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STAGE 1: QUESTION
Motoya thinks that traditions are overrated.
After all, tradition is the only reason he’s currently shoving the last of his miscellaneous junk under his bed in his dorm room at Itachiyama, while Inarizaki’s Suna Rintarou lingers awkwardly in the entryway, trying and failing not to collapse from the weight of his giant duffel bag.
“Uh, yeah,” Motoya says, scratching the back of his neck. “You can put your stuff in the corner, and then I can show you around the school grounds.”
Suna maneuvers his lanky frame into the room, and sets his bag down heavily. “I know where everything is,” he says. “We were here the year before last.”
Right. Of course. The tradition in question is the yearly weeklong training camp with Itachiyama, Inarizaki, and Kamomedai, borne out of spite because their seniors had caught wind of some schools in Tokyo doing the same and were determined not to lose out. It’s Itachiyama’s turn to host this year, which is why Motoya has to play host to Suna and-
“Sorry I’m late!” Kamomedai’s ace screeches to a halt in the doorway. “Woah, your school is huge! Like ours. We have stables! And a swimming pool. Do you have a pool? I bet ours is bigger than yours!”
Suna and Motoya make eye contact, and heave identical sighs. It looks like it’s going to be a long week.
...
When Motoya finally wrangles both Suna and Hoshiumi to the gym in one piece, he finds his cousin in a considerably better state than he is.
That isn’t saying much, since Motoya had nearly lost what was left of his eyebrows (long story) on the way down here, between trying to stop Suna from walking headfirst into walls and trying to stop Hoshiumi from being, well, Hoshiumi. But then again, Kiyoomi’s resting face is somewhere in the middle of intense pain and intense disgust, and neither of these two emotions are currently present on his face.
“Everything all right?” Motoya asks him anyway. He must be halfway to sainthood now.
Kiyoomi hums, and Motoya follows his gaze to where Miya Atsumu is barking at an unfortunate first year about the difference between a Mikasa volleyball and a Molten volleyball.
“He and his brother are staying in your room, right?” Motoya asks, and clucks sympathetically when he nods. There is a common consensus in the high school volleyball circuit that while the Miya twins are a terror on the court, that is nothing compared to Miya Atsumu off the court. Motoya hasn’t quite forgotten his persistent needling of Kageyama Tobio at last year’s All-Japan camp. He imagines Atsumu waking Kiyoomi up at the crack of dawn to call him a goody-two-shoes, and his mood instantly improves.
The gym only gets a brief respite from Atsumu’s squawking when his brother enters a few minutes later as Atsumu directs his attention to the unfortunate soul, before he promptly picks a fight with Osamu over something Motoya can’t quite understand the gist of, and Motoya promptly revises his misconception that Osamu is the superior twin.
“Stupid, shitting-”
“Hope you choke on your lunch-”
“YOU TAKE THAT BACK.”
It’s madness. Motoya looks around for some semblance of an authority figure to step in, but the teachers are gone for some faculty meeting. Most of the Inarizaki team are going about their warm ups heedless of their captain and vice-captain like this is an everyday occurrence, which, of course it is. Motoya suspects that the old third years’ departure had been something like the ringmasters abandoning a circus and letting the clowns run the show, and wonders how the team is still sane.
Suna has whipped out that god forsaken phone and is filming the whole thing. Hoshiumi appears to be taking bets from his teammates. His captain, Hirugami, has assumed a lotus position while facing the wall some distance away, as if he is deliberately refusing to see all this. Motoya relates.
Beside him, Kiyoomi lets out a long-suffering sigh. Honestly, Motoya is surprised that his cousin is still here and hasn’t slunk off somewhere to sulk, like he does when there are too many people and too much noise. Probably something to do with his new captainship.
“Hey, Miya,” Kiyoomi says, suddenly. They’re a distance away from the brawling twins, but they both freeze and look up all the same. In fact, everyone around them freezes. Motoya sends a quick prayer up to the gods, because Kiyoomi intervening is never a good thing.
“Do you still suck at receiving?” Kiyoomi says, eyes on the blond twin.
