Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sakusa Kiyoomi hated change. Ever since he was a child, he had always been like that. If a plan got cancelled last minute, he would simply sit around, unable to do anything in the time that was no longer allotted to anything in particular. He hated when his favourite snacks got discontinued or if his comfort food no longer tasted good. Kiyoomi hated sleeping in new environments or suddenly finding himself unable to do his nightly routine before going to bed.

One of the things he hated most was when his perceptions of people he knew changed. Because then he didn’t know how to act around them. He wouldn't go as far as to say that his personality was solely based on interaction with others but certainly certain aspects of himself were only reserved for certain people.

Which led to the next point. Kiyoomi also didn’t like finding out that two people he knew were acquaintances with each other because then his perception of both people were skewed—his dynamic with either of them and their relation with each other. 

Another thing that especially bugged him was when his extended family came to stay over. There would be more people in the house, rendering the space more crowded in terms of people per square inch, and everyone would try to touch him. Always, they would pat his hair or cup his cheek or tug his earlobe. 

Sure, maybe when Kiyoomi was six it was slightly more socially acceptable to curl up in a ball, rock back and forth, hyperventilate but his relatives visited yearly. So by the time Kiyoomi was thirteen, he’d learn to shut himself in his room with Motoya and stave off the breakdowns that way. As a child, he’d been so overwhelmed by the crowd and the people and the touching that he didn’t even feel any self-consciousness until he was sixteen. 

If he is being honest, there are probably only a handful of changes in his life he would deem as acceptable or good. One of them would definitely be befriending his cousin, having someone to hang with and care about him. 

Perhaps moving to Osaka was also an okay change because of all the places he could have moved to, Osaka is probably the most alike home, as it is also a big city laden with tourists and nightlife. The new dialect did irk him the slightest bit at first though.

As for the change he is surest of them all was positive: the process that changed Miya into Atsumu. 

From Kiyoomi’s point of view, he’d probably boil this course of action down to about three incidents, the incidence of these incidents increasing dramatically since the first. 

And the first came when they happened to catch the same bus to practice.

---

He and Miya and the rest of the recent newbies all shared one apartment complex. It was less like a college dorm or a frat house and more like a hotel. There were floors and rooms, each of which had their own bathroom. Naturally, it had taken him some while to adjust but the premises and facilities looked clean. That definitely aided.

One chilly autumn morning, Kiyoomi donned a mask and a jacket similar to the one that had gotten him through high school—the Itachiyama letterman he would zip to his chin and slouch to hide his chest in—and made his way to the bus stop. 

As he got on, footsteps sounded, someone jogging across the asphalt to where the bus had halted, calling, “Hold on!” The doors opened for the latecomer and Miya got on, smirking like he was proud for making it on just in time. His blond hair was tousled by the wind and his amber eyes were wide, bright.

It would have been better if he’d simply not been late, Kiyoomi thought to himself, turning away. Or if he’d waited for the next bus instead of tiring himself out in an attempt to catch this one.

Miya sidled up next to him with a smile, dimples showing, even though there were empty seats and more space in the back of the bus. “Hi, Omi-kun! How ya doing?”

Kiyoomi sighed through his nose, grousing, “I’m alright.”

“Yeah? You sound kinda down.”

He rolled his eyes and Miya laughed. Nothing ever seemed to faze him, no insult or physical altercation or one-upping from setters of other teams. Miya seemed immovable, like one could throw anything at him and he’d fare alright.

The bus started moving. Kiyoomi didn’t like holding onto the metal bars because other people’s grimy, sweaty hands so often clung to them too. Case in point, Miya raised an arm to grasp onto the railing, his sweatshirt hiking up the slightest bit between the zippers of his jacket, baring a small strip of skin between the waistband of underwear and the hem of his top. 

Kiyoomi averted his eyes. He didn’t have particularly strong opinions on any of his teammates. They were either somewhat normal or too loud and talked too much. But then again it could also be argued that Kiyoomi just wasn't vocal enough. So he didn’t count that as an objective reason to hold something against them. Miya though… He was an interesting one, to say the least.

As the bus made its way towards the intersection where Kiyoomi and Miya would be getting off, a taxi suddenly swerved into the lane. The driver slammed on the breaks, sending everyone flying. Or maybe it was just Kiyoomi who went flying since he was the only one who wasn't holding onto anything.

“Shit!”

Miya caught him, nonchalantly wrapping an arm around Kiyoomi’s waist, pulling him in. There were few people on the bus so he wasn't too particular about a crowd forming. Now that he and Miya stood in direct contact, though, Kiyoomi was aware of every part of their bodies that met. 

A strong muscled arm Kiyoomi had witnessed on multiple occasions pulling off perfect sets roped across his midriff, Miya’s hand pressed flat against the small of Kiyoomi’s back. Their chests pressed together, Kiyoomi’s chin close to the side of Miya’s head. 

“You alright?” he said casually, because of course Miya was casual. He still had one hand gripping the bar above his head. Everything about him emanated relaxed confidence. It wasn't like Miya’s body would be set on fire everywhere it was touched. “Ya know, you should probably hold on to something while the bus is in motion. There are poles and handlebars and that kind of stuff for a reason.” 

Miya sounded amused. 

