Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2019.11.27

In a lodge, in Salzburg of Austria, was an almost twenty-four-year-old man with inky black hair and pitch-dark eyes, and a thick stack of music sheets. The city streets were decked in snow. All the red brick and rusticated stone houses, the wrought iron fencing and Gothic arches framing the entrances, the old buildings bought by even older money were all covered by a heavy blanket of white.

A large crowd had gathered to see the Christmas market, where red baubles and golden ornaments were being sold. Hawkers called their wares. Friends and family chatted. Lights were strung from street light to street light, glowing blue and yellow and green.

Painters and artists sold books on anatomical studies, sketched vanitas, portraits of landscape and architecture like mahogany paneling, classical columns, fog and rain, seaside cliffs, and pensiones.

Sakusa Kiyoomi stared out the window, shivering. He was glad he’d managed to get back to his hotel before too large a crowd had gathered. The cluttered suite was lit by candlelight, adorned with dark wooden furniture. 

He stood with a sigh from the loveseat and picked up cardigans, dress shirts, plaid skirts, blazers, and clothing made of tweed and houndstooth from various couches and heavy spruce tables. Kiyoomi made a mental note to yell at Yukie again for leaving her clothing everywhere.

As he carded through the sheet music—Tzigane by Ravel, Schubert’s Fantasie in F minor, Hubay’s Carmen Fantasie Brillante, and Beethoven’s Spring Sonata—he waited for his manager to return.

On one of the desks was a volume of last May’s New York Times. Kiyoomi had read that newspaper more times than he could count. Almost seven months ago, he’d had his disastrous interview with Runa and Atsumu. 

Since then, Kiyoomi had gone on to read Runa’s article almost every night religiously, get upset, and resist the urge to throw something. Yukie had seemingly given him new pieces to learn as a distraction and since working with the Berlin Philharmonic, Kiyoomi had toured around Southern Europe. 

Meanwhile, Atsumu had played Mahler’s eighth symphony with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra of Amsterdam and had appeared as a piano soloist for other varying orchestras. Needless to say, every mention of Atsumu irritated Kiyoomi and generally just thinking about him pissed Kiyoomi off.

Unfortunately for him, he thought of Atsumu often.

“I’m back,” Yukie called, the door of their hotel room closing with a beep. 

Her cheeks were flushed red from the cold and from the biting wind. She handed him a warm paper bag that contained boiled beef broth served with potatoes, horseradish, and minced apples as well as veal schnitzel.

She glanced from him to the New York Times magazine on the desk, open to the page of Runa’s article. “Don’t tell me you’ve been reading that again.”

“I haven’t,” he lied. He grabbed the stack of sheet music. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. Last week, why did you ask me to learn these? And I mean these pieces specifically?”

They were all for piano and violin. 

Hubay’s Carmen Fantasie Brillante was like Atsumu’s quintessential piece; he’d won Menuhin at age eleven with it. It was possible Kiyoomi was just being paranoid, but Yukie snake smile didn’t make him feel any better. 

“No reason.” Her grin widened. “No reason at all.”

“Uh, huh…”

During the months that had ensued, post-Runa’s article, a photo of Kiyoomi and Atsumu wrangling had surfaced on Twitter. In the picture, their hands were on each other and they were very close in proximity, almost nose to nose.

No one actually knew who had leaked the picture, but Kiyoomi had a feeling it had been Yukie’s friend Rintarō, whom she’d previously said should record a video of him fighting with Tobio.

The photo had been trending for about two weeks, along with the hashtags, ‘enemiestolovers,’ and ‘SakuAtsu.’

What was worse than that was Kiyoomi’s rep. People didn’t say he’d squandered his opportunity. They didn’t even say he was in Atsumu’s shadow. No, they started—what was the word—shipping the two of them.

All the comments under Atsumu’s TikToks, the comments under his Instagram posts, were all about Kiyoomi, and this lasted at least a couple weeks.

For Atsumu, this was barely a speck of dirt compared to the other ways his name was dragged through the mud, but for Kiyoomi, who tried his best to keep a squeaky clean reputation, this might as well have been a sex scandal.

At the very least, nobody had made many comments about Atsumu’s allegation of Kiyoomi having assaulted him.

Not that it was even true. 

A shove definitely did not count as assault, right? Plus Atsumu had shoved him, like, thrice. So it definitely didn’t count…

“Yukie, I’ve learned not to trust your sneaky ass. You are conniving and traitorous and duplicitous.”

“Thank you, Kiyoomi-kun. Those are my best qualities,” she said, shoving a forkful of meat into her mouth.

“I demand you tell me what you’re up to.”

“Or what?”

He pulled open the container of soup menacingly. “Or I’ll fire you.”

She started snickering.

“I’m serious. Don’t laugh at me!”

As of now, the whole situation with Atsumu was over. It wasn't trending anymore, but the thing was, whenever Kiyoomi’s name was brought up, that was always the thing people talked about first. He wanted to change that. Quickly. And Yukie was the type who was always machinating.

“What are you planning?”

“What would you think of touring with Atsumu?”

Kiyoomi choked on his stew. “What the fuck? Are you kidding me?”

Yukie watched him as he stood and began pacing, threading his fingers through his hair. “Is that a no?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s a no!” He wrung his hands. “Of course, it’s a no. Why the fuck would I want to tour with him? I couldn’t even play in an orchestra with him without causing a scandal.”

“At least people were talking about you?” she offered.

“Well, if people were talking about me, I’d rather them talk about piano.” Kiyoomi waved chaotically, agitated. “Not Twitter asking if Atsumu and I hate-fucked.”

“Did you?”

“No!” he yelled.

Hiding her mirth with a hand, she said, “Maybe you two should.”

“Yukie—”

“Look, if you toured with him, it would be a chance to improve your reputation. You two could… resolve whatever issues you have. Try to get on good terms. 

“He’s a big name in this industry. A household name, you know what I mean? Atsumu is powerful and he’s not someone you want to make an enemy of, even if we’re close to Hitoka.

“Atsumu is very well known and you’re still the up-and-coming new talent,” Yukie said, like she had when she suggested doing an interview with Atsumu. “Besides, if you two make up then—”

“I don’t want to make up with him,” he exclaimed. “He’s fucking insane.”

She snorted. “Take a look at yourself.” Yukie pointed to the mirror.

“I—” 

Kiyoomi did look psychotic. His eyes were large and shining, his pupils were dilated, his hair was messy, his arms were spread out wide from gesticulating. He looked like he was on crack.

After taking a deep breath, Kiyoomi said calmly, “I don’t want to do a tour with him.”

“It would be good for you.”

“You said that about—” Kiyoomi stopped in the middle of gesturing, putting his hands in his pockets with a harrumph and he took a seat. “You said that about the interview.”

“That’s because I never expected him to accuse you of assaulting him.”