Atsumu promptly lets go of his brother’s throat and leaps up, stalking towards Kiyoomi with a spark of something in his eyes. Motoya, out of a sense of self-preservation, puts a good five metres between himself and his foolhardy, devil-may-care cousin.
Atsumu stops right in front of Kiyoomi, who, to his credit, doesn’t shrink away under the heat of that intense stare. “I bet I can receive all your spikes.”
“Okay,” Kiyoomi says blandly. “Prove it.”
Atsumu’s eyes flash again, and before Motoya can quite process what’s going on, Atsumu and Kiyoomi have rounded up their respective teams and are marshalling them into positions on opposite sides of the net. By the time the teachers arrive from their faculty meeting, a game is in full swing with no visible trace of the earlier chaos.
Motoya still doesn’t know what’s going on when they finish the full three sets, barely scraping a win over Inarizaki that has Atsumu howling for a rematch and Kiyoomi smirking and pumping his fist in victory. In fact, Motoya is so concerned at this uncharacteristic display of normal human emotion on Kiyoomi’s face that he nearly runs headlong into Suna at the water coolers.
“Very curious, isn’t it?” Suna says. His catlike eyes are fixed on Atsumu and Kiyoomi too, where they’re currently engaging in a twisted game of chicken around the periphery of the court. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone provoke Atsumu like that since, well, Osamu.”
“Kiyoomi does not willingly initiate conversation with other members of the human species.”
“Well, Atsumu is practically an animal,” Suna says, and Motoya can’t help the snort that escapes him.
“So we agree,” Suna says. “That there’s something up with those two.”
Motoya narrows his eyes suspiciously at Suna. The glint in his eyes kind of gives Motoya the sense that he’s being hunted, not unlike the look insurance agents give unsuspecting customers before persuading them into signing away their salary for the rest of their lives.
“Yes,” Motoya says cautiously. “There might be.”
“And don’t you want to find out what it is?” Suna’s tone is wheedling. “Come on, you’re probably bored of these camps by now, especially since you’ve probably already gotten an offer for a pro team, best libero and all. Which is the lucky team?”
“EJP,” Motoya sighs. Suna knows how to flatter a guy, damn it.
“What a coincidence,” Suna says. “They signed me too. Think of this as early team bonding, huh?”
“Fine,” Motoya relents, and catches Suna’s victorious grin. Damn insurance agents. “So, how are we going to go about this?”
STAGE 2: RESEARCH
According to Suna, a self-proclaimed master of gossip mongering, espionage is crucial for the initial accumulation of information.
However, the first tidbit comes to Motoya completely unbidden, during dinnertime later that day. He and Kiyoomi have taken their usual places at the corner of the cafeteria, due to Kiyoomi’s aversion to the chaos that usually reigns in the tables in the middle, where Hoshiumi has indeed challenged a poor victim from Inarizaki to an arm wrestling tournament. Case in point.
Their relative peace is shattered not two seconds after they’ve sat down, by a tray banging down on the spot next to Kiyoomi. Motoya looks up to see Atsumu’s terrifying Cheshire cat grin, with his clearly reluctant twin and Suna in tow.
“Omi-kun!” Atsumu greets cheerfully, as if he didn’t spend the better part of the day threatening bloody murder across the net.
What the hell is an Omi-kun? Motoya mouths to Suna, who shrugs.
Judging by how Kiyoomi barely reacts at that, this accursed nickname clearly isn’t anything new. Instead, he starts picking the broccoli out of his dinner and wordlessly passes them to Atsumu, who gobbles them up happily.
There is a beat of silence where Motoya and Suna do their level best to communicate solely through aggressively squinted eyes, while Osamu buries his face in his food, clearly immune to Atsumu’s antics.
“Atsumu,” Suna starts. “I didn’t know you liked broccoli.”
Atsumu shrugs. “I’m neutral,” he says, his words garbled around a mouthful of food. “But Omi-kun doesn’t like them, and it’s bad to waste food.”
“How did you know he doesn’t like broccoli?” Motoya prods further.
