Chapter Text
“Motoya,” mutters Kiyoomi, hyper-aware of the gaze burning a well-defined hole into the back of his head. He yearns for his mask, wishes for a second mask, and maybe a third, and feels his skin chill and burn at the gaze all the same time. “Is there something on my face?”
Motoya pauses. He’s got one hand on the wall, and has paused his leg-swing mid air, which should make him look ridiculous but Motoya has a talent for making things that look ridiculous look like Kiyoomi’s the one who's got it all wrong. “You’ve got eyes, a nose, moles… What, you want an anatomy lesson?”
Kiyoomi glowers. “You’re free to stretch somewhere else.”
“Hey, you asked.” Motoya raises his hands in surrender, still balanced though his leg is still hanging in the air. “Have mercy.”
Kiyoomi would prefer to be alone in this corner of the club room, where the speaker playing obnoxiously loud headache-inducing music can barely reach him. It’s a little darker by this side—there are no windows, only the chipping white walls, mats piled up next to boxes of spare kickboards, pull buoys, and fins—but he doesn't mind it. In fact, he much prefers it. That doesn’t stop Motoya from complaining about the vibe even though he actively chooses to stretch here every practice.
He remembers the burning gaze again. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Huh?” Motoya finally puts his leg down. “Oh, the face? Why, you self conscious all of a sudden?”
“No.”
“…No, what?”
“It’s a simple question.”
Motoya raises his brows. Or, well, he tries to raise one brow, and it so obviously fails it actually makes him look ridiculous. “You’re being serious.”
Kiyoomi takes offence to that. “I’m always serious.”
Practice isn’t that late, but sunset’s earlier this time of year so the windows bunkered up on the far end of the room have started to stream a sunset gold that's so bright, it would induce headache. It makes Kiyoomi more appreciative of his side of the room that bears no glass, no preview of the outside world, but Motoya more whiny that they’re too far away from the rest of the club.
He’s free to stretch with the others. Kiyoomi has told him this, but Motoya insists they have to stretch together. It’s unclear why.
“Is this about the new guy?” Motoya asks, tentatively.
Kiyoomi glowers harder. The new member radiates so nauseatingly bright, Kiyoomi wants to drown himself. Of course, that would be unideal, given that nationals is three months away, and Kiyoomi needs to focus if he wants to medal. Kiyoomi just has to hope that the new member will simmer down enough by then so Kiyoomi’s not as distracted.
He should, if he’s as serious about training as Kiyoomi hears him yapping endlessly about in the other corner of the room, surrounded by his teammates who don’t know when it’s okay to talk and when it’s time to focus. Kiyoomi is hoping that this is just the new club honeymoon phase. If not, Coach Ukai will beat that grin out of him in no time, what with the death-inducing sets he’s probably planned.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” mutters Motoya, almost to himself. There’s two bits of hair sticking out where his hairline is, almost as sharp as his chin. He bends his arm back to do a static stretch, which Kiyoomi has advised endlessly against, to no avail, and gives Kiyoomi a large, menacing grin. Oh no. “What’s got you so hung up on him? Got a crush?”
Kiyoomi stares back in horror. Instead of entertaining that ridiculous assumption, he turns around and goes back to stretching. The rest of the activation goes on in silence, but not without Motoya’s snickering, and not without that burning gaze multiplying to distract Kiyoomi’s mind.
Maybe that’s the intention behind the stare. Distract Kiyoomi, so he can’t focus on training well, so he can’t get a new PB. That must be it.
That proves to be true, when a hand waves in front of his face and Kiyoomi has to blink to remember what reality he’s in.
“…you alright, dude?” says Motoya. “Come on, Coach wants to speak to us before training starts.”
Kiyoomi lugs along silently, slipping into his on-deck slides and swinging his mesh bag over his shoulder. The rest of the club’s already half-way to the pool deck by virtue of being closer to the door than Kiyoomi, which is fine. He’d rather not risk bumping into any of their bare skin.
It’s not out of the ordinary to have pre-training talks. It’s usually a quick glance over the set for the day before they get in the pool, but there’s something different about today. Coach Ukai with his bored expression and bleached blonde hair, careless but stern demeanour, is leaning against the wall by the board but he hasn’t written up the set yet. He clears his throat, and says with a drawled out voice, “New member, come up.”