“I never assaulted him!” He started pacing wildly again. “I never—”

“I know,” she said, smirking. “I saw the leaked photos. Everyone did.”

Even Kei and Tobio had retweeted them.

“Look, my final answer is no. That guy is fucking insane. And I’m not doing it.” Kiyoomi pointed. “I’m serious. I’m not fucking doing it. Or I’ll assault him for real.”

The powder keg was ready to explode and the last thing it needed was close proximity to heat.

Yukie glanced away to hide her conspiratorial grin. “Whatever you say, Kiyoomi-kun.”

Three days later, after Kiyoomi and Yukie returned home to England, it would be announced on social media and by Kuribayashi Runa of the New York Times that Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu were to do a tour of Europe together.

2019.11.30

It was a regular day of winter in Britain. Kiyoomi woke to the light pitter-patter of hail tapping against his windows, the condensation on the glass creating a glaze that blurred the clarity of his pale frost-covered lawn outside. The cobbled streets were filled with ice.

Glistening trees were bare, their bony arms like a wreath coming to embrace the gray overcast sky, a silvery tapestry of marbled clouds obscuring the weak sun. 

A cool mist settled into his room as snow began to fall in flakes, cold seeping into the house, and Kiyoomi put on a cardigan and started a crackling fire in the hearth.

He brewed a hot cup of black tea with cinnamon sticks, honey, and lemon slices as he got ready. Kiyoomi sat at the breakfast table when the water came to a boil. As he brought his hand-painted mug to his lips to take a sip, he opened his phone to check his notifications.

On his Instagram was a new post—though it wasn't a picture he had put up. The photo had been uploaded an hour ago, while he was still asleep, and was probably a result of Yukie, who had access to his account.

The picture had a list of destinations, locations, and dates. Meanwhile, the caption read, ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi to tour with Miya Atsumu! Get tickets now!’ 

Kiyoomi’s cup crashed to the ground, splintering.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he yelled into a phone, Yukie on the other line.

This had Yukie written all over it; the double-dealing, the guile, the chicanery all smelled of her. She and Hitoka must have orchestrated this thing together. With Runa. 

Both Kiyoomi and Atsumu had released the same post at the same time, and Runa had coincidentally published another article on the tour to the New York Times as well.

“I told you I didn’t want to tour with him!”

“Well, now, you have to,” she said and Kiyoomi could hear her grinning. “Oh, it’s not that big of a deal. You’re just being dramatic. You know, sometimes I wonder why you’re so emotional and neurotic.”

“I’m—” Kiyoomi clenched his fists, trying not to shatter any more of his glassware. “I’m not emotional and neurotic. I’m imperturbable and collected.”

“Great. Then you’ll do the tour? I mean, yeah. You will. You don’t have a choice.” Yukie was definitely grinning. “Kuribayashi-san wrote about it, Atsumu posted about it, you announced it. Technically, me and Hitoka were the ones who—ah, you know what I mean.”

“How long have you been planning this?” he demanded. “Was this some cabal you and Hitoka had formed months in the making?”

“Actually, yes,” she said happily. “We’ve been planning this for weeks. It’s almost been a year, actually. We put on the finishing touches back in Berlin. And remember when I told you I gave Kuribayashi-san a little piece of information that you didn’t need to worry about?”

Kiyoomi facepalmed. “It was the—”

“It was the tour!” she cried victoriously. “We’ve booked all the venues, all the flights, all the hotels already.” Yukie laughed maniacally. “You really, really don’t have a choice, Kiyoomi-kun. We’ve backed you into a corner. You and Atsumu both. There’s no way to get out of this. You two really have no choice.”

“You sound like a kidnapper,” he muttered, imagining Yukie in a creepy van with duct tape, rope, and a camcorder, trying to convince a victim in an abandoned warehouse to develop Stockholm syndrome. “I don’t want to do this,” Kiyoomi said.

“Your hands are tied.”

He sighed, slumping onto one of his couches. 

“Have you eaten today, yet?” Yukie said. “Maybe that’s why you’re so cranky. I mean, you’re always cranky, but I do really think you’re making a big deal out of this.”

“Yukie, you manipulated me into doing something I explicitly told you I didn’t want.”

She giggled. “I know, right?”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes.

“But I know you know I’m referring to Atsumu. It isn’t that big of a deal. Sure, there was some tension, but you both should be over it.” She mused, “I’m sure he’s over it.”

That made him scowl. 

Was Atsumu over it? If Atsumu was over it, then Kiyoomi would definitely be… more over it than he. Perhaps Yukie was right and Kiyoomi was making a big deal out of it. Like she said, it wasn't like he could back out of a tour that had already been announced without looking bad.

Atsumu definitely isn’t over it, right?

“You’re quiet,” Yukie noted. “What gears are turning in that curly head of yours?”

“Do you really think he’s moved on?”

With a snort, she said, “I don’t really care either way. I think this entire dispute between the two of you is childish. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m kind of entertained, but it’s getting a little annoying.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Look.” Yukie sighed. “I’ll say whatever makes you the most cooperative. If agreeing with you that he’s over it gets you on board, then I’m sure Atsumu’s over it. If not, then tell me what you want me to say.”

“Maybe I am making a whole deal out of nothing,” he murmured to himself.

“Yeah. That’s what I said. Like, twenty times. Aren’t you glad I’m here to keep you in check?”

“Shut up. You are an underhanded, unscrupulous cheat who manipulated me—” 

“I know!” Yukie exclaimed. 

Then she hung up.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

Perhaps Yukie had a point. Kiyoomi had eaten some toast with eggs and tomatoes and avocado, and he’d called his cousin, who’d also reasoned the same thing as Yukie. Now that Kiyoomi didn’t feel like he was on the brink of starvation, he was beginning to see a little clearer. 

He didn’t know if Atsumu was over it. To be fair, it had indeed been months since they last saw each other, so it was possible he was. Kiyoomi bet he could swindle the information from Hitoka. She was probably losing hair from the guilt. A little bit of pressure could likely make her crack.

Because Kiyoomi definitely wasn't going to ask Atsumu directly.

An hour spent practicing later, Kiyoomi ate lunch and debated calling Yukie again. There wasn't much else he needed to ask. Yukie had already given him sheet music. He already knew all the dates and locations and venues based on the Instagram post. 

And the post on his website, Atsumu’s page, Atsumu’s social media, the article by Runa from the New York Times.

Kiyoomi was probably just antsy. Who wouldn't be? In less than two weeks, he and Atsumu’s tour would start. Despite it all, Atsumu was still a venerated, highly-skilled musician. He’d originally wanted to befriend Atsumu, no?

In retrospect, that may be one of the stupidest ideas I’ve ever had, Kiyoomi thought to himself. But, hey, who knows? There’s a chance Atsumu and I really will be able to start fresh.