“He told me,” Atsumu says, in a ‘duh’ voice, and then goes back to eating.
In general, Motoya tries to refrain from raising his eyebrows too often. His eyebrow hair is already scarce- he doesn’t need to aggravate the remaining strands by exerting them frequently. He’s aware that this is probably not how biology works, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when the cause of his impending eyebrow baldness is his cousin is flirting with Miya Atsumu. Right in front of his salad.
“They’re definitely dating,” Suna hisses to Motoya, right after Kiyoomi and Atsumu have excused themselves to return their trays. “Ten bucks says they got together at the elitist Japan camp thing.”
“I don’t think so,” Motoya says slowly, trying to recall the previous year’s Japan Youth Camp. “That was the first time they’d met, and I don’t think Kiyoomi had a great first impression of him, then.”
Come to think of it, though, his cousin had been more cheerful these past few months. As cheerful as someone like Kiyoomi can get, anyway, which means to say that he has stopped constantly glaring at the world like it has personally offended him. All in all, it is very suspicious indeed.
“I think we should get more information, before we jump to conclusions,” Motoya says slowly.
“Okay fine. We’ll observe them some more, or something. Speaking of, where are they?”
Motoya looks around the cafeteria, and finds that Kiyoomi and Atsumu have indeed disappeared. Sneaky bastards.
“I know where Kiyoomi might be,” Motoya says, and Suna stands up so quickly his chair clatters to the floor loudly. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
Motoya has never seen Suna exhibit this level of enthusiasm for anything else in the twelve hours since he’s made his acquaintance, and is vaguely alarmed. He casts a longing look at his plate, which still has a generous portion of bean sprouts and egg.
“Oh, ‘Samu can help you finish that,” Suna says, at the same time as Osamu says, “I’ll take care of that.”
“Don’t you want to, er, join us?” Motoya offers awkwardly.
“He’s your problem now,” Osamu says, and then pulls Motoya’s plate towards him and pours its contents onto his own. Motoya watches forlornly as his bean sprouts disappear into the black hole that is Osamu’s mouth, and takes back whatever he said about Atsumu being the only demon off the court.
For the sake of my future team dynamics , Motoya tells himself. He reluctantly leaves the cafeteria, and leads Suna up the stairs to a landing on the second floor that overlooks the alley behind Itachiyama.
Sure enough, Kiyoomi is squatting in the alley, as he does every evening at sunset. This time, though, he isn’t alone. Atsumu stands a few steps behind him, hands shoved into his pockets. As they watch, a cat emerges from the shadows and pads its way towards Kiyoomi. It’s black with white socks, and it purrs loudly as Kiyoomi produces a handful of treats from his pocket.
As the cat starts eating from Kiyoomi’s palm, Kiyoomi gestures for Atsumu to come forward, and proceeds to pour the remaining food into his palm.
“Go on,” Motoya hears Kiyoomi say. “She doesn’t bite.”
Gingerly, Atsumu squats down and stretches his hand out slowly. To everyone’s surprise, Kiyoomi grabs a fistful of Atsumu’s jacket, and guides his arm out towards the cat. Atsumu jumps like he’s been shocked, but steadies his hand as the cat approaches, and visibly deflates in relief as it starts to eat from his hand in earnest.
“See?” Kiyoomi says, in a voice almost too low for Motoya to catch. “She likes you.”
Atsumu grins down at the cat, but Motoya sees his cousin keep his eyes fixed on Atsumu’s profile. Now, Motoya considers himself to be an expert on reading his cousin’s moods, but this expression isn’t one that Motoya has seen on his face before.
Then, just as Kiyoomi’s eyes flick downwards, Atsumu lifts his gaze to look at Kiyoomi, and this expression Motoya can read, because Atsumu wears his heart on his sleeve. He suddenly feels as though he’s intruding which, well, they are.
“What the hell,” Suna mutters from beside him. “What kind of k-drama is this?”
STAGE 3: HYPOTHESIS
“Okay, so they clearly aren’t together yet.”
