Multiple doctors tell him that it's just a flu. Just your run of the mill flu that people tend to get during this time of year. It's taken their team's physician and two of his personal doctors to convince Kiyoomi that it isn't anything damning.
Not that it matters. The fear sinks in anyway.
Suddenly it's the only thing that exists in his world and everyday it grows, big and ugly and looming, and Kiyoomi has to do his best to keep it under control. But for as long as he can remember, he never wins this fight. Because the sickness grows and grows and it takes over his body. It only ever leaves when it's done with him and Kiyoomi is always scrambling to get away. Pathetic.
That's why he does everything he can to avoid being in that kind of hell.
He stays in the shower a little longer, goes through clean wipes twice as fast, adds an extra spray or two of disinfectant until his hands no longer feel filthy and, if he can get away with it, tugs on an extra layer of clothes on his body.
That's why it's also increasingly frustrating that he still gets sick despite all that. On meaner days, he berates himself for it. But sometimes he just thinks that his luck has run out.
This time is no different.
Kiyoomi stays in his room, drawing some comfort in his familiar four walls. This is safe. Until his treacherous immune system can get its shit together, this is the safest place he can be.
Being safe, however, is not enough to keep him from spiraling. His thoughts run, fixates on every single thing: the ache in his arms, the heaviness in his chest, the pathetic way his eyelids droop and how they can't stay shut for too long because his body refuses to nap even though being unconscious is his best bet. The tongue in his mouth feels too heavy, not his own. And his throat is dry. Water. Does he have enough? He has bottles with him, ten for the day just to be sure. What about his medicine? They're all on the table, he knows. What if he accidentally got the wrong brand and he gets an allergic reaction—
Kiyoomi halts, swallows the lump in his throat and slowly releases his tight grip on his blanket, fingers splayed out. His breathing sounds wet and it does him no good. He steps back, picks at anything in his head to think about that isn't the disease rotting his body.
The only thing distracting enough is volleyball and even then, with the reminder that his body isn’t able to do what he wants, the fondness he usually feels for the sport turns into yearning and frustration.
How can you spike when you can't even lift your arms?
Kiyoomi unclenches his jaw and lets himself drift.
The doctors tell him that it might take two days or three. If it reaches five, he can admit himself to the hospital. Kiyoomi bets on three but the way his entire body aches every time he moves convinces him that he'll be dead before then.
( Kiyoomi lies. There's one other thing he can think of. He just doesn't let himself go there yet. His entire body is already aching, he doesn't need to add more to that by missing him. )
The orange sunset that seeped into his room is gone now and Kiyoomi wakes in the dark. While he’s upright to turn the switch on, he decides to check his temperature. He doesn’t have much hope, considering just how much he feels like death, and he’s right. Whatever foolish hope he did have sinks as he watches the number climb.
He sinks too, back into his bed, and lies down on his side. It's not a good position for his lungs so he sits up again. Except he does it too fast and his head spins. Great.
Kiyoomi feels his face scrunch up but he can't tell if he's angry or because he wants to cry. Probably both.
Sometime later he finally checks his phone. The screen blinds him and it takes a small while for his eyes to adjust. A sliver of warmth makes its way to his too cold chest as he stares blearily at the name and the two messages there.
[ Miya Atsumu : 05:28 PM ]
don't forget dinner
[ Miya Atsumu : 05:31 PM ]
Kiyoomi hauls himself out of bed with great effort, feet dragging into his own living room. He doesn't know why he half expects Atsumu to pop out of nowhere, in his apartment, past 7 PM, when he perfectly knows that Atsumu is in his own apartment, rotting his brain by scrolling through Instagram. His head must be reaching another level of delirium or maybe his heart is just yearning a little too loudly.
Everything is the same as he remembers except for the packed food waiting for him on the coffee table. Stumbling forward, Kiyoomi winces as he sits and rifles through the dishes. Most are cold now but he can microwave with ease. Nothing store bought which means Atsumu cooked or tried to cook. There’s an Onigiri Miya seal on one of them but it’s ochazuke instead of the famous onigiri. This one he trusts to eat but his eyes slide fondly over to the other dishes.
There’s a thermos and Kiyoomi expects hot tea or the like but instead he finds okayu. Ew. Only Atsumu would do something like that. But it’s warm and Kiyoomi doesn't want to brain himself in the kitchen trying to heat up anything so he finds a bowl and dumps it in.