He marked the rest of the days down on a calendar. 

2019.12.03

“Kiyoomi-kun?” Yukie said, swinging her legs over the counter as Kiyoomi ran through the repertoire he was soon to perform.

“What is it?”

“You have a guest room, don’t you?” She pointed to the door situated next to his room and the bathroom. “You’ve got a desk in there, some drawers, a nice mirror, and a bed…”

His hands on the keys, Kiyoomi refused to turn around. “What are you suggesting?” he asked tightly.

“I’m just saying, you basically live in the middle of nowhere.”

“I like it that way. Everybody minds their own business.”

In the town he lived in, there weren’t that many people. Most people walked. Horses drew carriages, and there weren’t giant screens and electronic billboards all over the place like in Tokyo. 

As a matter of fact, there was limited tech, old school stores and shops like apothecaries, and hidden nooks within the forests and uplands. 

There was one library, five cafes, two grocery stores, one gas station, two taverns, and the closest city from the town was a half hour drive away. 

“Like I was saying,” Yukie said, “you basically live in the middle of nowhere. Do you know how far I have to drive to get to your place, anyway?

“Where would we even find a practice room? Where would we get a piano?” she asked. “Hitoka and I will be fine, but you and Atsumu need to rehearse and learn how to get along. My point is that it wouldn't be completely impractical if he stayed with—”

“No.” Kiyoomi stood at that, turning. “Absolutely not. That little gremlin is not moving in with me.”

“It would be for less than a fortnight.”

“And he’d trash the place in that time, probably.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t want him staying with me. Make him get a hotel room.”

“I did actually check, Kiyoomi,” Yukie said, “and the closest hotel is almost forty minutes away. It wouldn't make sense for him to drive that far twice a day. In fact, we both know I’d be the one driving him. Or a taxi. You get my point. You two would be practicing all the time anyways so he’d be around you constantly to begin with.”

“Wow. You’re really selling the idea.”

Yukie sighed. “Why are you so stubborn?” she groaned.

“Oh, I’m stubborn just because I don’t want to share my house? With some psychopath?” He flung an arm out. “People talk shit about that guy twenty-four seven. And you know what he says about it? All Atsumu says is that he doesn’t care. What kind of person—he’s a sociopath!”

“You’re being dramatic.” She lied down. “Maybe he actually doesn’t care. Just let him live with you. It’ll be, like, a little over a week. Don’t you miss your cousin? You used to live with him in college, right?”

“Yes, but that’s my fucking cousin!” he snapped. “You’re really comparing my cousin to that sociopath?”

“He’s a talented sociopath,” Yukie offered.

Fair. But still. 

“I don’t want to share my fucking house with him,” he cried, pointing.

“You’re whiny today,” she teased. “Are you going to pout at me, Kiyoomi-kun? Are you going to stomp your feet? Are you going to start throwing a temper tantrum?”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi snarled. 

“You’re doing it.”

“No, I am not.”

A slow grin spread across Yukie’s face, that serpentine smile Kiyoomi hated.

“No—” he cried, but it was too late.

She started giggling.

“What did you do?” demanded Kiyoomi. “No, no, Yukie, what did you do? No, please. Tell me. What did you do?”

This just keeps getting worse and worse, he thought to himself. First, the tour. No—before that. First, it was the interview. Now, she’s making me live with Atsumu. Or maybe it started even before all of that, when Motoya forced me to go backstage to meet that stupid fucking—

“They’re flying in today. Hitoka and Atsumu,” Yukie announced. “They’ll be here in…” She checked her phone. “They’ll be here in two hours. And guess what, Kiyoomi-kun?”

He shook his head, looking like he was about to start weeping. “No…” 

“We’re going to pick them up from the airport!”

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

“For the record, Kiyoomi-kun,” Yukie said, as she drove. “I still think you’re being dramatic.”

Kiyoomi was wearing a pair of black cigarette pants with a black trench coat, a black scarf, and a black poet blouse made of silk. All black—because he was mourning the death of his sanity.

“I’m going to kill myself.”

Yukie snorted.

“I’m serious.” He crossed his arms, adjusting the passenger side seat warmer. “Also, I just wanted you to know, it’s all your fault.”

“Wouldn't it technically be Atsumu’s fault?” she snarked, playing along.

For a second, Kiyoomi paused, deliberating. “It’s both of your faults.”

She snorted again. “Right. And at your funeral, would you prefer your cousin to read the eulogy or Hitoka?”

“Hm.” Kiyoomi tilted his head. “Get Hitoka. At least she won’t tell embarrassing stories of me in high school.”

“I like to think your entire life is an embarrassing story.”

“Gee, what a burn.”

“I hope that one day you write an autobiography so I can cringe from secondhand embarrassment the entire time,” Yukie said.

“I hate you."

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

Kiyoomi and Yukie waited at London Heathrow Airport, at the second terminal, for Hitoka and Atsumu. His mask was high over his nose. Yukie held a sign with their guests’ names.

As a pair of gold heads descended the escalator, Kiyoomi clenched his jaw. Atsumu was laughing jovially at something Hitoka said. Kiyoomi almost—almost—thought Atsumu was going to be pleasant, like he’d been that time Kiyoomi walked in on him playing Liebesträume three.

Until Atsumu’s expression neutralized, an icy mask of neutrality crystallizing over his face, like water splashing over slush, turning it to verglas.

“Oh, my God,” Kiyoomi muttered to himself, turning around.

“You’ll be fine.” Yukie waved them over. “Hey!”

Hitoka and Yukie shared a jolly hug while Kiyoomi and Atsumu stood awkwardly to the side.

“Happy holidays,” Kiyoomi grumbled, just so Yukie couldn’t say he was hostile or stubborn or uncooperative.

Atsumu ignored him.

“—I’ll drop you off at the hotel, then I’ll bring the two boys back to Kiyoomi’s place,” Yukie was saying.

“Wait.” Atsumu held up a hand. “I wanna go to the hotel. I wanna shower first. I wanna sleep first. I just flew in from Taiwan. Rehearsals can start tomorrow.”

Yukie was grinning from ear to ear. Even Hitoka had a small, sheepish smile on.

“What—what’s going on?” Atsumu glanced from one manager to the other. “You guys are scarin’ me. What’s happening? Why are you two looking at me like that?”

“Kill me,” Kiyoomi mumbled.

“You’re staying with Kiyoomi-kun!” Yukie declared, waving her arms in excitement.

For a second, Atsumu stared. “Huh?”

“They’re making you live with me,” Kiyoomi spat. “No—they’re making me let you live with me. And just for the record? I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of this.”

“Here we go,” Yukie sang.

“No, no, no. Hey,” Atsumu waved his hands. “I don’t wanna live with him. He’s probably one of them crazy cat ladies who—”

“—the fuck? Who are you calling lady?” Kiyoomi demanded. “I’m a man!”