Suna is starfishing on one of the futons Motoya has laid out on the floor, arms crossed behind his head. Hoshiumi is nowhere to be found, probably still regaling some terrified first years about the time he fought a mountain lion, or something. Motoya can’t quite find the strength to hunt him down, and tells himself that he’ll find his way back.
“But they definitely like each other,” Suna continues. Motoya gives a non-committal hum, and continues brushing his teeth. He briefly considers going pro in another country, with saner future teammates. Norway sounds nice. Or Poland.
“And ‘Samu said Atsumu has definitely been spending a lot of time on his phone since training camp. Apparently he stays up really late using his phone, too.”
“Kiyoomi, too,” Motoya acquiesces.
“Which means…”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Hoshiumi slides out from under Motoya’s bed. “They’re crushing hard , gentlemen.”
Suna yelps, and Motoya jumps so violently he nearly sticks his toothbrush up his nose. He swears under his breath as he hastily rinses his mouth out. “What the hell, dude? How long have you been there?”
“Long enough,” Hoshiumi says, with too much enigma for someone completely covered in dust and cobwebs. Motoya has not cleaned the bottom of his bed since he moved into the room two years ago. “By the way, I found this under your bed. Is this some kind of emoji, or what?”
Motoya leaps forward and snatches his month-old boxers where it is dangling from Hoshiumi’s fingertips, amidst Suna’s snickers in the background. “It’s a limited edition Gudetama collectible,” he grits out.
“Whatever you say,” Hoshiumi shrugs, and pops a chip into his mouth. Motoya realises that the bag of chips he’s scourged is definitely expired by about half a decade, but in light of very recent events, he makes the executive decision not to inform Hoshiumi of this.
“So,” Hoshiumi says. “You are clearly in desperate need of help.”
“No we’re not,” Suna says.
“What you need,” Hoshiumi continues as if Suna hasn’t spoken, “is an action plan. To prove your theory.”
“Wait, what theory?” Motoya is so lost. “And who is taking what action now?”
“So we think Miya and Sakusa like each other, but they’re too chicken to say anything,” Hoshiumi says. “But until we have proof,” he clenches his fist passionately, “this is a baseless theory.”
“Since when did this become a ‘we’ thing?” Suna mutters. He is squinting hard at Hoshiumi, like he’s trying to peer into Hoshiumi’s head and figure out what the hell is going on in there. Motoya doesn’t think he’ll find much.
“Gentlemen,” Hoshiumi continues. He’s climbed onto Motoya’s bed now, and is gazing earnestly into Motoya’s fly-infested ceiling light. “This journey- it will not be easy. Some will call us insane. Some will call us fools.”
Motoya thinks the “some” people would not be too far off. He clears his throat, ready to call time of death on this ridiculous scheme. “Exactly, so-”
“But think of fame!” Hoshiumi shoots up on Motoya’s bed. If he was Kiyoomi, Motoya would have had ten aneurysms by now. “Think of glory. Think of,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “Miya and Sakusa’s faces when we play a tape of their confession at their wedding.”
Huh.
When Kiyoomi and Motoya were five, Kiyoomi accidentally wet his pants and consequently the chair he was sitting on at kindergarten. But instead of just telling a teacher like a normal five-year-old, Kiyoomi had stood up from his wet chair, calmly tied a sweater around his waist, and told Motoya to go sit on it. Before Motoya could register that the chair was wet and smelly , Kiyoomi raised his hand, and said in his sweetest, most innocent voice:
“Nakamura-sensei, Toya-kun wet his pants.”
Motoya has been seeking revenge for the past twelve years to no avail. And here is an opportunity, practically ripe for the taking.
“I’m in,” Motoya says quickly.
Suna shrugs. “Why not?”
Hoshiumi’s eyes gleam like a pigeon who’s just found a new surface to shit on. “Here’s what we’ll do…”
STAGE 4: EXPERIMENT
“And you spent how long making this?” Motoya asks.
Hoshiumi waves this away. “Not important, Kokomo! What’s important is that this plan is 100% foolproof.”