In staggers the new member and his nauseatingly wide grin. He hasn’t got his cap on yet, so Kiyoomi can really process how impractical his bleached yellow hair is. As much as a cap tries to wade off chlorine, it never seems to do the job it was designed for. That hair is definitely wading in chemicals—no, it’s probably dead by now. Kiyoomi’s hairdresser sister would probably cry if she saw it.
“Introduce yourself,” Coach says, tone as bored as Kiyoomi feels.
“Yessir,” says Miya. “Miya Atsumu. Raised in Hyogo. I just transferred from Osaka to study and train at Tokyo University. My major is undecided, though it’ll probably be biology, and I’m the best butterflyer you’ll ever see.” He bows his head, flopping that impractical mop of yellow in Kiyoomi’s direction. “Thank you for having me.”
Kiyoomi barely hides his scoff under the murmurs that pass over the group. He knows types like Miya Atsumu—too arrogant where his mouth is, but usually with nothing much to say. The only other member of their squad who would say something like that is Bokuto Koutarou, but that’s out of genuine childishness and not intentional pretentiousness. Kiyoomi can even feel Bokuto puff his chest up and make a huffing sound, like a predator growling to prey. Hopefully he doesn’t bring that attitude to their shared lane…
“Alright, if that’s all, you guys know the drill about teamwork. Make the new member feel at home and all.” Coach lifts off the wall and plucks a whiteboard marker from his pocket. “Get in. Two one hundreds, fifty choice kick fifty choice swim while I write up your set.”
That’s way too easy of a start, which makes Kiyoomi think that Coach has got something really devious planned and this is just a pre-warm-up. It’s a good thing he only ate a light banana before practice, unlike the curry rice he caught Motoya gobbling down only one hour before which he’s likely to throw up. It’s never happened before, because Motoya’s stomach is twisted like a devil, but one of these days he won’t be so lucky.
As the rest of the swimmers retreat to their lane, Miya asks, “What lane should I go in?”
“Uh,” says Coach, sparing only a flicker of a glance to retreating swimmers. “Lane three.”
Lane three. That’s Kiyoomi’s lane. His glower grows darker than his own shadow. Now he’s got two loud and obnoxious butterflyer’s pouncing on his space. Miya’s eyes turn to him. They narrow, and gleam, and the smile turns into a malicious grin, and that’s the moment Kiyoomi decides he hates Miya Atsumu: Hyogo-ken raised, majoring in biology, just transferred from Osaka, and butterflyer Miya Atsumu.
He whirls around and stomps over to lane three, ignoring Motoya’s raised brows. Amanai’s another tall and self-assured swimmer, but she’s a breaststroker and Kiyoomi has found that they’re always respectable. She and Kiyoomi have a certain understanding when it comes to sharing a lane. It involves no talking.
At least, not to Kiyoomi.
“…I hope he isn’t too disruptive,” she mutters, almost to herself, as she snaps the cap over her head. The university yellow and blue logo almost fully covers the design of the cap and it’s a bit too flashy for Kiyoomi’s taste, but each of their names are printed on the back under the word nationals and the reminder of how far he’s come is almost enough to forget that certain nauseating individual.
And she’s right to worry. Kiyoomi, too, hopes Miya doesn’t disrupt the shared understanding they’ve developed over their lane throughout the last year. That hope crashes immediately when Miya bounces over and places his mesh bag where Kiyoomi usually puts his one.
A deep inhale. No need to fret. He’ll just place it beside. He has to make room for the new member, after all.
“…hey, hey, hey,” Bokuto goads, slapping his chest like some sort of primate. “You think you’re better than me? Just you watch. I’m going to pommel you to the ground… Did I use that word correctly?
“Didn’t Akaashi tell you to simmer down?” asks Fumi, tone friendly but amused, too bright in her orange one piece. “And yes, you did.”
Kiyoomi’s not amused. They’re all wasting time. He could’ve finished their two hundred metres pre-warm-up by now. Two hundred metres only. Coach Ukai really is going to kill them this practice.
Bokuto immediately deflates, as though a thunderous cloud has appeared over his head. As far as Kiyoomi has heard, Bokuto used to be much more horrendous at dealing with… tantrums, to the extent that it would disrupt other swimmers in the lane, sometimes preventing them from leaving on time. Kiyoomi’s lucky Bokuto’s tampered down enough not to disturb Kiyoomi’s peace too much.