He can’t taste anything but the porridge has egg in it and the warmth is welcomed. As he shovels it in his mouth, he can't help but draw in some comfort from the fact that Atsumu had visited. If he closes his eyes, he can feel that golden warmth he left behind.
Kiyoomi is trapped in his own body.
His nose is stuffed, useless, and the way he can't breathe through it reminds him of drowning. Soon it will turn into drainage and then he'll have mucus running down his nose at all times. Disgusting.
He hasn't showered. All this tossing and turning and sweating into his bedsheets, barely getting out of bed, is making his stink cling to the fabric. He knows where the clean sheets are but he sinks further into the filthy ones anyway. Disgusting.
He’s not sure if he brushed his teeth last night or if he has enough energy to do it now. He wants to—he has to—but the ache in his muscles and the way the world spins whenever he's upright makes him want to curl up in his bed where it's safe. It shouldn't be hard. It's just brushing his teeth. Disgusting.
Everything makes him want to scream.
Whatever rage he has is locked behind his teeth, burning along with his body. He sobs out of spite, not letting his heaving chest and too-dry eyes win. He wants to cry, therefore he will. His body simply must follow.
But Kiyoomi loses anyway. As always.
It doesn't take long before he's jolting upright, too paranoid on choking on his tears, and taking in gulps of air to even his ragged breathing. Once his raging heartbeat is down to something manageable and his breathing isn't so wet, Kiyoomi slumps.
Being miserable is so exhausting. Being anything is so exhausting. Kiyoomi bites down on another sob. He just wants to sleep.
Before the vicious cycle can get the best of him, he grabs his phone and turns to his inbox instead. A bunch of get well messages from his teammates are there to distract. They're all short and sweet, even Bokuto swaps out his usual all caps and kaomoji filled messages for something that doesn't fuel Kiyoomi's headache.
He's not surprised to see no new messages from Atsumu. Just as well. His eyes, however, slide over to the last two messages and that's his mistake.
That feeling from last night creeps back, soothing and not enough. The dull warmth of Atsumu. Warmth that Kiyoomi doesn't have right now. And no, he can't be angry, not at Atsumu at least, for him not being there because—
Just leave me alone. I'll be fine.
He had said that.
Sounded so sure too. And now his mouth tastes a little bitter.
With a blank stare, Kiyoomi eats all his words and swallows it down with one smooth pill and two gulps of water. It doesn’t take long for him to sink back into the inky darkness of his dreams.
When he wakes, he's weighed down by exhaustion. The dread, for now at least, is quiet, tucked away in the edges of his mind. Logic steps in to fill the quiet and reminds him of things he needs to do to survive: like eat. He remembers a bowl of chazuke he can heat up and thinks that'll do. Fueled with new demand and a growling stomach, Kiyoomi sits up.
That's how he notices the yellow post-it note in front of his door. He's sure that the only mess in his room is the two-meter radius surrounding his bed. Everything else should be spotless, so the yellow post-it note has no business being there.
Kiyoomi blinks, drags his gaze around his room to see where it could have fallen. It doesn't even occur to him that he doesn't own any yellow post-it notes.
He pushes himself to his feet, feeling a sliver of pride for doing anything else besides lying down. He fights the gravitational pull of his bed and shuffles on, bending down to pick up the note and forgiving himself for the dizziness that follows after.
He squints at the words and the burst of warmth in his chest arrests him.
The handwriting is messy and it slants and it's the same one he sees on his fridge reminding him to buy more matcha ice cream despite Kiyoomi's complaints to go get his own.
just knock if you're not dead.
Kiyoomi finds his voice, thick and gravelly. “Why aren't you at practice?”
There's a bit of shuffling on the other end and Atsumu's voice fills his stuffed ears.
“I told ya to knock!”
Kiyoomi feels the air knocked out of him. His chest eases and aches all at once and his mouth falls open wordlessly before reminding himself to actually use it. “You didn't answer my question.”
Atsumu scoffs. “They can survive without me.”
“And you think I can't?”
A laugh, warm and teasing, but tinged with worry at the edges. “Nah. I think you're miserable.”
He's never going to get used to Atsumu reading him like a perfect toss.
“Can I come in?”
Kiyoomi pauses. Suddenly he’s too aware of the door and how it’s the only thing keeping him away from caring hands, a gentle touch, and that warmth he's been craving.The word slips out of him in reflex, familiar around his mouth and sums up pretty much what he's used to doing. “No.”