The three of them- Motoya refuses to refer to them as “the three musketeers”, no matter how hard Hoshiumi is pushing for it- are gathered in a corner of the locker room staring at a piece of paper in Hoshiumi’s hand. It’s standard Genkouyoushi paper, except the words aren’t written neatly within the boxes but are instead cutouts of phrases from magazine and newspaper advertisements pasted in haphazard lines. The note reads:
Dear Sakusa-san,
Your dark eyes
Charcoal toothpaste
Giving me the brightest smile to start my morning
Great effect for teeth whitening
Your poreless baby skin
Edward Cullen
Natural beauty has never been easier to achieve
Hydrating serum with real tea leaves
Your 3 ply disposable face mask
Ultracomfort and breathable
It’s all in our hands to make a difference
99.9% protection
Need to clean your home?
All roads lead to Rome
Passionately,
Your ideal man
“This looks like the world’s worst ransom note,” Suna says flatly. “There’s no way this will make Atsumu jealous.”
Motoya nods in agreement. “It’s going to freak Kiyoomi out. Although the ‘99.9% protection’ bit was a nice touch.”
Hoshiumi preens at that. “I know! But it’s gonna work, I swear. Quick, slip it into Sakusa’s locker before anyone comes in.”
Later, they hide behind a pillar and wait with bated breath as Kiyoomi yanks open his locker, Atsumu chattering noisily as he collapses down on the bench behind him. The flimsy note drifts out, and Kiyoomi frowns as he bends to pick it up.
“Atsumu,” he calls. “Look at this shit.”
Motoya watches Atsumu’s eyebrows slowly knit together as he scans the note. “What the hell? Do you really use charcoal toothpaste?”
“Well, yes,” Kiyoomi says. “But that’s not the point. It’s clearly someone’s idea of a practical joke.”
“It might not be,” Atsumu argues back. His lips are pulled into a frown, and Hoshiumi squeezes Motoya and Suna’s biceps tightly, making them both wince. “Looks like they know you pretty well, Omi-kun.”
Kiyoomi scoffs, and turns back to face his locker as he changes out of his practice jersey. Atsumu keeps his eyes fixed on Kiyoomi’s back, and both Suna and Motoya have to make a concerted effort not to gag.
“Please,” Kiyoomi says. “Edward Cullen?”
Now you’re just fishing for compliments , Motoya thinks. Hoshiumi’s vice grip on his arm tightens, and Motoya can feel him practically vibrating with anticipation. What a weird guy.
“I don’t know,” Atsumu mumbles. “He was pretty hot in Twilight.”
Kiyoomi snorts, and Atsumu opens his mouth again, but then closes it, just as Kiyoomi finishes changing and turns around to snatch the note out of Atsumu’s hand and crumple it. He tosses it into the bin, and Atsumu visibly brightens up.
“Stop staring at it,” he grumbles. “Let’s go to dinner. I’m starving.”
As Atsumu trails out of the room behind Kiyoomi, Motoya feels Hoshiumi and Suna sag in disappointment beside him.
“Told you it would flop. Also, can you let go of my arm?” Suna complains. “I think I lost all feeling in there like, two years ago.”
“Patience,” Hoshiumi insists. “It’s gonna work.”
...
It works. It works too well.
Atsumu hadn’t confessed his undying affection to Kiyoomi like Hoshiumi had predicted, but what he does do is about ten times more annoying.
“I don’t care what you did, just make it stop,” Osamu grouses out at lunch the next day. They (the cursed trio and Osamu) are seated a few tables away from the current banes of Motoya’s existence, watching Atsumu shoot piercing glares at everyone within a ten metre radius. “He hasn’t stopped doing that since last night.”
That isn’t even the full extent of it. Motoya had overheard Atsumu giving a loud, rambling lecture to an unfortunate Itachiyama second year student who made the mistake of offering Kiyoomi an isotonic drink in between sets. Motoya would have intervened, but he doesn’t have a death wish.