“Backstrokers shouldn’t talk,” mutters Bokuto.
Kiyoomi almost takes offence to that, but they’ve wasted too much of his time to entertain the thought of coming up with a retort. His cap and goggles come on quickly, blurring the pool deck into dark blue shadows.
“Akaashi’s still got a strong leash on ya, huh?” comments Oikawa. His body language is languid, teasing almost, but tense. His knee is still red from that injury the other week. It’s idiotic not to rest it more, really, but Kiyoomi won’t comment unless it messes with their lane’s synergy. If physical trainer student and his boyfriend Iwaizumi isn’t dragging him out of practice, then they must have come to some sort of agreement regarding practice and Kiyoomi has no reason to lecture. “See, it’s the other way around with my Iwa-chan. He knows that the best stroke is breaststroke.”
“Wasn’t he a butterflyer in highschool?” asks Amanai, voice timid but inquisitive. Great. They’ve distracted the only other focused member of their lane too.
“Also,” pipes up Fumi. “Aren’t you, like, a simp for him?”
“Excuse me?” exclaims Oikawa. “That’s besides the point—”
Kiyoomi doesn’t hear the rest of what Oikawa says. He dives into the cold water. That dive should transform all the chatter and external noise into a calm muffle, but Kiyoomi’s body is strung up tighter than it should be, given all that he stretched. He can’t help but think the reason is the new swimmer, whose dive gets him to trail much too close behind, he almost touches Kiyoomi’s bare feet.
~
“Man, that set was insane,” says Motoya, dragging his legs behind him as they walk down the five minute distance between the pool and the dorms. “Coach really is trying to kill us.”
The sun has set. The sky is pitch black and crystallising the air so that the cold runs goosebumps up his spine. The only light paving his path is the buzzing street lamps on either side of the wet grass path. Kiyoomi can barely feel his legs, and they’re shaking quite like jelly, but he won’t admit that out loud. He’s got his mask back over his face and it gives him some security, some comfort, though breathing into the chilling air might make his breaths choke a little less.
“It wasn’t that bad,” he says, quietly.
“Not everyone’s in lane three,” grumbles Motoya. “Speaking of, how was it sharing a lane?”
Kiyoomi frowns. He’s not a child. “I’ve been sharing a lane for a long time.’”
“You know what I mean,” says Motoya. “Miya Atsumu. I saw the way you were looking at him.”
“I wasn’t looking at him in any particular way.” At least, not any way different to how he looks at most people.
“Sure,” Motoya teases. “Whatever you say. You look like you wanted to kill him or devour him, I couldn’t tell. Got a thing for butterflyer’s, huh?”
Kiyoomi glares. “That is definitely not the case. And you’re the one who's got a thing for butterflyers, not me.”
Motoya sighs dreamily. “That’s just because I wish it was my main stroke. I’m just a boring freestyle distance swimmer. Nobody wants to watch anyone swim for that long. Now sprints, that’s where the hype is really at.”
“Nobody made you swim that,” comments Kiyoomi, though he knows a swimmer's main stroke isn’t entirely in their hands. Sometimes their bodies are just drawn to a certain stroke.
Sprints do get more attention, because everyone’s attention span has gotten so low these days they don’t care for watching a longer race. Kiyoomi’s never told Motoya this, but he actually finds it quite relaxing to watch his cousin swim. The slow build of tension, rising in crescendo until all Kiyoomi can do is hold his breath and try his best not to blink, so that he doesn’t miss the end… Well, it eases the tension built up before his own races that usually come days or hours later.
Green grass on both sides of the white concrete path lead to the white-orange buildings and the scent of fresh grass dew almost calms him. Though, it definitely makes the sleepiness cling to his body to make it even harder to ignore. Most of the team have already scattered, some to their dorms, some out for dinner, and a few responsible ones studying at the library. Kiyoomi always heads straight to the dorms, to shower in his room and not the filthy pool showers, and yet Motoya always asks him this:
“Say, some of the squad’s getting dinner at that new okonomiyaki place downtown. Bokuto wants to see if he can eat three of them on his own. Wanna come?”