Atsumu started laughing. “Yeah, sure.”

“He didn’t object to the crazy or the cat part?” Hitoka muttered to Yukie, a hand on her chin.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying, the guy probably has, like, some creepy kink dungeon or somethin’ in his house.”

“What the fuck?”

“I bet you have bodies in yer basement.”

“Atsumu, literally never open your mouth ever again.”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Atsumu said, ignoring Kiyoomi. “You have this dead look behind yer eyes and you seem like you’ve got pent-up anger issues. I bet one day, yer gonna snap so bad you make the Joker look like a children’s birthday clown.”

“How long have you been waiting to use that line?” 

“Guys!” Hitoka yelled, loud enough that, even in the hubbub of an airport, people turned to stare. Her face went red. “Stop fighting. Both of you. Stop it.”

“It’s not such a big deal,” Yukie drawled. “You’re both overreacting. It’s just for a few days. It’s not like we’re making you guys have sex—”

Kiyoomi put his hands on his face. “Ew, ew! Oh, my God, Yukie!”

“Uh—excuse me, you don’t get to say ew,” Atsumu sassed. “I say ew to you. You don’t say ew to me. Do you know how many people would jump at the chance to sleep with me?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi said caustically. “You definitely don’t sound like you’re overcompensating for something. You definitely don’t sound sexually frustrated.” 

“I’m not sexually frustrated!” 

He smirked. “Uh, huh.”

“What are you guys even talking about anymore?” Hitoka cried.

“Both of you!” Yukie said. “Are you guys listening?” They both nodded. “Shut the fuck up.” Kiyoomi and Atsumu recoiled. “Seriously. I don’t want to listen to your fighting this entire time, okay? You’re doing this tour. You’re living together. Stop complaining. I don’t see why you two care so much about—”

“I don’t care!” Atsumu said instantly.

“Well—” Kiyoomi crossed his arms. “I care less than you care!”

“Actually, that’s not possible because I couldn’t care less,” he replied smugly.

“Yeah, but you don’t not care more than me.”

“Holy,” Yukie said, taking a step back. “Nevermind. I give up. They’re children. Actual, literal children. Hopeless.”

“Don’t not care less, don’t not less not care…” Yachi put her fingers to her temples, rubbing circles. “What are they even arguing about?”

“They’re like an old, married couple.” Yukie looked vaguely impressed. “I wish they’d just bang it out. It would cause less of a headache for us, you know?”

Hitoka nodded, whimpering. 

Unfortunately for the managers, Kiyoomi and Atsumu wouldn't stop bickering. They bickered the entire half hour it took to get to Hitoka’s hotel and as well during the entire hour it took to get to the small town Kiyoomi lived in.

Yukie kicked them out of her car the second they passed the estate’s gates.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

The two shivered as Yukie’s car retreated. It sped off before Kiyoomi could even protest. Atsumu was already making his way towards Kiyoomi’s house.

“Hey. Hey!” He pushed himself in front of Atsumu, putting a hand on the doorknob. “I’ve got some ground rules. My place looks messy but it’s organized in a way that makes sense to me so… 

“Don’t fucking touch anything. Take your shoes off at the door and leave them on the mat. Hang your coat on the rack. If you get even a single speck of mud on my floors, I’ll make you scrub the entire place clean with nothing but a toothbrush. 

“Keep your hands off the art, keep your hands off my display case. Make sure you don’t get fingerprints anywhere. Stay away from my room, do not touch or attempt to reorganize my books, keep away from the fireplace, too. 

“You better wash all the fucking dishes you use immediately. I’m serious—if you leave even a single dish in the sink to soak, I’ll castrate you. Do not eat anywhere except in the kitchen and pick up after all your crumbs. Don’t leave dirty clothes everywhere either. 

“No cologne in my house, no spray deodorant, or any kind of chemical you put into the air. Close the piano cover when you’re not using it, don’t leave the cabinets wide open, and don’t open the windows. It’s wintertime.

“Make sure you close the drawers after you open them and make sure you turn off the lights when you leave a room. 

“I hate any and all bad habits,” Kiyoomi said, “and I despise disorganization.”

Atsumu stared, looking partly horrified and partly disgusted. “Are you done yet?”

Kiyoomi paused. “Don’t eat my fucking snacks. If you touch the chips, I will break all your fingers off one by one and I’ll cut your tongue out of your mouth while you sleep.”

“You appall me with yer vulgarity.” 

He scowled intensely before opening the door and letting Atsumu in. Kiyoomi watched him like a hawk, making sure he didn’t get any slush or mud on the hardwood floors, making sure he didn’t touch any of the glass surfaces or shiny tables.

For a minute, Atsumu just looked around, a hand on his hip. “Quaint. Overall, this entire town has a very… picturesque vibe,” he said. “Charming.”

Though that sounded like a compliment, Atsumu rarely said things that weren’t backhanded; Kiyoomi’s scowl only deepened. “Thanks…?”

“Yer drapes don’t match, though,” Atsumu said and pointed to the window. 

Atsumu walked off to the kitchen to poke around, staying far from the closed door of Kiyoomi’s room like he’d been asked, keeping his hands in his pockets and keeping away from the art and the books and the tables.

While Atsumu’s back was turned, Kiyoomi inspected his curtains, which were indeed clashing; one was pine green and gold accented with a gauzier layer of white beneath while the other had black accents. 

Upon even closer inspection, Kiyoomi noticed one was made of heavy brocaded velvet while the other was of tulle or chiffon.

Well, that’s definitely going to bug me now. 

Kiyoomi decided he’d wait until after Atsumu left to fix his drapes, so it didn’t seem like he was only changing them because Atsumu had said something regarding their discordance.

Damn it, he’s in my head already.

“Can I eat something? I’m starving,” Atsumu said affectedly. “Then can I shower and nap? Or do you have rules about doin’ those things in the house, too?”

Well, if I could, I’d make you sleep in my backyard like a dog. I’d put a collar and a leash on you and everything. But I know Hitoka and Yukie would probably complain about that. Or maybe Kuribayashi-san would write another article about it for the New York Times. So I guess not.

Resisting the urge to scream, Kiyoomi grabbed from the fridge a container of leftover pesto pasta he’d had for dinner yesterday night. He gestured at Atsumu, then at the oven. “Do you want to eat this? Is this good enough for you, king?”

Atsumu’s voice was tight. “Of course.”

“Wonderful!” Kiyoomi exclaimed, his smile just as strained. “As for showering, just make sure you don’t get water all over my floor. Or dirty clothes. 

“The bathroom’s the middle door and your room is the one on the left. Do you need me to grab you anything? Maybe a towel? Do you have any more questions?”

“Do you have any more rules?” Atsumu simpered and Kiyoomi wanted to slap the manufactured smile off his face.