(“Omi-kun doesn’t drink Aquarius! He prefers Pocari Sweat, because it’s sweeter. You may not know it, but Omi-omi has a sweet tooth! But of course, he prefers plain water to any sports drink. Not just any plain water, mind you, he likes boiled water from home best. But if you have to give him bottled water, Omi-kun’s favourite is Suntory. He likes sparkling water too, because…”)
The poor guy on the receiving end of Atsumu’s rant had been terrified, nodding frantically as he bulldozed on, only stopping when Atsumu’s coach yelled at him to get back on the court.
And the worst part of this all is that Kiyoomi is doing absolutely nothing to spare the masses from Atsumu’s descent into madness. No, the bastard is actually enjoying this, chin resting in his palm as he stares adoringly at Atsumu, who has started on another long spiel to the cafeteria at large about Kiyoomi’s preference for short-grained over long-grained rice. His eyes are sparkling. Gross.
“You know when a dog pees to mark its territory,” Suna says under his breath. “This feels exactly like that.”
“I don’t get it,” Motoya says. “Why can’t he just, you know, tell Kiyoomi he likes him? Like a normal person?”
“Have you met Atsumu?” Osamu says. “And why can’t Sakusa confess?”
“Boys,” Suna says, infuriatingly placating. “There’s no need to fight. Both of your family members are equally screwed up.”
“Okay, focus up, people,” Hoshiumi butts in, seeing Motoya and Osamu open their mouths to argue back. “Our targets are wimpier than expected, but no matter. We just need to give ‘em that final push!”
Hoshiumi refuses to elaborate further, but his plan becomes apparent the next day after practice when he yanks Suna and Motoya to the side and brandishes a key.
“And what’s this for?” Suna drawls. “If it doesn’t unlock Atsumu’s diary, I’m not interested.”
“No, you silly beanpole,” Hoshiumi says. “This is the storage room key.”
Motoya and Suna stare back at him blankly, and Hoshiumi sighs in frustration. “Haven’t either of you watched any movies? Y’know, lock the romantic interests in a small space together, let the romantic tension do its thing?”
“Never seen anything like it,” Motoya says. Hoshiumi looks at the sky in despair. “But I guess it’s worth a shot.”
It’s surprisingly easy enough to get Atsumu and Kiyoomi into the storage closet alone. They wait until practice is over for the day, and then huddle outside the back door of the gym as everyone else streams out for dinner. Normal upperclassmen would leave the cleaning of the court to their kouhai , but not Kiyoomi. That’s servant leadership , their coach would say of Kiyoomi proudly. Motoya doesn’t know what the hell servant leadership is, but he sure knows that the only reason Kiyoomi cleans the gym himself is because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do a better job.
Well, not quite anyone else. Kiyoomi has bestowed upon Atsumu the honour of allowing him to use one mop, and Atsumu has evidently taken his task to heart, diligently scrubbing away at near invisible stains on the floor.
“It’s almost been half an hour,” Suna hisses. “Why aren’t they done yet?”
“There’s a germaphobe in there with the world’s most desperate man,” Motoya replies. “What do you think?”
“Well, I hope they hurry it up,” Suna grumbles. “I’m getting a billion mosquito bites from standing around in this grass.”
By the time Kiyoomi has deemed the floor clean enough, it’s nearly eight in the evening. Motoya nearly cries with relief when they finally, finally , gather up the mops and head for the storage closet.
Hoshiumi seizes the opportunity and sprints into the gym, promptly kicks the door shut, and twists the key into the lock.
“Hello?” Atsumu’s voice comes from inside the closet. “Is there anyone out there?”
Suna visibly suppresses a snigger. Hoshiumi dramatically flings the key out of the window of the gym, and they huddle up to the storage closet to press their ears to the door.
The door handle creaks uselessly. “It’s locked,” Kiyoomi says. “The wind must have blown it shut.”
Atsumu curses and lets out an ear-splitting shriek. “HEEELP.”
The three of them immediately flinch from the door, hands flying up to their ears. “HELP US.”
“They’re all at dinner,” Kiyoomi says. “They’re not gonna be able to hear us from here.”