“No thank you,” is all Kiyoomi can politely respond, although he does fail in not making a face. Okonomiyaki after practice? Do the other swimmers not care about optimal practice performance? “I’m going back to my room.”
Motoya looks like he might push it more this time, but Kiyoomi’s heard his lectures too many times to count that he can practically recite it in his head. Motoya knows this too, so all he ends up saying is “Okay, even if you drop by later, the offer still stands.”
“Thanks,” says Kiyoomi, “But no need to expect me. I won’t come.”
They have to get up at 5am for practice, so really, he’s the only one being reasonable on the team. It’s the same answer every time, and every time, Motoya still frowns like he expects something different. This has been the case since they joined the same swim club in middle school, so really it’s Motoya’s fault for expecting anything different.
“Won’t kill ya to hang out with us every once in a while,” grumbles Motoya, but the conversation has come to a close because they’ve arrived at the dorms. Blazing white ceiling lights greets him with a wince—a stark contrast to the darkened outside, and the warm inside makes Kiyoomi’s yearning to get under his covers somehow even stronger. “Coach always tells us it’s good to build up team relationships.”
“This is an individual sport,” comments Kiyoomi. “We don't need to get along with other members to succeed at it.”
“I think you’re wrong though, and anyway, it couldn’t hurt to try,” says Motoya. “Anyway, gotta jet before Bokuto leaves without me. See ya tomorrow?”
Kiyoomi cocks his head. “You’re not heading in first?”
“Nah.” Motoya shrugs. “Showered at the pool.”
“Oh.” Kiyoomi is glad he didn’t touch Motoya, though he doesn’t see why that would ever be necessary. “Okay, bye. Don’t stay out too late. You’ll regret it in the morning.”
“Okay, cousin,” says Motoya. “Just remember… swimming isn’t just about the race.”
Nonsense again. Hanging out with the literature major and Bokuto’s boyfriend, Akaashi, too much, has flowered his language. Speaking of Bokuto… He made way too much noise today trying to compete with the new member. The proximity itself has tired Kiyoomi, and has made the fatigue cling down to his bones.
Shower, food, study, then sleep. That’s the plan. He’s got practice early in the morning after all.
So, imagine his annoyance when he finds the one and only Miya Atsumu at his dorm room door. He’s changed into loose grey trackies and a matching jumper set, and is desperately trying to unlock the door with a key that’s going to get jammed if he tries any longer.
Kiyoomi eyes the door number. 303 … yeah, that’s his room. The hall is long and fitted with many doors on both sides of the wall but it doesn’t wind that much for Miya to get this lost looking for a clearly-labelled room number. It’s bolded, even.
Kiyoomi clears his throat.
Miya jumps. He whirls, looks up with wide eyes, and blinks so his dark lashes touch his smooth skin. Without that smirk, he almost looks innocent here. “Omi…?” drawls Miya, hand raising fast to cover an extended yawn. His kansai-ben comes through stronger now than when he was introducing himself. Kiyoomi would have assumed he was tipsy, if not for the fact that they spent the last hour and a half drowning in the pool together, and not one of those supposedly romantic double-suicide kind of ways that Motoya loves to watch. “What are ‘ya doing here?”
“Going to my room, which you’re blocking.” He deadpans. “Move.”
“Hey, no need to be so mean,” Miya says. “Just trying to find my room… I don't have my glasses… can’t read the number properly.”
It jolts Kiyoomi with an emotion he can’t ascertain to learn that Miya wears glasses. That explains all his frustrated squinting at the whiteboard and pace clock that almost delayed their leaving on the time cycle. "If you need glasses, you should wear them. Can you move now?”
Miya frowns. “You really not gonna help me find my room? What an ass.”
Kiyoomi inhales, and exhales. Giving into annoyance won’t help him sleep any good. “Show me the paper.”
“…Huh?”
It’s getting harder to contain his irritation. It’s quiet, so quiet, in this hall that occupies none other than the two of them. They’re in too much close proximity, that even though they’re wearing more clothes now, Kiyoomi feels more exposed. Miya’s breaths come too strong, too warm onto his face.
“Do you want me to read your room number or not?” snaps Kiyoomi. “Show me the paper.”
“Oh, okay—” Miya hands the crumpled paper out for Kiyoomi to take hold.