There's a single beat of silence but Atsumu presses on. “Do you need anything?”
He's feeling lightheaded and he's almost certain that it doesn't have anything to do with being sick. He leans forward on the door, presses his temple on the surface and squeezes his eyes shut. So close. “How long have you been there?”
“Like two hours.”
The image of Atsumu in his empty apartment, maybe even sitting right outside his door, is dumb. So dumb that it lights up his entire chest. Kiyoomi watches himself so he doesn’t sound so breathless. “And you're just gonna stay there like an idiot?”
“Hey, that's no way to talk to someone who's gonna take care of yer bony ass!”
“So you're my nurse now?”
“And for free!” Idiot. Kiyoomi bites down on his laugh because he knows it’ll hurt but it slips out anyway. What he doesn't expect is the wet sob that came along with it.
He realizes with incredible frustration that he misses that stupid nickname and the stupid accent that came along with it, making it sound so special. And Atsumu says it so soft and fragile this time. It had no right to sound like any of that. Kiyoomi is none of those things, and yet Atsumu shows him differently.
He considers the warm thrum under his skin— if it’s fever or overwhelming want—either way, it's too much and he has no idea how to handle any of it.
He turns around and sinks to the floor, throwing his head back against the door with a suffering grunt. “Atsumu.”
Deep breath in, deep breath out. It's too wet for his liking and it doesn't help that his blurry vision is back except this time instead of vertigo, it comes in the form of unshed tears.
“Hey,” Atsumu's voice floats, travels until it's closer to his ear. He thinks of Atsumu just kneeling outside and something twinges painfully for him to just open the door. “Omi, just let me in. I got gloves and everythin'.”
So exhausting. Stop crying. You're making a mess—
“Let me take care of ya.”
Something bursts in his chest, rises up, up, up until it spills out of him in quiet sobs and hot tears. Again, he’s not sure where it’s coming from. Kiyoomi tries to pinpoint it but everything is jumbled up with Atsumu in the picture. Atsumu is overwhelming like that, beautifully so. Why would he want to do that? Kiyoomi is such a handful like this, so annoying. Atsumu must have better things to do .
Kiyoomi grounds himself on that soft plea. If he doesn't, things won't be pretty. Not for Atsumu, not for him. And after his hellish days and Atsumu going the extra mile, Kiyoomi thinks they both deserve a little better.
He blinks some of his tears away and hauls himself up his feet. He huffs out his answer loud enough that he can hear it over his own thundering heart. “Okay.”
The soft click of the door unlocking makes him swallow dryly and Kiyoomi drags himself back to bed. There’s a dull throb right in front of his forehead that rivals his pounding heart and Kiyoomi just can't seem to catch a break. He hooks his own mask on and tucks his legs under him, pinning his tired eyes on the door.
It slides open and Atsumu steps in, gloves and everything as promised. His clear amber eyes are stark against his black facemask and they fall on Kiyoomi, a softness behind them that says there you are.
For a moment, Kiyoomi wants to shrink, realizing how he’s covered in sweat, tears, and snot. He must look disgusting as he feels.
But Atsumu looks at him like he's his biggest prize and in two quick strides, Atsumu's sitting in front of him and gathering every inch of Kiyoomi's gangly, achy body on his lap.
Kiyoomi is not small but he does his best when his entire instinct is to curl around Atsumu. He chokes back on a small noise and folds into him with ease, hiding away like Atsumu's his little pocket of safety. Kiyoomi lets out a shuddering breath.
A gentle, gloved hand moves his messy curls out of his face and Kiyoomi's gaze slides to Atsumu's chest instead, fingers curling on the fabric of his shirt. Atsumu doesn't spare him. “I knew listenin' to ya was a bad idea.”
Kiyoomi cracks a rueful smile under his mask. “Fair enough,” he says. I'm sorry, he thinks. Kiyoomi tucks himself in Atsumu's neck, lulled with ease. If he lets go of a few drops of tears, it's no one's business. Atsumu holds him just a little more snug.
Fear ebbs away, releasing Kiyoomi from its grip as he goes slack in Atsumu's arms. With every careful breath, he lets go of the frustration in his chest, making more room for relief to come and rush forward.
Kiyoomi wakes a little braver this time around.