“I wouldn't call not turning my bathroom floor into a dumpster a rule,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice dripping passive aggression. “Not so much as basic human decency, you know? So, anyway. Towel?”

“I brought my own, thanks. Besides, yers probably don’t match.”

As Atsumu walked past, he bumped into Kiyoomi’s shoulder. 

Don’t react. Don’t murder him. You go to jail if you kill someone, remember? Laws and shit, one part of his mind said. Another thought about how easy it could be to get away with stabbing Atsumu. 

Kiyoomi knew how to clean. He could bury the body in his backyard. It was a small town in Britain. Nobody would look his way. 

Except what to do about Yukie and Hitoka…?

I’m going to kill them too, he thought. For making me let Atsumu live with me.

2019.12.04

The next morning, Atsumu woke at three in the afternoon. Kiyoomi had been up almost six hours prior. He couldn’t practice because he had a feeling that if he’d roused Atsumu prematurely, he’d unintentionally pick another fight—which he wasn't in the mood to do—so Kiyoomi had just read all morning. 

Kiyoomi would have gone for a walk if he weren’t so uncomfortable with the notion of leaving Atsumu alone in his house; he bet he would return to see the entire place trashed.

So he waited. And waited. Until, finally, Atsumu awoke. 

But because Kiyoomi also didn’t want the bastard to complain that he was hungry, he made rice porridge with parsley, pancakes with syrup, grits with bacon, and a latte of warm soy milk with pour-over coffee, and set it out on the breakfast table along with a pitcher of fresh orange juice.

He refrained from eggs; Kiyoomi didn’t know how Atsumu liked his eggs in the morning and he definitely wasn't interested in finding out. 

As the bathroom door creaked open and Atsumu emerged, his hair damp, Kiyoomi was left standing in the middle of his own fucking living room feeling awkward and out of place.

“Um, good morning,” he said quietly, gesturing uncomfortably to the breakfast table.

“Thanks…”

While Atsumu filled a plate with food, Kiyoomi pivoted from foot to foot, trying to figure out what to do next. Was he supposed to sit down with his begrudging guest? Did he finally practice? Kiyoomi had played piano in front of Atsumu before, but he’d never performed in person with Atsumu’s full attention on him. 

It wasn't a particular first Kiyoomi was looking forward to. At least, Atsumu couldn’t whine about his intonation like he did with the violinists. Though he’d still probably give unsolicited advice and be a general pain in the ass. 

In the end, Kiyoomi decided on sitting by the couch with a paperback, perpendicular to Atsumu. From the corner of his eye, over the top of his novel, Kiyoomi watched him. 

Atsumu’s golden complexion appeared tanner and his champagne-coloured hair hung limply across the side of his forehead, parted to the right. There were shadows beneath his honey-coloured eyes, but Kiyoomi figured it was probably just from the jet lag. 

“It’s cold in here,” Atsumu murmured, his mouth full.

Kiyoomi jumped, remembering at that moment that the person he was staring at wasn't someone who was kind and placid. Atsumu was complaining about something.

It was a little scary that staring at Atsumu for just a couple seconds could make Kiyoomi forget about all that nasty personality beneath. Kiyoomi reminded himself that didn’t care if Atsumu was tired or hungry or anything like that. He reminded himself that he only cared whether or not he’d be disturbed. 

“That’s probably because you’re wearing a T-shirt and basketball shorts,” Kiyoomi snapped.

Atsumu shifted his gaze and stared at Kiyoomi vacantly.

“Uh—I’ll go… Do you want a sweater or something?”

“Does the heatin’ not work?”

“It does,” he muttered.

“Wouldja mind turnin’ it on, then?” Atsumu asked, swallowing. “I just got back from East Asia. It was really hot there.”

There was a second that passed where Kiyoomi registered what Atsumu was saying. He found it odd that Atsumu was asking for something instead of demanding it, but went to adjust the thermostat anyway. 

Kiyoomi also added some kindling wood to the hearth before igniting it.

“You can—you can sit by the fireplace if you want?” he offered, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh. Sure.” 

For some reason, he’s acting suspiciously agreeable, Kiyoomi thought to himself. Is he just too tired to be annoying? Will the pleasant spell break? 

He watched Atsumu relocate to the couch closest by the grate, setting his breakfast tray on the coffee table. Kiyoomi went to go do the dishes.

“I—I’ll wash. If ya want,” Atsumu interjected.

“Alright… then.”

What the fuck is happening? said the voice in his head. 

Since Atsumu wasn't being difficult, it made Kiyoomi in turn also feel like he should also be civil. Except they weren’t used to being courteous. Especially to or around each other.

Living together was going to be harder than Kiyoomi had originally thought. There was nowhere else to go too, after all. Yukie was the only one of them who could drive and the estate was small enough that they couldn’t really get away from each other. And it wasn't like Kiyoomi was eager to leave Atsumu alone in his house.

He’d once heard a saying that everybody had three personalities: one they showed to the world—and that outward personality of Atsumu’s, Kiyoomi was very familiar with—a personality they only unveiled to those they were close with, and one they only let reveal itself when they were alone.

Being in such close proximity was going to entail learning each other’s second, maybe even third, personalities. 

At one point, both of them would have to let down their guard. Kiyoomi didn’t know what he expected. Constant fighting? That would have been exhausting; it would have been draining to be on edge every second of every day for over a week.

So perhaps that’s what this was. Maybe Atsumu had come to the same mutual realization as Kiyoomi and this was his silent assent. Was this Atsumu’s proposal for an armistice? A ceasefire just for while they were supposed to be at home? Even if they were supposed to be home together?

“I’m going to go practice,” Kiyoomi said, slowly making his way towards his piano. “I didn’t want to wake you by playing piano so… I’ll go do that now… since you’re awake…”

“Right…”

Kiyoomi took a seat and winced when the piano bench squeaked. He was very used to and very comfortable living alone. Even back when he lived with his cousin, Motoya was out of the house frequently so Kiyoomi was basically by himself anyway.

Now, he felt watched. When Kiyoomi would start practicing, Atsumu would be hearing everything too. And not only was he an annoyingly judgemental fake blond who postured, he was also one of the best piano soloists. 

No, one of the best, most talented musicians to have ever been born, period.

For Kiyoomi, Atsumu was probably the worst person to feel scrutinized by. How dare someone so gifted be so disgustingly deplorable? 

How could it be that Kiyoomi revered Atsumu, his craft and his art, so much, yet despised him for being such a despicable excuse of a human being—all at the same time?

He put his hands on the keys. Atsumu stood and brought the dishes to the sink. As he turned the faucet on to begin washing, Kiyoomi started playing.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

Around a quarter to five, the managers arrived. Yukie clapped her hands and said, “Alright, let’s run through the repertoire!”

“The repertoire?” Atsumu asked monotonously.