“No, just hold it up. I don’t want to touch it.”
Miya’s brows furrow. “Why?”
“Don’t ask,” interrupts Kiyoomi. The chlorine is itching at his skin, begging to be washed off, but he refuses to use the pool showers. The other swimmers don’t know hygiene if it hits them in the face. “Hurry up. You’re wasting my time.”
Miya’s mouth slacks a bit. Even though it is much too slow for the urgency Kiyoomi demanded, the paper does get held up. Small, though bolded lettering on the top right of the paper fills Kiyoomi with dread.
“You don’t make a lot of noise, do you?” tentatively asks Kiyoomi
“What?”
“Your room is 305,” explains Kiyoomi. “Just… there.” He points to the door directly to the right of his own. “Don’t make any noise. Did you even move your stuff in? If you haven’t, wait until tomorrow. I need to sleep and the walls are thin.”
“‘Samu moved my stuff in for me while we were at training…” Miya says. “Hey, wait, we’re neighbours? Awesome!”
Who is Samu? Kiyoomi frowns. “That is not awesome. Can you move already?”
“Okay, okay.” Miya holds his hands up in surrender, and Kiyoomi almost thinks Miya has to use physical force to shove him out the way, but he does end up side-stepping. “I promise, I’ll be the best neighbour ever, you’ll wish we lived together.”
Somehow, Kiyoomi doubts that. He takes out his key, attached to the chain on his speedo bag, and unlocks the door with a click. Miya’s still standing there staring unabashedly at him, just like he was in the club room.
Kiyoomi sighs. “What? What else do you want?”
Miya tilts his head. “Either it’s intentional, or ‘ya really don’t remember.”
Half in the cold room, half out the warm hall, Kiyoomi’s body shivers at the mix of temperature. Miya’s gaze is intense, and dark, and he’s still talking nonsense. “What are you talking about?”
“Nevermind…”
“Great, bye.”
Kiyoomi quickly slams the door on Miya’s face.
He thinks distantly that Motoya would lecture him about being nice, but Motoya isn’t here, and Kiyoomi still has a lot to do before he can get ready for bed. The plan is still to shower, eat, study, then sleep. He refuses to be unfocused at morning practice, especially not when he has a long day of classes ahead of him.
Or, better yet, he refuses for Miya to distract him.
~
Morning practice is usually quieter, except for a few, select individuals, who seem to have a never-ending supply of energy. Motoya cries at the early hour, though it’s his fault for staying up so late. He thinks Kiyoomi is weird for preferring it, even though hell would raise before Kiyoomi becomes a morning person, but there’s a reason for his preference: the water ripples calmer—there’s not as much of that barbaric splashing that makes the water thicker and harder to swim through. The dark, the silent ringing, the cold pool deck. It’s… easier.
He’d been worried that Miya would disrupt the synergy lane three’s spent a year building up, but to his credit, he swims more focused than his jittery attitude gives off. He keeps up well, maybe even better though he’d never admit that out loud. He’s definitely not out of practice. He’s more focused than most of the squad, which makes him wonder…
What’s he been doing a year out of highschool?
Why’d he join so late?
What’s he been up to all this time?
It’s not any of his business, but he can’t help the curiosity.
~
“Miya-kun,“ exclaims Amanai. “Over here. Come, sit with us.”
See, this is Amanai’s major flaw. She is much too kind. Yes, there’s a spare seat next to her, but that is not supposed to be occupied, and especially not with anyone who Kiyoomi suspects will definitely distract them in their macrobiology lecture. The lecture hall is big, and encompasses maybe fifteen rows down to the lecture stand so Miya could find literally any other seat far away from him. Instead of doing that, Miya clambers over and plops himself down right beside Amanai. Kiyoomi adjusts his mask, almost unconsciously, and breathes hot into the protective fabric.
“Hey, Nai-chan,” exclaims Miya. Nai-chan? He’s somehow grinning and smirking at the same time. He’s also giving Kiyoomi a menacing side eye that makes Kiyoomi want to shove his face into his textbook. “You taking macro too?”
“Yep,” says Amanai, while Kiyoomi thinks, obviously, why else would she be here? “I thought you just started. Why are you in a level two class?”