They hear Atsumu curse again, and then there’s rustling from inside the closet, followed by a brief silence.
We need to see what’s going on , Motoya mouths to them.
“Hoshiumi, get on Komori’s back,” Suna whispers. “You can look in from that window above the door.”
“Oh, so I’m the spy because I’m short ?” Hoshiumi hisses aggressively back. “Is that it? You think I’m a wee thing?”
“No one said that.”
“Well, this wee thing is just as capable of being the muscle here,” Hoshiumi continues mutinously. “Eyebrows,” he gestures at Motoya, “Get on my back.”
“And take my phone,” Suna adds. “Record the whole thing. Portrait mode. This is going on my Instagram story, so make sure it's stable and don’t cover the lens with your thumb, for god’s sake.”
Motoya shoots Suna a look, hoping it conveys his utmost disapproval, and clambers gingerly onto Hoshiumi’s back to look into the window.
Atsumu and Kiyoomi have settled side by side amongst the mops and poles in the storage closet, in a small pool of moonlight that has creeped its way into the narrow closet. They’re sitting on a couple of new sports bibs, because there is no universe in which Sakusa Kiyoomi would willingly sit on the floor of a dusty storage closet.
Atsumu has his knees pulled up to his chest. “Do you think it’ll take long for them to find us?” he asks, in a very small, uncharacteristic voice.
“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi admits. “They might think we’re just late to dinner, or something.” He narrows his eyes at Atsumu, who has somehow managed to curl further up into himself. “Are you okay, Miya?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Atsumu’s voice is shrill. “It’s just… hot. Very humid. Is there a fan in here?”
“Not that I know of. And it’s pretty chilly, actually,” Kiyoomi says, frowning. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He leans forward, and places the back of his hand on Atsumu’s forehead.
Atsumu jumps back as if Kiyoomi’s hand is on fire, putting a metre between the two of them. Kiyoomi raises his eyebrows questioningly.
“I- I don’t want you to get your hands dirty,” Atsumu stutters. “I’m sweaty, and-”
“I thought we’ve established that I don’t really mind touching you,” Kiyoomi says impatiently, and Motoya nearly drops Suna’s phone at that, earning him a fierce glare. “You’re plenty hygienic yourself, you know.”
“What’s so interesting up there?” A quiet voice comes from behind them.
Hoshiumi jumps, and Motoya is violently dislodged from on top of his shoulders. He goes sprawling on the hardwood floor, and it is only by virtue of countless hours of receiving Kiyoomi’s spikes that he somehow manages to land in a crouch.
Osamu is chewing at something in his mouth, as always, and has an onigiri in hand. He gives Motoya and Hoshiumi an unimpressed look. “Well?”
“We’re doing what you asked, of course.” Suna appears to be the only one unfazed by Osamu’s sudden appearance. “Forcing the idiots to confess to each other.”
Osamu straightens up. “Wait. You locked them in there?”
They nod, and Osamu’s eyes widen in alarm. “You idiots,” he says. “‘Tsumu’s claustrophobic .”
“What? Oh my god, I thought he was nervous .” Motoya scrambles for the key, but belatedly remembers that Hoshiumi had flung it out of the window. “Shit, it’s probably in the grass somewhere.”
They run outside, Suna flashing his phone’s flashlight in the tall grass surrounding the gym. “Damn you, Hoshiumi,” Osamu says. “Why’d you have to throw it that far?”
“It’s part of a showman’s craft,” Hoshiumi says defensively. “Where’s the razzle dazzle if you don’t-”
“‘Samu, I think I just saw a snake,” Suna says frantically, and promptly leaps onto his back. “Shield me, I’m too young to die-”
“Oh, and I’m not?”
“Found it!” Motoya exclaims in relief. They hurry back in, Motoya jamming the key into the lock and swinging the door open.
“Um,” Suna says.
Atsumu still has his knees to his chest, but Kiyoomi is crouching in front of him, Atsumu’s hands cradled in his, and their faces are an inch apart. They spring apart at the sudden light and instantly turn beetroot red.
