prep for Paris.”  Atsumu tilts his head to the side and winks at him.  “City of love, yanno?  It’d be pretty cool to snag a gold medal there, too.”

Kiyoomi chuckles.  “And when we’re too old to be winning gold?”

“Then I’ll buy you some.”

Ushijima calls for their attention, turning towards the audience.  They follow him, eager to show their gratitude for their home fans.  Atsumu doesn’t let go of Kiyoomi’s hand as they bow, letting all their supporters read their matching names printed across their backs.

Notes:

Happy birthday, Xavi!! You have a wonderful year ahead of you, but for now I hope you enjoy some sakuatsu written with you in mind!! ;v;

Everyone feel free to leave some birthday wishes on fellestar's fics if you want some amazing sakuatsu or sunaosa. Also, thank you to Regan for being my cheerleader and for your time while making a graphic for this.