“Get off me,” Kiyoomi murmured, not bothering to express any gratitude. He just pulled back and ignored the inquisitive look on Miya’s face. 

“I saved you. The least you could do is thank me!”

Kiyoomi groaned internally. Sometimes his teammates could be the most childish of people and that’s coming from someone who once picked a fight at a volleyball camp over Shiratorizawa not making it to nationals for once. 

“Come on. Come on, Omi-kun!” Though he wasn't looking, he could tell Miya was grinning. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing, picturing pretty white teeth and dimples on either side of Miya’s mouth. “It’s thanks to me that yer not face planted on the dirty bus floor right now.”

With gritted teeth, Kiyoomi yielded to what Miya said. Maybe it was true. If Miya hadn’t caught him, it was very likely Kiyoomi would have tripped and fell. He also decided he would rather endure five seconds of touching than be lying on the ground. Fine then.

“Thank you, Miya.”

He beamed. “No problem!”

A second similar incident took place about a month after that.

---

The entire team was taking an el to a fancy restaurant. They were celebrating their first win of the season with a victory dinner. Kiyoomi didn’t particularly like trying new menus, especially if there wasn't some sort of safe food he could order at a last resort. 

Though Miya, Hinata, and Bokuto seemed like the kinds to order buttered noodles or chicken tenders merely because they had the mental age of a toddler, Kiyoomi could also kind of relate to being a picky eater.

He and the team stood near the very back of the car, sandwiched in the corner. Miya, Hinata, and Bokuto stood closest to him, conversing and speculating over the nature of the victory dinner. What kind of drinks they wanted, who was going to pay, how they were going to split the bill, how drunk they were going to get. 

Being large was beneficial in volleyball but in moments like these, Kiyoomi hated it. He tried to make himself as small as possible so he wouldn't be in contact with the walls of the train. So nobody would accidentally brush his hand, so nobody would accidentally step on his foot. 

Kiyoomi thought of the way Hinata could shrink to slip between gaps in a crowd—the way Miya and Bokuto would manage to follow, despite not being as small as he—and tried his best to imitate, curling his in shoulders, folding his arms, tucking himself further into the corner of the car.

While he was fretting over the restaurant—whose name and style of cuisine Meian had refused to disclose—and the capacity of the train, the car stopped to let passengers even more on. The volume of people in the train nearly doubled and Kiyoomi began to panic. It was like there was less air in the car, now that there were so many more people in the crowd to breathe it all in.

Kiyoomi was reminded uncomfortably of the feelings of overstimulation, like when the horde of extended family would all crowd around him, touching and petting and feeling and grabbing. His back pressed against the walls of the train, bodies brushed against his arms and torso and shoulders and legs. He was aware of his feet in his shoes, the windows of the car flattening his curls, the rustle of his jacket against someone’s tote. It was all too much.

“Hey,” Miya said quietly, slipping past Barnes and Meian. He put distance between himself and Kiyoomi, even if that meant shoving the lady behind him back a little. She grumbled, tucking her purse under her arm now that she had no more space to hold it normally. Miya pressed his back further against her. Kiyoomi felt like he could breathe again. “Are ya doin’ alright?”

He pushed himself off the train’s wall. Now, Kiyoomi had about half a foot of space in each direction. His shoulder was six inches away from the wall, his head was six inches away from the window. Miya’s chest was six inches away from his, Miya’s nose was six inches away from his. It wasn't great but at least it was something. 

“Feeling a little claustrophobic,” Kiyoomi managed. “Like it’s hard to breathe.”

“Would taking off yer mask help?”

Kiyoomi was about to retort before he realized Miya wasn't mocking him. His eyes were round and inviting and inquiring, their soft brown shade catching the light and turning to gold, like a campfire’s flame in the twilit sky of dusk. 

“No,” he said finally. “It wouldn't.” 

The fact that he was wearing a mask was probably the only thing saving him from having a full blown panic attack. Kiyoomi didn’t even want to imagine being in a train with this many people without a mask on, didn’t want to imagine having to breathe unfiltered air that had been in somebody else’s lungs, in somebody else’s body, bloodstream, intestine, kidney, lymph. Disgusting. 

“Hm.” Miya tilted his head, concern etched onto every line of his boyish face, looking awfully sweet and youthful and considerate and kind. His hand rubbed at his chin. Did he know he was doing that?

Kiyoomi had realized within a week of playing on the same team as Miya that he had two resting faces: his real one and his fake one. His fake one was the one where he narrowed his eyes and smirked a little, his brows raised. 

Usually, he presented it for the camera or in front of opponents, where he wished to look attractive and intimidating and impenetrable. In other words, it was a forced resting bitch face. It tended to work but Kiyoomi thought Miya looked stupid. 

His real resting face, on the other hand, was a lot more genuine, which sounded obvious, but it was very clear that Miya was simply relaxing his features. Miya’s brows were straight and at ease, he didn’t clench his jaw or look tense, he didn’t purse his lips or pout, and his eyes were frank and vulnerable. He would look almost surprised. 

Kiyoomi caught glimpses of it whenever Miya spaced out or stared out the window or waited nervously to get yelled at by the coach. In other words, whenever Miya thought no one was looking. It reminded him not of a deer in headlights but of a deer ambling down a riverbank, unawares. 