“We’ll, uh, let you get back to it,” Motoya starts, but it’s too late. Atsumu is leaping up, spluttering out several garbled excuses, and Kiyoomi is making unwavering eye contact with the floor at their feet, burning a hole into the parquet with the intensity of his gaze.
“I’m gonna go- uh, water the grass,” Kiyoomi blurts out. “Yes. I have to do that right now. Good evening.” And then he flees from the gym.
There is silence for a few seconds, while Motoya wonders if there is some kind of procedure for disowning your relatives, and then Atsumu clears his throat. “None of you saw that.”
STAGE 5: CONCLUSION
“So now they’re not talking to each other,” Osamu says drily. “Well done.”
It’s the last day of camp, and they’re taking a break in between games to watch the slow-motion train wreck that is Atsumu practising serve receives with a second-string Inarizaki player. He had failed to receive every single ball coming his way that morning, probably because he had spent the entire time glancing covetly in Kiyoomi’s direction, just to see if he was looking back. Kiyoomi had- but only whenever Atsumu hadn’t been looking back at him.
Motoya did not sign up for this. He’s here to play volleyball , not play matchmaker in some B-rated romance film with the world’s worst costars.
“He came to our room last night,” Suna says in a low voice. “Said something about how the tension was killing him.”
“I wish it did,” Osamu grumbles. “He stepped on my face on his way out.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Hoshiumi tells him. “Do you think I am limited just because I’m small? Oh, if only you knew of the men who have tried to step on my face and failed!”
One court over, Kiyoomi is practicing serves of his own, apparently directing his energy in a very different avenue from Atsumu, as he slams service ace after service ace into the court right between the feet of his opponents. Motoya is a hundred percent certain that they could have received it (well, he definitely could) but are choosing not to out of sheer apprehension of their captain’s ferocity.
Suna groans loudly as Atsumu fails to receive yet another serve. “Oi, captain! What are your arms made out of? Cotton candy?”
Atsumu whips around to glare at him. “You shut your trap, Sunarin-”
And then Motoya sees it all happen, like art in motion. The stray ball that comes flying off the arms of a player who had failed to receive Kiyoomi’s serve. The widening of Osamu’s eyes as he tracks the ball’s path towards the back of Atsumu’s head. Kiyoomi streaking over between the courts, and then shoving Atsumu out of the way as he bends his knees and makes the world’s most perfect receive. Atsumu losing his balance, and catching onto Kiyoomi’s sleeve as they both tumble over each other. Kiyoomi landing directly on top of Atsumu.
The ball arcs into the air beautifully and then gently bounces off to a corner of the court where it rolls to a stop, as if tired out from doing the Lord’s work.
Wow , Motoya thinks faintly. You can’t make this shit up .
A hush has fallen over the gym. Everyone has stopped whatever they were doing, all eyes on the two captains who, apparently, only have eyes for each other. Motoya is pretty sure the rest of the world has stopped existing for them, like, twenty light years ago.
“Are you okay?” Kiyoomi asks first.
Atsumu visibly swallows, and then says in a dazed voice, “You saved me.”
“It was my fault,” Kiyoomi says. “I shouldn’t have served it so hard-”
And then Atsumu is curling a fist in Kiyoomi’s jersey and planting his mouth directly on Kiyoomi’s broad daylight. Kiyoomi makes a noise like a startled goldfish, eyes shooting open, before he slowly brings his hands up to Atsumu’s face, and starts to kiss him back in earnest.
Motoya never asked to see his cousin’s tongue down someone’s throat, but even he can’t help the smile that breaks out on his face.
“Fuckin’ finally,” Osamu groans beside him, but he’s grinning as broadly as Motoya has ever seen him too.
“YEAH, BABY.” Hoshiumi bellows. “THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.”
As Atsumu and Kiyoomi hastily pull away, flushing red but still beaming nevertheless, Motoya turns to Suna. “Tell me you got that all on tape.”
Suna waves his phone smugly, and Motoya grins back at his future teammate. It seems that some traditions might not be so bad after all.
“You bet I did.”