Yukie glanced at Hitoka. “You got him to learn the pieces we agreed on, right?”

“Yes, I did, I swear!” She turned to Atsumu. “Remember? The Schubert? Spring Sonata? Tzigane?”

“Oh. Oh, that’s the repertoire?” 

“Do—do you have a problem with it?” Hitoka asked.

“Eh…” Atsumu waved a hand. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“Let’s start with the Schubert Fantasie,” Yukie suggested.

Kiyoomi most definitely did not want to play a piano piece for four hands. Nevertheless, he sat down on the piano bench and waited impatiently for Atsumu to join. He sat at the other end of the seat, as far from Kiyoomi as possible.

So the pleasant spell has broken, Kiyoomi thought to himself. So much for a truce. I see Atsumu is back to being a man-child.

“For real?" Yukie drawled. “You two are going to be immature again? You need to sit closer together than that. You both know it.”

Begrudgingly, the two scooted more towards the middle of the bench.

“Guys. Be serious.”

Cursing under his breath, Kiyoomi got even closer to Atsumu, until their elbows and thighs were touching. I hate this, he thought, as his hip and knee brushed Atsumu’s. If there’s a God out there, please take pity and end me.

The managers had arranged it so that Kiyoomi would play the primary part and so that Atsumu would play the secondary part. Though the parts were equal, and they were merely primary and secondary in names, there wasn't an arrangement of who could be one and who could be two that wouldn't start an argument.

Though Kiyoomi knew this, he still felt a little proud that he got to be primo.

Atsumu put both of his hands on Kiyoomi’s piano and started the piece. Soon after, Kiyoomi joined in, playing with one hand a lyrical melody with a dotted rhythm. It was somber and dark, like the eve of Halloween, and soon the part in the piece where all four hands would play was reached.

They managed to make it past the halfway point of the first movement without disputing.

As the key had modulated to major, Atsumu had bumped Kiyoomi’s elbow with his arm, causing Kiyoomi to cut him a sidelong glare. The second time Atsumu had nudged him, Kiyoomi had shoved back.

“What are you doing?” Atsumu demanded, stopping.

“What am I doing? You’re the one who keeps on elbowing me!”

“Oh, not again,” Hitoka said, turning her face away from the piano.

“That’s only because you take up so much space!”

“It’s literally my piano. Besides, you’re the one hogging the damn seat.”

“I’m not hoggin’ the seat,” Atsumu objected. He scooched over and drew an invisible line down the middle of the piano bench. “Look, this is my side. This is yer side. Don’t cross over to my fuckin’ side.”

“You’re on my side! I’m not on your side!”

“Guys—” Yukie said, her forehead resting against the heel of her palm. “How about we just play? Shut it about who is hogging what—”

“—Omi-Omi keeps hoggin’ the bench.”

“No, I’m not!”

“I don’t care who is hogging what,” Yukie said, exasperated. “I just care that you two play. Today, you’re getting through all four of your pieces.”

“Wait, four?” Atsumu said.

“Yes.” She listed them off on her fingers. “Schubert, Beethoven, Ravel, and Hubay.”

“I don’t have my violin with me.”

“Well, if I were you, I wouldn't just ditch my Strad wherever, like it’s some outdoor cat,” Kiyoomi snarked.

“Hey, I take very good care of my Strad!”

“One time, after a concert, you let strangers jump on stage and stick their grimy, little hands all over the fingerboard.”

“You don’t know what ya—”

“I brought the violin,” Hitoka interrupted. She lifted the case. “It’s fine.”

“Start from the top,” Yukie said, waving a hand.

Atsumu began playing again, but Kiyoomi stopped him almost immediately.

“What the hell was that? You’re rushing. Stop playing so fast.”

“Not my fault ya can’t keep up.”

“No—” Kiyoomi scowled. “It’s too fast. It’s wrong. Let’s play with a metronome so Atsumu doesn’t get lost.”

“Lost?” Atsumu’s eyes were wide. “I’m not a fuckin’ kid. Don’t you worry yer pretty, little head about me. I won’t get lost. Besides, ya can’t perform with a metronome tickin’ the whole time.”

“Yes, but you can practice with one.”

“Yeah, but ya—”

“Please…” Yukie groaned. “Just play.”

Needless to say, their first rehearsal was a disaster. It had gotten to the point where Kiyoomi was genuinely debating grabbing a lamp to throw at Atsumu’s head. Hitoka and Yukie had to restrain Atsumu from lunging at Kiyoomi.

“You’re the one who keeps rushing! You’re keep fucking bumping into me and you’re not keeping time!”

“Well, yer the one who is basically tryna sit in my lap!” Atsumu yelled.

“What? I would never—”

“You have yer side of the bench and I have mine! Stop tryna cross over.”

Yukie and Hitoka stood to the side, their heads in their hands.

“Hey, it’s almost seven,” Yukie said. “They can’t even get through one piece. Let’s just get dinner and hope this whole mess sorts itself out.”

“I don’t think it will…”

“Yeah, me neither. Let’s just get out of here.”

“Tomorrow, I think we’ll start with the violin pieces,” Hitoka suggested, on her way out, “so they don’t dispute over who gets jurisdiction over what side of the piano bench.”

She snorted. “Hopefully.”

“—I wasn't even the one who suggested a tour!” Kiyoomi clawed at his hair in frustration. “I literally told Yukie I didn’t want to. Hey, Yukie—”

Kiyoomi and Atsumu turned to see they were alone in the house.

“Yukie?”

“Hitoka-chan?” 

“I—I think they left,” Kiyoomi said, scowling.

Atsumu crossed his arms. “Well, what a genius you are. I definitely wouldn't have been able to figure that out myself,” he sniped. 

“Actually, your IQ is probably in the negatives. So, no. I don’t think you could have figured that out yourself.”

“That’s such a middle school comeback,” Atsumu spat. “Not that I went to middle school, of course, because I went to Curtis when I was eleven.”

“Oh, shut up, you fucking braggart!”

“Try and make me!”

Both of them went very quiet.

This day just keeps getting worse and worse, Kiyoomi thought to himself, face burning. No, this year. This whole year has sucked. 

Apart from everything that went down with the Berlin Philharmonic and everything after, there was Twitter haranguing them about hate-fucking, then all of Yukie’s comments, and now this. Why couldn’t Atsumu have just responded like a normal person? Then it wouldn't have been so painfully fucking awkward.

“Uh…” Atsumu scratched the back of his undercut, turning away. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah. Um.” Kiyoomi twiddled his thumbs. “I’m going for a walk. You should go too.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

“Don’t get lost.”

“This town is literally smaller than the airport I landed in. I’ll be alright.”

“I wasn't saying it because I was worried about you,” he snapped. “I was saying it because I think you’re stupid.”

Atsumu glared before stalking out the front door. 