Cracking of an eyelid open, the heavy aches surge back in, promising another sluggish day. There's a grumble ready at the tip of his tongue before he notices that he isn't as miserable as he thought he'd be. New bedsheets can do wonders. New blankets and pillowcases too. Kiyoomi buries his face in them in the lazy attempt to placate himself some more.
Calm is a word that comes to mind. Everything is still stuffed and groggy and he still wants to die a little but he's calm, somewhat. It's quiet now, the things consuming him finally taking a step back.
Fear no longer roars in his head, instead shoved down into something manageable. It's been a while since Kiyoomi has a hold on it and not the other way around.
Defeat isn't something that's so prominent now either. Usually it's all he knows whenever he's rendered useless to the point of just lying down and waiting for his nightmare to end (or end him) but today, Kiyoomi thinks he has a fighting chance.
It's a strange, new, and welcome reprieve. His world is beyond the jail of his bed again.
The door cracks open and Kiyoomi stares at a pair of bright amber eyes. Atsumu nudges the door open with his elbow, sliding in with a tray of zosui and ginger tea. He's already showered, wearing gloves and a white facemask Kiyoomi recognizes as one of many from his reserves. Kiyoomi's heart jumps in greeting.
“Good! You're awake. Ya gotta eat.”
And Kiyoomi does. He eats with diligence, drinks what he's told, as if making up for the past two days of keeping Atsumu away. His taste buds still haven't returned but Kiyoomi takes his fill anyway, slow and sure.
Once he's finished, Atsumu rewards him with a smile, or what Kiyoomi suspects is a smile, his eyes shine nonetheless. “You're doin' good. Ya look flushed already.”
Kiyoomi can feel the heat rush to his cheeks and pulls a perfect grimace to hide it.
Atsumu rolls his eyes fondly. “D'ya wanna watch something on your laptop?”
He shrugs, resting back on a mountain of pillows. Kiyoomi hooks his own mask on. “Well, I'm not going anywhere.”
Atsumu hears the yes and goes to set it up.
Patient is not usually the word used to describe Miya Atsumu. Nor is kind for that matter. Neither of the two even crack Kiyoomi's top 10, but they showcase themselves anyway. Kiyoomi watches in awe. He supposes Atsumu is capable of being kind and patient. It's just that Kiyoomi had thought differently, like something gnarled with snide remarks and insufferable smirks.
Not like this. Not all tender, and golden, and open.
When Atsumu is done, the laptop is on a small folding table right at the foot of Kiyoomi's bed. It's set up to a korean drama Kiyoomi likes and Atsumu stands, satisfied. “Alright, call me if ya need anything!”
That pulls an immediate frown from Kiyoomi. He flicks his large gaze at Atsumu and implores. “Where are you going?”
Atsumu looks equally stunned, blinks back with his own large eyes. “I...” He sounds almost shy. “I didn't wanna make ya uncomfortable.”
Kiyoomi's frown deepens. He holds back on his comment of that sounds stupid (and beneath that, an endearing I don't want you to go) and insists. “You can stay.” When Atsumu looks unconvinced, he adds softly: “Please.”
He watches the emotions flit across Atsumu's eyes; mild surprise, quiet affection, and then something tender that he masks as a slow, playful smile that Kiyoomi wants to wipe off his face. Atsumu purrs. “Can't say no if you ask all pretty like that.”
“Shut up.” Kiyoomi's expression smooths back to its stoic default but Atsumu's grin only widens.
Atsumu settles himself on Kiyoomi's large swivel chair, socks on, legs tucked under him. He's easily engrossed in the show, already ogling the lead actors. They are a good few feet apart. If Kiyoomi reaches out, he can touch him. He won't but knowing Atsumu's there and ready to take his hand is nice either way.
“That could be us.” Atsumu jerks his chin towards the screen. “How open are ya to bein' immortal with a sword in your chest?”
Kiyoomi considers briefly. “Tetanus for that long isn't fun.”
Atsumu does an ugly snort and Kiyoomi holds back on an embarrassingly soft smile.
As he sits there with a full stomach and everything he needs blissfully within reach, Kiyoomi notes the new feeling unfurling in his chest: having a home in someone.
Atsumu leaves for practice with a scowl. If he's doing it to hide the worry in his eyes, it's not working.
After subjecting him to a solid hour of flat glares, pinched eyebrows, and an intense staring contest, Atsumu relents to Kiyoomi's demand. The only reason he wins is because Atsumu is a secret sap who would rather cater to a sick Sakusa Kiyoomi than argue with him.