Why Kiyoomi kept seeing Miya when he thought no one was watching, he couldn’t say. He kind of liked it though, seeing Miya with his guard down, looking like the young twenty-two-year-old he was. 

“Is there anything I can do to help, Omi-kun?” Miya said finally, after a minute of deliberation. His voice was thoughtful, his consideration seeping into his cadence. Something Kiyoomi would never admit was that, while Miya often portrayed himself as immature and whiny and bratty, he was actually very sufferable once you were actually alone with him. Assuming Miya was close with or at least tolerated the person he was alone with. 

He didn’t posture or put on any fronts. It was just him being himself. And he was quite nicely pleasant when he was being himself. “Do you want water or anythin’ like that? I have a bottle in my bag if you want it. It’s unopened.”

Water sounded good but drinking it would require removing his mask, which was something Kiyoomi didn’t want to do. In the end, he merely said, “I’m alright.” Miya cocked a brow. “I’m sure we’ll be there soon enough.” He didn’t notice the hand Miya had placed on his arm. Almost seven minutes had passed already. “Thank you, Miya.”

---

Miya Atsumu had always been very sure of himself. He knew who he was and he knew that if someone didn’t like it, well, then they were probably beneath him anyway. While Osamu and everyone else figured that if Atsumu ever met someone similar to him, they’d hate each other, Atsumu had always thought the opposite. 

He figured if he knew what it was like to have walls around himself, he could relate to someone else who was like that and have the patience to get to know them. After all, he figured he was a pretty rare find and that the people who had gotten to know him were pretty lucky. So if Atsumu ever came into contact with someone else like him, why not put in the effort?

Once he joined the MSBY Black Jackals team, he hit it off instantly with Shōyō and Kōtarō. It took one week of bonding before deciding to stumble that weekend tipsily from izakaya to izakaya on the streets of Higashiōsaka. They would play drunken trivia and beer pong on their weeks off. 

Atsumu had the support of the regular patrons of the local izakayas and frequently received free drinks, having won multiple karaoke battles while wasted alongside Shōyō and Kōtarō, who weren’t as good at intoxicated singing as he but still managed to provide decent harmonies and back up. 

Despite not being with his twin, Atsumu had to say he was happy. He liked Osaka, he liked drinking with his friends during his recreational time, and he liked winning. Keeping his antics very separate from his volleyball had proved to be a very smart choice. 

His teammates liked him because they frequently won. In fact, his teammates seemed to like him even if they didn’t win, which Atsumu was very glad to see. He thought he was decently likable when he wanted to be and he’d been the slightest bit afraid to move to a new city without Osamu. 

People not liking him wasn't the end of the world and he was more than used to it. But he really liked this team so he wanted them to like him too. There was someone in particular Atsumu who wanted to like him, because he wasn't very gregarious and if Atsumu could get him to open up, he figured it would be very intensely satisfying. Plus he was hot. Like, really hot. Kind of exactly his type: big enough to snap someone in half, tall and handsome and brooding. 

Shōyō and Kōtarō would have made decent wingmen if only they could contain their eager enthusiasm. They couldn’t, though, so Atsumu more or less kept his crush to himself. After all, one didn’t always have to go after their crush, pursue them and try to date them and fall in love. 

A crush didn’t always have to end in a marriage with kids or a faulty relationship with a sad and messy breakup. Sometimes, all a crush needed to be was entertaining, someone to fill your thoughts with and think about for fun. Someone to gush about while drunk—which Shōyō and Kōtarō knew Atsumu did somewhat often—or dedicate love songs to, while the person themselves was probably at home asleep. 

While Atsumu was very perceptive and observant, he was also kind of oblivious and didn’t notice things like if, for example, his crush liked him back.

Their win streak spanned four games. Only the first had warranted a victory dinner, though, because it was the first game and win of the season, and because it had been an especially tough one mentally. No one had thought they would win and the tie breaker set took what seemed like eons. 

Atsumu hadn’t been the one to notice that whenever he would offer Omi high fives after victories, Omi would actually accept, which wasn't something he usually did with anyone else. What Atsumu had realized, however, was that Omi didn’t respond too well to touching. 

Usually, he looked super uncomfortable on public transport and didn’t seem to enjoy being bear hugged or tackled. So Atsumu didn’t do any of those things. If Omi didn’t want to be touched at all, that wasn't something he had made known to anyone, and Atsumu stuck to high fives.

After their fifth win, Atsumu raised his hands, bringing them to Omi’s with a loud slapping sound that reverberated through the gym, along with the cheers and hollers of the crowd. Omi’s face was unreadable like usual, although it could be assumed he was happy at the team’s victory. 

As they made their way to the changeroom, Shōyō and Kōtarō creeped towards Atsumu with suspicious grins on their face.

“Why are you guys starin’ at me like that?” Atsumu cried, his hands out, putting distance between himself and them. “Yer scarin’ me! Are you guys plannin’ to kill me or something? What’s goin’ on? Tell me right now!”

“Can’t you see?” Shōyō said conspiratorially.

“See what? Of course I can see! Are you gonna hold out your fingers and ask me how many there are or something?”