“Oh, they transferred some credits from my first year in Osaka,” says Miya. His tone gives no indication of reason, and that makes Kiyoomi even more curious. “I was thinking of majoring in bio so luckily the pre-req classes I took in first year over at Osaka carried over and I don’t hafta start fresh. Though, that probably means my major’s pretty much decided for me.”
“Makes sense,” comments Amanai. “You met Sakusa-san, right?”
Kiyoomi sighs behind his mask. She did not have to bring him into this. He raises his head, gives Miya a strained nod, glad for the protective barrier of the black fabric, then goes back to sighing at his textbook.
“Don’t mind him, he’s just pissy the konbini didn’t have his favourite onigiri flavour.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Umeboshi,” she says. Amanai really needs to stop talking for him. There is absolutely no reason for Miya to know this information. She should stop hanging out with Motoya; she’s picking up some of his annoying habits.
Miya raises his brows. “Sour tooth, huh?”
Kiyoomi stares pointedly at the front of the class, praying for the professor to arrive. He should not have come to class early as usual today.
“How are you finding the new squad?” asks Amanai. “The transition must be a little difficult.”
“Naw, it’s good,” says Miya. “It’s fun sharing a lane with ya, even if Omi-kun sours the mood when he yells at us to stop talking.”
Kiyoomi snaps his head to the offending party. “Omi-kun?”
“Yeah, ‘cause your name’s too long.”
“Maybe stop garbling nonsense and you’ll have the energy to say my full name,” snaps Kiyoomi. He doesn’t know why he’s angry, his chest is just full of it. “And Coach was trying to speak to us. It’s rude to speak over others.”
“I told ‘ya, I didn’t realise.”
“Pay more attention then.”
Miya slaps his hands over his chest. His face transforms into fake hurt. “Harsh.”
Amanai’s head shifts back and forth between Miya and him, eyes growing wider with every sentence that passes. She opens her mouth to comment something Kiyoomi is sure he won’t like, but fortunately he is saved by the professor finally walking in.
Attention shifts to the front of the lecture hall. Kiyoomi barely contains his sigh of relief.
He can’t help but notice that throughout the lecture, Miya’s watching him more than the professor. He doesn’t even bother to take any notes, even though this is macrobiology and everything will be relevant for the midterm. Distantly, he remembers Miya mentioning that he needs glasses, and wonders if that’s why he’s not paying attention to the lecture.
At least, once the class is over, he’ll be free of Miya.
Except: Amanai invites Miya to lunch. It wouldn’t be a problem, if Kiyoomi could excuse himself. Having lunch with Amanai and some of the others he tolerates is the only reason Motoya doesn’t push him to go out after practice, but if he hears that Kiyoomi skipped lunch, he’ll start being more annoying about it again.
Worse: Miya accepts gleefully. His smile is directed towards Amanai but it quickly transforms into a smirk when she looks away. They’re almost the last ones out the door save for the few held back to ask the professor questions, and it’s almost an eternity before they get to the cafeteria and find the usual group sitting at the usual spot.
Kiyoomi sits beside Akaashi, who greets him with a quick nod before returning to eating onigiri from his bento. Kiyoomi could have eaten at his dorm, and saved himself the trouble of being in close proximity with all these university students who barely know how to wash their hands, and who are amongst the throng chattering loud enough to muffle Kiyoomi’s ears worse than when he ducks underwater, but again: that would get back to Motoya, who although is skipping today to attend his astrophysics professor’s office hours, would somehow find out. If there’s one thing Motoya loves more than annoying Kiyoomi, it’s gossiping about Kiyoomi.
Motoya doesn’t hate it when Kiyoomi brings up how he attends office hours almost every week, but he does get shy at being perceived as a nerd. Kiyoomi doesn’t see what there is to be embarrassed about. In fact, he thinks it’s admirable. When Motoya studies, he focuses, just like when he swims. It’s one of the many reasons Kiyoomi can tolerate him. However, Motoya insisted that Kiyoomi doesn’t need to understand his embarrassment to accept it, and because Kiyoomi would like that same respect from others, he opts to lead by example.
Motoya usually sits on Kiyoomi’s right side. His absence means that the empty seat beside Kiyoomi can become occupied by the one and only Miya Atsumu and his thick thighs, sprawled out and arrogantly bumping against Kiyoomi’s own.