Kiyoomi left out the back.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

The library in Kiyoomi’s little town was no different than any other nice library, but Kiyoomi thought there was something enchanting about it. A small chandelier hung above the entryway, the jamb and the threshold filigreed with gold around the edges. 

Because there wasn't much to do and all Kiyoomi really did was practice anyway, he frequented the library when he wasn't grocery shopping or at the farmer’s market. 

He liked to come to the library for some peace or to study. Kiyoomi did it at cafes, too—he read about music theory or composers, or read autobiographies and nonfiction novels. 

High above, the ceilings were made of marble, and designed with gilt and crown moulding. Painted forms of cherubs and angels lined one of the walls. Carpets dotted the cherry wood floor. Vaults spanned from shelf to shelf and stone busts decorated the space. 

There were ten rows of bookshelves, five on either side, and a table with a large globe and an atlas. At the end of the rows, was an area with grainy tables and chairs arranged before a large window that offered a view of the wintery tableau outside. 

As Kiyoomi scanned through the mystery section, he saw a blond head peeking through the tomes, on the other side of the shelf. “Oh, come on!” he cried.

Atsumu glanced up in surprise. Then a scowl stole across his face. “Hey!”

“What are you doing here?” Kiyoomi demanded.

“I’m doing the only thing there is to do! Don’t get mad at me for tryna pick up the hot crystal-loving, plant parent-type people when there aren’t that many of them! There’s nothing else to do here. There is only one library. This is a small ass town.”

“I thought you grew up in a small ass town.”

“Uh, huh. Stalker.”

“It is literally on your wiki page!” He pulled away from the shelf, glancing around him to make sure nobody could see him frantically whispering at the books like a maniac. “You know what? Whatever. I’ll stay on this side of the library—” Kiyoomi said, gesturing, “—and you stay on that side.”

“Fine!”

After about twenty minutes of browsing, Kiyoomi made his way to the exit. And saw Atsumu descending the steps. He facepalmed. Atsumu turned at the noise.

“I swear to God, yer followin’ me!”

“I am not! For fuck’s sake, I can’t believe I have to travel with you,” Kiyoomi said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to be insufferable." 

“No, I’m not!”

“You’re being insufferable right now.”

He scowled. “Then—then I’ll stop!”

“Yeah?” Kiyoomi raised a brow.

“But not because I care. Only because I wanna prove ya wrong,” he said.

“Yes, God forbid you ever dare care about something, Atsumu.” Kiyoomi waved a hand as he left the library. He pulled his mask higher over his nose and tightened his scarf. The winter wind carded through his curls. “Are we going to try and get along, then?”

“How?” 

Good question. 

Then, he had an idea. “I know a place. I’ll take you." 

“And then what? You'll gag me and make sure I’m never found? I know ya know how to clean!" 

Maybe I do wanna gag you. 

Kiyoomi tried to restrain his frustration, yet couldn’t help but mutter, “You know what? Murder doesn’t sound so bad right about now.” 

“Ha, ha. You’ll be hearin’ from my lawyer.” 

“Whatever. Are you coming or not?” Kiyoomi asked over his shoulder, the tips of his ears red and not from the cold. 

Atsumu crossed his arms, scowling. “Fine.”

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

Kiyoomi decided to bring Atsumu to a little secret pond he’d discovered earlier that year. During the summer, the grass had been soft and plush under Kiyoomi’s fingers. The woods had been a thick canopy of green, little pinpricks of light dappling the underbrush. 

He led Atsumu down a very steep hill, away from the buildings and the fog. A forest loomed to the left and up the path was the hiking trail that led to the moor. As they went, the ground climbed further downhill, the decline forming a jagged row of cliffs, like a mouth full of crooked teeth. 

They head deeper into the mass of trees, bare except for the pines, extending high into the air, tall as spires. Here, there was no snow, no cold, no frost, and no ice. The ground was littered with crunching leaves and strewn with needles. Weak light bled through the branches. 

When the sky turned roseate, hues of bruised blues and twilit purples entered the clouds. Kiyoomi and Atsumu passed into a clearing. In the center was a hole in the ground, like a circular ravine, and within the bottom was a pool of water.

The sparkling waters were twinkling, something as otherworldly as Debussy’s music—all halos of sound, magic and airiness. The sun was setting late today and as the fading light reflected off the surface, Kiyoomi saw his own reflection. He stood at the lip of the cave. The humidity frizzed up his hair, dampening his skin with a sheen. 

“What is this place?” Atsumu asked softly. 

“A little grotto in a small ass town?” he offered.

Ripples slowly tore through the glimmering turquoise water, changing from aquamarine to teal to deep blue as the sun shifted. The water almost seemed to glow, like there was a shining light at the bottom of the pool. A smell of juniper berries and musk hung in the tepid air. 

Sharp stalactites hung from the roof of the cavern, like a throng of chandeliers, the tips gleaming like daggers. Water dripped from the tapers. Boughs swayed as a mellow breeze wafted through the spindly branches, thinner than the ledger lines of a composer’s original manuscript. 

“Jump,” Kiyoomi goaded. 

Atsumu glanced back at him. “What?”

“Go ahead.”

“What? No. You go.” 

He shook his head and jerked his chin at the water. “Are you scared?”

“If I am, will ya shove me in?” Atsumu batted his eyelashes, pouting.

“You know what? Maybe I will.” 

With a scoff, he pulled off his shirt, eyeing the loch. Kiyoomi watched as Atsumu seemed to consider the depth of the water and the height from which they were looking down at the pool. 

Every so often, Kiyoomi would have to tear his eyes from Atsumu’s back—the ridges of his vertebrae, the contours on his upper arms like his triceps, the tan lines by his nape and shoulders where his golden complexion was a shade lighter, the curve of his— 

Kiyoomi would find his gaze had wandered off and would need to coax it back. Stop that. Stop staring at him. Stop it, stop it, stop it, he chided himself the third time it drifted. What is happening to me? Why is it happening to me?

On the other side of the cavern's entrance, Atsumu still circled the rim, as if he were deciding where he would jump. His feet were bare and his pants were now gone. 

Silvery ripples marred the skin in the space where his underarms met with his chest, like whorls, as well as on his hips and on his large, cushiony thighs. Kiyoomi’s face went hot as he glanced away from Atsumu’s legs. 

It didn’t work because then his eyes just found the gentle curve of Atsumu’s jaw, the little divot in his collarbones where a gold chain rested, the hard muscle in his torso, the lean curve of his waist, his prominent illium bones. 

Kiyoomi bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and turned his whole body away to stop his eyes from wandering even lower. His heart thrummed hard against his rib cage, in tandem with the blood rushing in his ears. 

What is wrong with me?

“If I jump in, will you?” Atsumu asked, as a bead of sweat dripped down Kiyoomi’s spine and Kiyoomi told himself it was just because he was wearing a coat.