Shōyō laughed. “I meant can’t you see you’re the only one Sakusa-san seems to tolerate touching.”

“Oh, yeah!” Kōtarō interjected. “It’s true. He never high fives me! He never even gives me fist bumps or anything. He just goes on a tangent about my hygiene or something. I’ve tried to hug him before but he slapped me in the face.” He huffed. “I think that’s the only time he’s ever touched me.”

Atsumu refrained from pointing out it was likely from reflex or shock, because Kōtarō had jumped at Omi from behind on the walk back to the apartment. During nighttime. 

“I don’t even think he shook Meian’s hand when he first joined the team,” Shōyō pointed out, pensive. “And he always looks like he’s going to puke when he’s forced to shake hands with our opponents after games. He doesn’t have that look with you, though. He seems to be okay with you.”

Was that true? On the train, Omi had looked extremely uncomfortable with Atsumu’s hand on his arm. Although that could be attributed to the general lack of space in the car. There was also the time on the bus where Atsumu had caught him. He’d shaken him off almost immediately but Omi had definitely, undoubtedly tolerated it for at least a couple seconds. 

Of course there were all the times Omi relented to high five him.

“I don’t think it means anything,” Atsumu said dismissively, laughing. 

“I bet you’re just scared of the thought that Sakusa-san might like you back. Because then you’ll have to do something about your crush!”

“What?” he demanded, flabbergasted. “That’s—that’s absurd! Shut yer trap! Someone might hear you.” Shōyō cackled and Kōtarō joined in, sharing Shōyō’s mirth. Atsumu remained horrified, having taken a step back, wondering when Shōyō got so wise. “I’m sure he doesn’t like me back! You have no proof he does, anyway.”

“Then,” Shōyō said with a grin, “we’ll just have to find some!”

---

Three days after their fifth won game, Hinata and Bokuto invited everyone in the team group chat to a night out drinking at a local izakaya. Some people agreed to go, some people were busy. Kiyoomi declined like usual. He wasn't busy or anything. It was just that he didn’t like going out. And the thought of getting drunk with Hinata and Bokuto was more unappealing than getting on a full bus, mostly because it was getting drunk with Hinata and Bokuto.

But the fact that neither of them tried to convince Kiyoomi to go out with them, like usual, perturbed him. 

They were going to try something, weren’t they?

That irritated Kiyoomi more than the idea of getting drunk with Hinata and Bokuto, more than getting on a full bus. Had those two oafs finally realized begging him over text to go out was definitely not going to work? Were they trying to change tactics or were they going to give up? Knowing Hinata and Bokuto, who were renowned for their tenacity, they definitely were not going to stop trying just like that.

Kiyoomi groaned, sprawling on his bed. Was there a point in even trying to guess at what kind of machinations they were going to come up with? Or was it better to just lay back and take it? 

As brainless and moronic as they were, Kiyoomi had to give it to them—Hinata and Bokuto could actually be extremely guileful. They were like geniuses in disguise. Perhaps their perceived idiocy was part of the ruse.

In the end, Kiyoomi decided to take a nap. It would pass the time, plus it might save him from having to be subjected to Hinata and Bokuto’s idiotic contrivances. What could the stooges try if he was unconscious, right?

Well, it turns out, Hinata and Bokuto’s marvellous master plan amounted to banging on his door with the rest of their teammates until Kiyoomi opened. 

“What?” he hissed, appearing at the threshold with a mask and a glare. Hinata, Bokuto, and Inunaki smirked, like they were proud of themselves for coming up with the idea to hammer at his apartment until he gave in. 

They reminded him of the scouts who sold cookies, little girls in pigtails and braces and uniforms beaming up at him like they were trying to pull on his heartstrings. The effect was notably lessened when it was three sad fully grown men. And when their cause wasn't canine diabetes or feline prostate cancer any longer but merely wanting for Kiyoomi to get drunk with them. 

“What do you want from me?”

“Omi-kun, how long have you been in Osaka?” Miya asked, his head tilted, a foxy smile cutting endearing dimples into his cheeks. Kiyoomi wanted to stick his finger in them, if only it would shut Miya the hell up. His arms were crossed and he leaned against the doorframe casually. “Couple months?”

Kiyoomi was taken aback for a second. What kind of question was that? “About the same amount of time as Hinata, I believe,” he answered tightly. “Why?”

“Do you know what Osaka is known for?”

Who knows, he wanted to say. Annoying teammates with bread for brains who bang on people's door in hopes of peer pressuring them into drinking? “Where are you going with this?” Kiyoomi asked, scowling, though the effort they were going to in order to get him to go out was kind of admirable. It didn’t make him want to go, however.

“Osaka is known for nightlife!” Inunaki said.

Was that true? “I thought Higashiōsaka was known for being an industrial rugby football town,” Kiyoomi responded dryly.

“Oh, you!” Miya whined plaintively. “Always so prickly! Just come with us this once.”

“You came with us to dinner after our first win this season,” Hinata pointed out.

“That’s because the captain said he was taking us out.”

“How is that different?” 

“Yeah, we’re taking you out too,” Bokuto beamed, “in a way.”

The four of them continued to grin.

“Just this once. Come on, Omi-Omi,” Miya begged, his eyes wide and shining. 