Kiyoomi’s skin crawls. He can’t hide how his muscles stiffening. He adjusts his mask again, comforted by the rough fabric touching his dry lips but that does nothing to quell the phantom scattering up his body long after the touch is gone.
Akaashi looks up with an inquisitive gaze, but has the decency not to comment.
Miya does not have that same decency. “What? You scared of me?”
“No,” Kiyoomi grits out.
He unzips his messenger bag, pulling his own bento box gently out. It’s a simple, black design that opens to reveal a heaping serving of rice, steamed vegetables and mackerel. He looks over at Miya’s side, and finds nothing in place of a well, balanced meal. “Where’s your lunch?”
A moment's delay. Miya shrugs. “‘Samu promised to make me food, but he got too busy with the opening.”
“You can’t make it yourself? Buy it?”
Miya cocks his head. “What, you worried about me?”
Kiyoomi grimaces. “No.” Definitely not. “Just don’t want you passing out and interrupting practice.”
Miya’s grin widens. “Don’t worry, I won’t pass out on you.”
“As I said, it’s not about me. It’s about disrupting practice.”
“Don’t worry,” says Miya, humour laden in his tone, “I understand.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow. “Do you? Because it still seems like you think—”
A tray clatters. Kiyoomi looks up, jolted by the realisation he’d been too distracted by Miya to catch what he describes as the Bratty Duo arriving at the table at last. The Bratty Duo being Oikawa and Fumi, both snickering ear to ear at what, Kiyoomi doesn’t want to know.
“Miya-san, you’ve joined us,” exclaims Fumi. Her short hair is flat, a stark contrast from Oikawa’s fluffy mess, but they’re both grinning in tandem. “And you’re sitting next to Sakusa-san, how nice. I knew you two would get along.”
Kiyoomi takes out his hand sanitiser from his bag and dutifully squeezes it into his hands. The too strong smell calms the jitters just a tad, but enough to handle all the bodies too close in proximity.
“Hey again,” says Amanai.
She clatters her own tray filled with an assortment of small dishes—rice, broccoli, katsu chicken—onto the table, sliding in gently beside Fumi. This is the reason Kiyoomi can tolerate Amanai. She understands what it takes to be an athlete, and that means having a nutritional meal, which does not involve (a) nothing, or worse, (b) milk bread.
Oikawa is almost growling as he shoves almost all the milk bread down his mouth at once. Muffled with food in his mouth, he spews incoherently and Kiyoomi is so horrified he doesn't realise he’s frozen until Fumi’s giggle snaps him back to reality.
“Iwaizumi would have your head if he knew this is what you’re eating for lunch,” she says, still giggling.
“What Iwa-chan doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt,” exclaims Oikawa after swallowing down half the bread.
“What doesn’t hurt?”
All eyes turn to the sudden figure. The dark, spiky hair, ticked off expression and hard jawline, furrowed brows, follow down to big hands reaching out and slapping Oikawa harshly by his back.
Oikawa does not flinch, but he does gulp. And he does tremble. Probably swallowing down some of that milk bread, too. “Iwa-chan, I thought you had a lecture.”
“It’s in ten minutes. Besides the point. What is this I hear about the not hurting?”
“Leave bed talk for later, Iwa-chan. We’re in public.”
Kiyoomi really does not need to be seeing nor hearing any of this. He tries to concentrate on eating, but they’re right in front of him, and they’re so loud.
Iwaizumi glowers. He slams a bento down on the table and yanks the milk bread away from a spluttering Oikawa. “Shut up. Eat that.”
Oikawa grips the bento and smiles down at the cat-printed black box. “Iwa-chan, you made me a bento. How cute.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you knew how to feed yourself.”
“Just admit you’re worried about me.”
Iwaizumi’s glower softens. “Of course I’m worried about you, idiot.”
“You didn’t have to end that nice sentence with an insult!”
“If I don’t tamper your arrogance, who will?”
“You wound me,” exclaims Oikawa. “Anyway, if your lecture is in ten minutes, why don't you sit with us till then?”
“It’s on the other side of campus, dimwit. I don’t have time. Now eat.”
Oikawa carefully unfolds the bento to reveal an assortment similar to Kiyoomi’s own spread, except the portions are different. Kiyoomi makes a note to ask Iwaizumi about that—he is studying sports science, after all.