(Kiyoomi refuses to dwell on that thought. He's not equipped to handle saccharine things. It makes his heart three times its size and it's as brutal as it sounds.)
Atsumu, being Atsumu, doesn't go without a fight. He nags and chides and threatens Kiyoomi the entire time he prepares the medicine he has to take every four hours, electrolytes drinks for him to stay hydrated, and food he can reheat.
“And ya better not be dead when I get back. If I hear ya whining, I'm just gonna laugh in yer face.”
Kiyoomi stares down, unimpressed. “Go.”
Atsumu glares back, looks like he might lean in for a kiss goodbye but thankfully knows better, and ends the conversation with an indignant huff.
An easy silence follows and blankets the apartment. Kiyoomi welcomes it as his companion for the day.
Morning passes by uneventfully and it's a win in Kiyoomi's book. During breakfast, he assesses himself and concludes that he has less things to complain about. He can hold his head up for one thing, and he can walk around without feeling winded. Tiny wins. The time he doesn't use to worry about his aches he lends to his plants.
Kiyoomi waters them diligently, spray bottle and watering can a welcome extension of his hands. His plants look much healthier than he does and for a moment, he's envious. But then he muses that it's probably because they have someone to take care of them and the next thing he knows he's pressing down on the strange mix of affection and aggravation at the thought of a certain blonde.
He turns to check on his polka dot plant and as expected, it had wilted into a sad lump. Kiyoomi grumbles at the dramatics and gives it the water that it needs. Two hours later, it blossoms once more, leaf waving at Kiyoomi in thanks.
Gold sun streams into his apartment, hits the spot where his plants are, and Kiyoomi watches as they brighten and soak in that sunlight. They look like they're having fun. He bets the sun feels nice.
He supposes sunlight is quite healthy and that he is some sort of tall, willowy plant himself so he leans into the inviting beam and lets the warmth wash over him. A soft exhales leaves him, eyes fluttering shut at the warm kiss. He's right. It does feel nice.
After that, and a small lunch, some stretching follows suit. Kiyoomi values the movement his body is capable of. Being an athlete, he draws comfort in being able to do things, like jump for a block, run after a ball, hit a powerful spike. Movement is routine that he strives to keep.
So he rolls his mat out, drops himself unceremoniously, and prepares for simple stretches.
He slumps at first, staring at his feet that seem so far away, on legs that go on and on, before drawing his spine up, creeping headache be damned. He's done stretches before. Does it every single day. There's no reason he can't do it today.
He spreads his legs apart, leans over to reach for his right foot and give his oblique a good stretch, and bails on the first sign of vertigo. “No.” Kiyoomi declares, heaving himself right up, and rolling the mat once more to leave no evidence behind. Atsumu doesn't need to know.
The rest of the afternoon Kiyoomi spends catching up on anime, an arsenal of fruits to snack on and electrolyte drinks at his disposal. Every once in a while he glances at the clock, sometimes at the door, impatience flaring briefly. The sky bleeds out its different colors until it finally turns dark.
When Atsumu arrives, Kiyoomi's made a nest on the couch. He's in the middle of finishing up an orange, swaddled in his blanket, when a flash of blonde catches his eye. Atsumu greets him with a smile.
“Hi.” He holds up a finger and slips into the bathroom, leaving Kiyoomi with twitching fingers. With mild frustration, he realizes he's missed him more than he thought.
A freshly showered Atsumu steps out, looking exceptionally fluffy in a grey hoodie with his towel-dried hair. He settles himself on the other end of the couch, looking so inviting. Kiyoomi swears he's doing it on purpose.
“Ya feeling any better?”
Grabbing the strings of his hoodie, he tugs Atsumu closer and flings his arms around him, heart fluttering like a hummingbird. Kiyoomi buries his nose in gold hair. He smells of peaches.
“Are you sniffing me?”
Long, callused fingers find their way under Atsumu's hoodie, climbing up to find their targets. A twist at the nipples later and Atsumu is hissing and cursing at Kiyoomi and his entire bloodline.
“Fuck! I was jus' asking, ya curly bastard!” He yowls, like an angry cat. Unlike an angry cat, he slumps back into Kiyoomi's embrace, arms circling around him and locking his fingers together. “Why're ya so mean to me?!”
Kiyoomi doesn't warrant it with a response. He has better things to do like drowning in everything Atsumu and curling into him in peace, so he does. Atsumu's grumbling falls into the background and the hand in Kiyoomi's hair draws out a soft exhale.