He clenched his jaw but knew in his heart that he’d been convinced. For whatever reason. Miya had the expression of a pet chicken who had been fed already but desperately wanted treats. Though he was smarter than any animal. His hazel eyes glinted, ablaze with desire and aspiration.

Closing his eyes, he sighed through his nose. Fine then.

“Just this once,” he acquiesced. As his teammates began to cheer, Kiyoomi’s eyes darkened. He interjected, “but if you harass me again, I will file an official complaint to corporate.”

“Omi-kun, save the foreplay for later!” Miya flirted, swatting at him.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes so hard he could’ve sworn he saw the inside of his skull. He was beginning to regret this already. 

Further to Kiyoomi’s dismay, the five of them took the bus to the izakaya. It wasn't as full as it had been the day they’d gotten dinner together but it wasn't exactly empty either. Plus most of the other passengers were clearly tourists, which nettled Kiyoomi. 

As the bus began to get more packed, he began to retreat into the corner like he usually did, pulling his mask higher over his nose. He wondered if Miya would come to comfort him again. Then, chagrined, he wondered why he would think such a thing. 

Miya did stand close to him, however. They weren’t touching—a fact Kiyoomi was all too aware of—but close enough that Kiyoomi could smell Miya’s cologne. It was surprisingly pleasant, now that he was bothered to notice. Or perhaps Miya hadn’t been wearing any perfume the previous time. He smelled of geranium flowers and clary sage, woody and deeply floral and clean. 

Beneath his cologne, though, was his natural smell, that of skin and sweat and pheromones and musk and all else that was a person. All else that was Miya.

It took an old man’s elbow brushing against his chest for Kiyoomi to come back to earth. Mortified, he scolded himself. While he’d been busy sniffing Miya, the bus had filled to full capacity. His breathing instantly quickened as he glanced around in alarm. Almost instantly, Miya looked to him, catching Kiyoomi’s eye. Miya made his way towards Kiyoomi. 

Just like the last time, Miya put as much space as possible between Kiyoomi and everyone else. He didn’t quite push the old man back but Miya did press his back against him, the old man’s cane between Miya’s feet. It gave Kiyoomi the space to breathe and stop recoiling on the dirty bus wall. This time he only had about three inches in each direction.

Though it was a nice gesture and Kiyoomi secretly appreciated the lack of a wall, human or not, pressed against him, it was bothersome. He couldn’t pinpoint why.

“You don’t have to come and save me every time there’s a crowd,” he bit out. 

Miya merely shrugged, his hands in his pockets, eyes looking out to the passing street. “Would you prefer being packed into the corner like a sardine?”

No, Kiyoomi would not. 

Perhaps it was because Miya was doing more for Kiyoomi than he could ever explain yet Miya was being so casual about it. 

Before Kiyoomi could say anything to express his gratitude, Miya looked at him and grinned, all wavy platinum hair and dimples and vibrant eyes, golden and shining. All the tension Kiyoomi didn’t realize he’d been carrying in his shoulders slipped away. His body slumped a little bit. 

Stupid Miya.

“Whatever,” Kiyoomi muttered. “I’m only here because I’m being forced.” 

All Miya did was continue smiling. With a sigh, Kiyoomi resigned to the silence. If Miya didn’t want to speak, that was better, wasn't it? Though Miya did speak too loud and frequently too much, his incessant chatter was like white noise. It was familiar. 

As Kiyoomi sighed again, filling his senses with geraniums and clary sage and the smell of Miya, he noticed—with an unquantifiable amount of shock—that Miya was humming under his breath. It wasn't a tune Kiyoomi realized but then again he didn’t tend to listen to the radio. The song sounded like a power ballad, the melody something magnificent and lyrical that demanded orchestral accompaniment and doubling in strings. 

While the song itself sounded nice and pretty, it was Miya’s voice that surprised him the most, rich and full-bodied and mellow in timbre, with warmth and depth and sweetness. From a technical aspect, he had good placement and wide vibrato. 

Could Miya sing?

Kiyoomi’s question was answered soon enough, as, once they got to the izakaya, Miya took a couple shots—for nerves, Kiyoomi would imagine; there was a decent crowd here—and got up on the stage. The instrumental track began playing. Miya grabbed the microphone and Kiyoomi imagined there was a funny look on his face because the rest of his teammates pointed at him or laughed amongst themselves. He wanted to tell them all to shut up, damn them all.

No way could Miya sing. This was something that would change Kiyoomi’s perception of him, he could tell. Something like this would make Kiyoomi think of Miya differently. Perhaps he was already starting to and that was why it irritated him whenever Miya helped Kiyoomi calm down on crowded buses, trains, and subway cars. Maybe Miya was changing in Kiyoomi’s mind already.

So what was one more change?

The first verse was about to begin. Hinata, Bokuto, and Inunaki all shushed each other. Kiyoomi could have slapped them all silent but he held his breath instead, waiting to hear Miya’s voice. Miya’s voice which Kiyoomi already knew would sound good. It was possible he just didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want change.

When Miya finally started, Hinata, Bokuto, and Inunaki were shouting so loud that Kiyoomi practically couldn’t hear. Was this why the four of them had wanted to bring Kiyoomi along so badly? So he could hear Miya perform drunken karaoke. This was so stupid. 