Iwaizumi leans down, whispers something in Oikawa’s ear that has him nodding and smiling more authentically than his usual mocking grin. Oikawa twists his head to land a kiss on Iwaizumi’s cheek, and Kiyoomi doesn’t bother to hide his grimace. At least the bye Iwa-chan saves him from having to see any more PDA.
“Say,” Oikawa murmurs, turning back to hone in on Kiyoomi. “How do you have so much energy in the morning? I feel like I’m dying.”
“Maybe don’t stay up so late watching alien videos,” comments Kiyoomi.
Oikawa narrows his eyes. “How do you know about those?”
Kiyoomi shrugs. He picks up a broccoli with his chopsticks and plops it into his mouth. Again, Motoya loves to gossip.
“What about you, Mya-kun?” asks Oikawa. “What’s your secret?”
Miya chuckles. “No secret. I’m just naturally talented.”
Somehow, Kiyoomi doubts that. This is Kiyoomi’s least favourite part about having lunch with the team: Oikawa’s interrogation scheme that hasn’t relented a single day with his presence. At least he’s moved on from Kiyoomi; at least he has a new member to focus on now. That should keep him busy for a while.
“Say, I heard from a little birdie that you transferred from Osaka. Why’s that?”
Just the slightest, and Kiyoomi only notices because he’s sitting right beside him, but Miya tenses. “Just wanted to move out to the big city, is all.”
“Tell the truth,” goads Oikawa. “Were you running away from something? Or maybe… someone? Bad breakup?”
Miya stiffens even more. Curious . “None of ya business.” An imperceptible pause. He stands, abruptly. “Anyway, I’m gonna crash a bit before my next class.”
“Oooh, you running away from the question—?”
With a stiff back, and hunched over shoulders: Miya’s out the seat and walking away. No, Kiyoomi’s not curious. He’s got classes and nationals to focus on. Besides, Miya’s problems are just that: his own. As long as they don’t show up during practice and disrupt it, Kiyoomi will gladly ignore it.
Unfortunately, with Miya gone, Oikawa turns back to prey on Kiyoomi. “…You think aliens know how to swim?”
Kiyoomi stares back blankly. It takes several deep breaths to calm down from that ridiculous question.
“No, no, that’s a good question,” comments Fumi. “Like, maybe they have better anatomy for it…?”
Yeah, that confirms it. They’re both idiots and Coach Ukai should kick them out for it. Kiyoomi goes back to shovelling down rice and tries not to think about that retreating figure, the hold on his tense muscles. There’s something about Miya, something that tickles his brain, something in the you really don’t remember?
It’s distracting. He can’t afford distraction. He’ll just have to do his best to avoid Miya until the curiosity eventually stops tickling his brain.
There was a time in high school where he couldn’t handle being around this many people: where his life would go from school to practice to home and repeat. It was simpler than having all this… static and unnecessary intermission, and sometimes he wishes he could continue to do that. Motoya always tells him that he might not want to hang out, but in the end he’ll enjoy it more than staying at home. Kiyoomi has not found that to be the case. It’s not any different, being with people, and being alone. In fact, the latter is better: his own space is one he can control. The outside world is unpredictable.
Motoya says he’s gotten better with the control thing over the years, but that he’s still got a lot to learn. He doesn’t see why he has to learn. His life is fine as it is. No amount of hanging out will change that, even if it’s with people he has learnt to tolerate.
“…Hey,” murmurs Amanai. “You good? You look like you want to kill that piece of broccoli.”
It’s then Kiyoomi realises he’s glowering again. He can’t seem to stop doing that. He immediately schools his expression as best he can. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“About what?” asks Amanai.
He doesn’t mind speaking to her—she who probes but respects his boundaries enough not to push. To the chagrin of his cousin, he doesn’t exactly feel the need to express his feelings. They’re his own, and they belong in his head, where he can process, accept or change, and move on from them.
“Nothing important,” he says, because he doesn’t feel the need to ignore Amanai. “Just swim stuff.”
It’s clear that she doesn’t believe him, but she’s respectful enough not to ask any further questions, so she nods and turns her attention back to Fumi, leaving Kiyoomi’s mind to return to that retreating figure who refuses to escape his mind.