“This mean ya had a good day?”
“So good then?”
“Definitely an eight, yes.”
Atsumu drops his voice into a whisper and Kiyoomi can just hear his smile. “Didja miss me?”
In his sweet haze, Kiyoomi thinks of sunny smiles and peach-scented shampoo. He thinks of strong arms and a gentle touch, of a presence so demanding it turns a room alive and gold. Yes, he missed him. He's always going to miss him.
“That's an eight too.” He realizes that the number is high enough to rocket straight to Atsumu's head but he can live with that. He had wanted to say 12 anyway.
It's his first one in nearly a week so he makes it count. The water is scalding, not giving any chance for grime or filth to cling to him. He scrubs himself to satisfaction, getting rid of every bit of the horror from the past few days. Down the drain it all goes.
When he realizes that satisfaction turns his skin red, he turns the water off, opts for something lukewarm. He can practically feel Atsumu's little frown on him and he doesn't want that.
He reaches out for the lemon body wash Atsumu had gotten him and pumps a good amount on his palm. It feels nice on his skin and the scent is soothing that Kiyoomi indulges in it. Much better. He brushes his teeth next, mouthwash after, and it's almost embarrassing how much he's missed the fresh minty feeling in his mouth.
When he steps in front of a mirror, he likes what he sees. He can forgive the dark circles under his eyes but other than that, he doesn't have that sickly pallor to him anymore. Only the soft pink on his cheeks. There's no longer a slump in his posture and his eyes are bright. Kiyoomi shakes his head a little and his black curls bounce along with it. Not bad at all.
He exits his room with no hesitation for the first time. Sharp sunlight pours into the apartment and makes everything brighter than he remembers. Kiyoomi walks over to the kitchen where the rich scent of coffee demands for him. He forgets all about coffee when he sees the way Atsumu is comfortable around his kitchen.
It shouldn't be a special sight. Atsumu had always been comfortable around his apartment. He bulldozes through Kiyoomi's door every other day and inserts himself into his routine (while making sure to keep and respect his house rules) so much that Kiyoomi vaguely remembers a day without him in it. He eats his ice cream, leeches off Kiyoomi's streaming accounts, showers frequently in his bathroom that Atsumu has left a bottle of his shampoo in there, knows how to operate the fancy coffee machine more than Kiyoomi does, passes out on the couch so much it's taken the shape of him—
Kiyoomi's heart catches in his throat.
Well. He supposes... a home in Miya Atsumu and a home with Miya Atsumu isn't so different.
His epiphany is cut short when Atsumu turns around, pumping his brows up in greeting. There's a mug of coffee in his hand and a lazy smile on his face that Kiyoomi wants to kiss. “You don't look dead.”
Atsumu offers the mug up and Kiyoomi leans down for a careful sip. “I don't feel dead.” He sets the mug aside, making sure nothing is in between and that Atsumu hears loud and clear. They slip into a familiar position—Kiyoomi with his hands on Atsumu's hips, Atsumu's own resting steadily on Kiyoomi's shoulders— and Kiyoomi can't help but think that this is right. There are tons of things in his head racing to be said but Kiyoomi can only really say one before his heart threatens to burst again.
“Thank you. For being here.”
It's enough to render Atsumu speechless though. There's a flush high on his cheekbones and suddenly Atsumu doesn't know where to look. He looks pretty like that.
“Gross, Omi.” Atsumu sputters out, flush darkening.
Kiyoomi stares at the pretty flush until Atsumu's squirming and soon he's being ushered—shoved— into his seat. “Quit it. What are ya thankin' me for, of course I'd be here, 'm an angel.”
Kiyoomi decides that he wants Atsumu alive for the rest of the day so he drops it, for now, and instead feeds himself a piece of tamagoyaki. “Sounds blasphemous.”
That sends Atsumu into a rant, shyness pushed away and his eyes glinting to life. He tells Kiyoomi how he's such an awesome guy and how Kiyoomi is lucky to have him and that he's the greatest ever. Kiyoomi is inclined to agree. He does. He still won't tell Atsumu that.
(The soft pink on Atsumu's cheeks remains.)
Later on, Kiyoomi will do his stretches and come Tuesday he'll be back on court with a go signal from their coach and physician. Right now, he takes this win and enjoys breakfast with Atsumu, now demanding feedback about his cooking, the sun crowning his hair like a soft halo.