Yet Kiyoomi couldn’t help but wonder where Atsumu learned to sing like that. He really didn’t want to admit it but Atsumu did actually have quite a beautiful voice.

“What do you think, Sakusa-san?” Bokuto asked.

He gritted his teeth. “He’s not horrible, I’ll give him that.”

Hinata and Bokuto exchanged glances, the both of them grinning.

“I think he’s great,” Inunaki interjected. “The locals seem to like him.”

Kiyoomi resisted the urge to point out that they, technically, were the locals. It wasn't like the five of them were tourists, that was for sure. Plus Atsumu even spoke with the Kansai dialect—the one Kiyoomi had taken a long time to get used to—so he fit right in.

“Well, do you like Tsum-Tsum better now, Sakusa-san?” Hinata inquired, his eyes round.

Kiyoomi scowled and it wasn't just at Hinata’s absolutely ridiculous nickname for Atsumu. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Uh—” Hinata and Bokuto glanced at each other nervously. “Nothing!” 

Idiots. Both of them. Kiyoomi should have never come tonight. He wondered if he could plausibly slink away without being noticed by the rest of his teammates. For an inexplicable reason, Kiyoomi had the feeling that if he disappeared halfway through the night, Atsumu would surely notice, even if he wasn't at all the slightest bit sober.

“Let’s have some drinks,” Hinata said. Bokuto and Inunaki cheered. They all ordered beers. Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes. He didn’t plan to drink tonight and wondered how Hinata, Bokuto, and Inunaki would go about that. Also, Kiyoomi still had no clue what Hinata’s question had meant. 

Did he like Atsumu better now? Perhaps Hinata had somehow guessed that Kiyoomi didn’t like change, that his perception of Atsumu had changed at least the slightest bit, and now he wished to know if Kiyoomi’s new perception of Atsumu had improved or worsened. That was unlikely though, even for Hinata’s obscure, esoteric, and surprising intelligence. 

Whatever was the case, Kiyoomi couldn’t stop thinking. Thinking about Atsumu, thinking about Hinata’s question and what the hell that could have possibly meant. 

The bus home was devoid of any people. It was only the five of them. Hinata slumped across the seats, Bokuto on the ground keeled over against a pole. Inunaki still had a bottle in hand. He skipped up and down the aisle, babbling and warbling. Kiyoomi felt like a babysitter. Coming tonight had definitely proved to be a mistake. He’d set in motion a series of changes he wished he could take back.

As for Atsumu, Kiyoomi cared enough about him that he didn’t want Atsumu laying on the bus dirty floor or seats. It was the least he could do, given that Atsumu had always been considerate enough to help him out, like when he knew Kiyoomi was feeling claustrophobic on public transport. 

At long last, since he was sober and surrounded by a bunch of drunken children, Kiyoomi managed to admit to himself that he’d developed a soft spot for Atsumu. Whether it was because he was bitter and it was late and he was exhausted or because Atsumu looked peaceful while he slept, Kiyoomi couldn’t say why he came to such a realization. 

Atsumu had his arms looped around Kiyoomi’s neck, his face buried in the curve of Kiyoomi’s shoulder, Kiyoomi’s own arms wrapped across Atsumu’s torso, like that time he’d caught Kiyoomi on the bus to practice. 

Kiyoomi’s body was on fire, red lights and sirens going off in his head at the touch. But he was already kind of accustomed to Atsumu and his proximity. So it was sort of okay. Atsumu was warm and his body was like a weighted blanket. It felt less like Kiyoomi was holding dead weight up and more like Atsumu was just leaning against him. Atsumu’s body felt a little nice, muscled and slender and toned. 

His hair tickled Kiyoomi’s jaw, surprisingly soft despite the rounds of bleach and toner it must have suffered to render it platinum instead of mustard. Kiyoomi felt something vibrating by his throat and glanced down to see Atsumu was humming, a pleasant smile on his face, dimples pressing into his cheeks. Atsumu smelled so good, night air mingled into his base scent and that of his cologne. 

“You’re not so bad, you know that?” Kiyoomi grumbled. 

He giggled a little, clearly out of it. “I like you too, Omi-Omi.”

When they arrived at their stop, Atsumu let go and rubbed his eyes blearily. Kiyoomi suddenly felt very, very cold. They collected the rest of their teammates and dropped them off on the sofas of their apartments. Finally, Kiyoomi walked Atsumu, who stumbled the entire time, to his.

Atsumu grinned wide, his eyes closed, leaning against the doorframe like he had against Kiyoomi’s hours before. He pulled off Kiyoomi’s mask and Kiyoomi moved away. “Will you kiss me goodnight?”

A snort. “Get some sleep, you.”

“Hm.” Kiyoomi pushed the top of Atsumu’s head in an attempt to get him into his apartment but Atsumu resisted, clawing at his door frame with a groan. Opening his eyes, Atsumu asked, “Is that a no?”

“It is most certainly a no.”

He pouted. Kiyoomi couldn’t help but laugh. It was so late.

“You have a very pretty smile, Omi-kun. I like it. I like it a lot.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw and he straightened, blinking. His face was hot. “Th—thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” There was a long pause, one where Kiyoomi was convinced Atsumu had fallen asleep. “Good night, Omi-Omi.”

Brushing a thumb fondly against Atsumu’s cheek, Kiyoomi said, “Sleep well.”

---

They lost their sixth game of the season. Everyone was unhappy about it but Atsumu was particularly upset. During the cooldown stretches and exercises after the match, Atsumu complained to Hinata and Bokuto. He yammered on and on about how he felt like he’d missed nearly all of his serves, how he felt like he wasn't connecting with his spikers as much as usual. 

Atsumu talked and talked and talked. Kiyoomi was already in a bad mood due to the loss and he no longer felt he had any residual sympathy for Atsumu. So because Atsumu kept droning and droning, refusing to shut up, and because Kiyoomi was on the brink of losing it, he turned and snapped.

“You played great, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi said, irate, “like you always do.” 

There was a pause. Everyone turned to stare at him and he instinctively retracted. 

“Atsumu…?” he echoed.

Fuck.

Since when did he call Atsumu by his given name like that, so casually, as if they were close friends—which they weren’t! How could he be so informal with a coworker? Because that was all they were, right? Coworkers? It didn’t matter if Atsumu was the only one Kiyoomi willingly touched or that Atsumu always took care to make sure Kiyoomi was alright on crowded public transport. Right? 

Kiyoomi was spiralling. 

Hinata and Bokuto were giggling amongst themselves. It only made Kiyoomi’s face burn hotter. He would never live this down, huh.

“Whatever, Miya,” he breathed. “Just stop complaining already. We lost. That’s it.”

Shut up, just shut up already, Kiyoomi thought to himself. He knew that wasn't what Atsumu was talking about. Atsumu, who was still staring at him, mouth agape. Kiyoomi didn’t know he’d been thinking of Atsumu as Atsumu for a while now. It was something that must have happened subconciously, it must have been. How else could Kiyoomi have slipped up and accidentally called him Atsumu?

Stupid change. It probably occurred at some point during the night where Kiyoomi let his team drag him to the izakaya. Somewhere between the singing and Atsumu’s body slumped against Kiyoomi’s and the talking of goodnight kisses. That night was one Kiyoomi never let himself think of, to stave off change.

His entire body was cold, unfeeling, like he was a corpse. Kiyoomi went through the motions of cooldown stretches and exercises through muscle memory alone. After that, he went home without making eye contact with anyone.

---

“You played great, Atsumu. Like you always do.”

After hearing those words come from Omi’s mouth, Atsumu must have sat on the ground with his mouth open for hours. Hours upon hours. Not only had Omi snapped, he’d also called him by a name other than Miya. It wasn't even really the way Omi had said his name, like spitting; it was the fact that he’d used Atsumu’s name at all. Actually, scratch that. Everything was all so surprising. Omi rarely spoke during practice.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Kōtarō punched him in the arm.

“Ow!” Atsumu clutched his bicep. “What the hell was that for?”

“What are you thinking?” Shōyō asked.

“I—that Omi probably hates me now or something.” He shivered. “He never talks to me like that, even when he’s really angry.”

Kōtarō and Shōyō exchanged glances. 

“I think this is definitive proof that he likes you,” Shōyō said.

“Huh? Are you kiddin’ me?”

“I agree,” Kōtarō said thoughtfully. “He never uses your name. He never uses my name either! No nicknames or whatever. Sakusa is always just super formal!”

“Right.” Shōyō nodded, a hand on his chin. “You’re the only one he’ll stand to touch and you’re the only one he’ll bother to actually call by name. Plus, I’m sure he was acting differently since he agreed to go out with us. Don’t you think so?” 

If anything, Omi had been more distant since then. Atsumu thought he’d gone back to normal but he wasn't quite sure. Today was evidence he hadn’t. 

Atsumu didn’t remember all too much from that night. He recalled singing after a couple shots. A lot of singing and a lot of shots. Then… the bus ride home? Atsumu vaguely remembered sleeping on Omi’s shoulder, their chests pressed together as they stood upright, but he was pretty sure he’d dreamt that. Or had that been real? Wait, then when Omi had touched his cheek—had that also been real?

“You guys really think so?” he asked bashfully. 

They nodded excitedly in tandem, like twin beckoning cats. 

“I think you should ask him out,” Shōyō remarked.

“What if I just end up embarrassin’ myself?”

“Then… you move on and find someone else!” 

With a sigh, Atsumu put a hand on his forehead. Was it really that simple? Shōyō often spoke in a very direct way, though it wasn't the same kind of directness as Atsumu or Omi. Maybe it was worth a try, asking Omi out. Maybe… 

“If it all goes south,” Shōyō said, “drinks are on me.”

“Fine. We have a deal.”

---

For the very last game of the season, the MSBY Black Jackals team boarded a subway train headed to the venue. It wasn't particularly crowded but Atsumu figured it warranted grounds to stand next to Omi the way he did when he was blocking everyone else off to give him space. He made his way to Omi, whose large frame and dark curls made him easy to spot, slipping between passengers. 

“Hey,” Atsumu said, offering a small smile, feeling timid.

“I’m fine. It’s not super crowded today.” 

Atsumu chewed his lip, feeling Omi’s gaze pin him down. His lashes were long, his eyes hooded and dark, so dark, like black holes. Sometimes Atsumu worried that if he stared too hard he’d get sucked in. 

“I… just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Like I said, I’m fine.”

What was he supposed to say? Atsumu was at a loss for words. He didn’t want to remain if his presence only bothered Omi but he didn’t really want to go. So what could he do, apart from stand there in silence, thinking of something to say?

The train stopped suddenly, rocking all of its passengers. Atsumu brushed against Omi by accident, his cheek grazing Omi’s jaw, his shoulder coming into contact with Omi’s arm. 

“Sorry,” Atsumu said immediately. 

“That’s alright,” Omi replied softly, reluctantly. “And… you don’t have to stand that far from me.”

Oh?

Gingerly, Atsumu took a step closer to Omi, the people pressure of people pressing against his back lessening. They were close but not quite touching, perhaps an inch or two separating them. Atsumu wanted to get closer, wanted to wrap his arms around Omi’s neck and bury his face in the curve of Omi’s shoulder. Likewise, he wanted Omi to want to get close to him too.

His mind bullied him into wanting to ask if that moment had actually existed or if he’d merely dreamt it up while his veins flowed with tequila. 

“Um, Omi-kun?”

“Yeah?”

“The night we all went to the izakaya,” he started, “what happened?” Atsumu laughed demurely. “I kind of don’t remember much.”

“You mostly just sang random songs. Hinata, Bokuto, and Inunaki drank a lot of beer.”

“Then what?”

Omi tilted his head. “Then we went home.”

This was frustrating. Atsumu bit the inside of his cheek. Omi was being annoyingly brief with his recount of that night. He hardly thought three sentences sufficed for a night lasting almost six hours. Surely there was more to say than just that. 

“Would ya mind elaborating?” Atsumu laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “What happened on the way back?”

Omi took the slightest step forward. They were almost chest to chest. He leaned. Now they were almost nose to nose. Atsumu felt a lot like he was being scrutinized, which was something he himself tended to do a lot. Size people up, that was. Always, Atsumu was examining and taking stock of his fellow setters or players. It was often he could easily deduce whether or not an opponent was better than him or not. Usually not.

Atsumu was now seeing that quality of himself reflected in Omi, which was perhaps why he’d taken a liking to him in the first place. Some people seemed tough on the outside but were just honey on the inside and cracking the hard ones open was always satisfying. It would make him special to know he was the only one someone liked. 

But more than that, he liked Omi because he was steady. Everything he did was careful and not reckless, like him. Omi was stable and unshakeable, though it appeared his weaknesses took shape in the form of crowds. Plus he was hot and secretly super competitive. Atsumu had only glimpsed that proud side of Omi a couple times and it normally came through snark. Still, he liked that Omi had a bite to him. 

Like it wasn't that he wasn't an asshole. It was simply that he kept the asshole in his thoughts instead of saying everything he wanted out loud without a filter. Atsumu wanted to hear the kind of thoughts Omi kept tucked away.

“On the way back,” Omi began quietly, intriguingly, and Atsumu nodded, “Hinata was sleeping on the seats. Bokuto was lying on the ground, curled on his side, against one of the bus poles. Inunaki was walking around with a bottle in his hand and I think he was singing.”

“Ah!” Atsumu cried, his hands on his cheeks. “That wasn't what I wanted to know!”

Omi’s eyes narrowed. A glare or a smirk? “What did you want to hear, then?”

“I…” He shook his head, grinning self-consciously. Screw it. “I remember leanin’ against you on the bus back. My head was on yer shoulder and my arms were around you and yer arms were around me. And I liked it. A lot. I remember you walked me back to my place and touched my cheek. Like, willingly. The funny thing is,” Atsumu said, “I haven’t got a clue if it actually happened or if I was just dreaming.”

For a second, Omi just stared.

“Well, say something!”

“That,” he said, sighing, “happened.”

“Oh. Oh? Oh!” Atsumu huffed. “Well, don’t sound so ashamed! Ya know, a lot of people would jump at the opportunity to take me home. I’m pretty cute!”

“I didn’t take you home. I just dropped you off to your apartment.”

“You could have come in. But ya didn’t. Why not?”

Much to Atsumu’s surprise, Omi flushed. He massaged at his forehead, his fingers rubbing over his beauty marks. Finally, he looked at Atsumu again. “What, would you have liked that?”

Atsumu flushed in turn, lifting his chin. “Yeah. I would.”

The train stopped again, letting on even more passengers. Omi and Atsumu were a breath away from touching. After a beat of deliberation Atsumu decided to interlock his hands with Omi’s. Surprisingly, Omi pulled him in closer, until they were actually body to body, and didn’t complain at their laced fingers or the touching. 

They both had callouses on the pads of their fingertips. Both of their nails were short and well-groomed. Things that were marks of a volleyball player. It was something else he and Omi seemed to have in common. While it was simple, it made Atsumu smile a little.

“Say, Omi-kun,” he started, charily resting the side of his head against Omi’s.

“Yes?” 

“You wanna go out with me? You can take me home properly.” 

Atsumu felt Omi smile. “Sounds good.”

---

Kiyoomi thought to himself, what was change, but growth?