“Yeah, sure,” he responded, not quite having heard Atsumu’s question.

“Really?”

“Huh?”

“You’ll jump in with me?”

What? he thought to himself, as his eyes went wide. That’s what he was asking? 

Based on the smirk Atsumu was now sporting, Kiyoomi knew he couldn’t back out. Though the shadows had shifted to cover Atsumu’s face, his smile was still big and bright and white, like they could light up the darkness of night.

“I—I guess so. Sure.” 

Though he knew he wasn't thinking straight—in more ways than one, as he kept sneaking glances at the almost-naked Atsumu before him—Kiyoomi pulled off his winter jacket anyway, tossing it aside even though it killed him to dirty his clothes. 

He would come to regret this, wouldn't he…?

“Make sure ya say somethin’ cool before you jump!” Atsumu cried, as he bent his knees. He lept. “Cowabunga!”

“I don’t think that constitutes as something cool,” Kiyoomi muttered.

Atsumu plunged into the water, rings of waves spreading out from where he made impact with the surface. He was scrutinizing Kiyoomi carefully, his gaze stilly and predatory. His amber eyes looked like two pools of molten honey as they caught in the last rays of the dying sun.

“Your turn, Omi-Omi!” Atsumu said, staring expectantly. 

“This is the worst day of my life,” Kiyoomi murmured, as he turned around and pried off his mask and shirt. 

His cousin’s teasing about how he was built like an anemic Victorian orphan entered his mind and he wondered if his ribs were visible. He wondered if the beauty marks dotting his arms and torso like constellations were obvious. 

Kiyoomi was pale like a birch tree, and his shoulders were bony and narrow, as they had been since he was a child. He was built more slender and willowy and tall than sinewy and stocky and fibrous, which made for nice long pianist fingers and a bizarre flexibility in his wrists, but not much more than that.

Sorry, we’re not all jacked like you, Atsumu, he thought, irate, to himself, as he pulled off his boots. I guess objectively he’s kind of pretty to look at, but only until he opens his stupid mouth.

As his face burned with the fire of a thousand stars, he pulled off his socks and, finally, his pants as well. One quick glance over his shoulder told him Atsumu was still grinning at him. If Kiyoomi’s face could have gotten any hotter, it would.

“Don’t forget to say somethin’ cool!” Atsumu yelled, shocking Kiyoomi from his reverie. 

He almost toppled off the edge of the overhang. “What?”

“Say somethin’ cool!” His hands were cupped around his mouth to amplify his reverberating voice. “Before you jump!”

For a second, Kiyoomi paused to think. As the seconds stretched on, Atsumu’s expectant expression bored a hole into his skull. Kiyoomi’s knees bent and he braced himself to leap. He ended up hurling out whatever he could think of first.

“‘Sorrowful and great is the artist’s destiny!’”

Atsumu watched from the minute Kiyoomi was airborne till the moment he penetrated the surface of the water.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

By now, darkness had fallen. Overhead, Kiyoomi could barely see the periwinkle hues of twilight. Quickly the day went by. Clouds began to collect around the moon in a hazy ring, obscuring the watchful eye like a broken aureole. 

From the second they were both in the water, it was like they’d been transported into their own separate worlds. Atsumu floated on his back, his eyes closed with a pleasant little smile on his lips. Kiyoomi sat near the brink of the pool, watching Atsumu’s peaceful face. They didn’t talk.

Like before, Kiyoomi would find his gaze had a mind of its own, noticing intermittently that he was staring at the planes of Atsumu’s abdomen or at the slope of his small nose or at his strong wiry biceps.

Why can’t I stop looking at him?

Though Atsumu didn’t seem to mind that they were both quiet, Kiyoomi felt like he should say something. This was probably the closest they’ve ever had to getting along, apart from earlier that morning and the day Kiyoomi had caught him playing the piano, back in Berlin.

Maybe apologize? one part of his mind said. 

Another wondered, but for what?

Perhaps for everything that had been caused by the last night of performing together. For shoving, for tussling, for contending. Kiyoomi was stubborn, but he had to admit some of the liability fell on him.

As his eyes darted to Atsumu’s mouth, he wondered if he could grab Atsumu’s face and just—

“Hey, what time is it?”

Kiyoomi jumped, his face burning. “Uh, um…” He scrambled to his feet. “I’m not sure. 

“It’s gettin’ dark out.”

“Let’s leave?” Kiyoomi said, unable to think of something snarkier to say.

“Alright.” 

He watched as Atsumu pulled himself upright and slipped out of the water, his motions graceful and languid, and was glad it was so dark. Kiyoomi had a feeling the tips of his ears were red.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

After walking back without speaking, Kiyoomi decided that tonight came their true armistice. Kiyoomi and Atsumu had cooked lentil soup, made rice, and baked potatoes. All without arguing. They’d remained civil and had eaten dinner in silence together. 

Then, even when Yukie and Hitoka returned around nine so they could run through the repertoire, they didn’t bicker. 

Things were still tense and they were in no way friends. But at least they didn’t fight anymore.

“Did they make up or something?” Hitoka whispered, as Atsumu tuned and Kiyoomi warmed up with scales.

“I hope so,” Yukie said, her voice low. Then she smirked. “I can’t help but wonder how they made up, though. Do you see what people say online? Mostly on Twitter.”

“What do people say?”

“People ship them.” She pointed between Kiyoomi and Atsumu. Kiyoomi chose to ignore her, even though he wanted to protest. “I really, really wonder how these two managed to make up.”

“What does shipping mean?”

Kiyoomi tried to tune them out. 

Atsumu was packing up his violin and Kiyoomi almost forgot that Atsumu wasn't going to leave, as Hitoka and Yukie said their goodbyes; Atsumu was going to stay right here because now, he and Kiyoomi were roommates. 

The image of Atsumu’s body and grinning face refused to leave Kiyoomi’s mind. 

How vexing.

“Should I shower first or do you wanna go?” Atsumu asked.

“Uh—um, you can go. It’s fine.”

“Are you good? You’ve been actin’ kinda weird since we got back. I hope you seein’ me with my shirt off didn’t do somethin’ to ya,” he teased.

Clenching his jaw, Kiyoomi turned away, a little confused. 

Atsumu had plenty of TikToks and posts on Instagram where his shirt was off after lifting or going swimming but it was just that seeing things in real life and seeing them online were completely different and separate. 

Not to mention, Kiyoomi had never really paid much attention to what Atsumu posted.

What the fuck is happening to me?

“Of course not,” Kiyoomi grumbled, finding the art on his walls very interesting all of a sudden. 

“Alright.” Oh, Atsumu was definitely smirking. “Just makin’ sure.”

Kiyoomi kept his back turned, thinking of Twitter and Yukie and hate-fucking and other things he shouldn’t have been thinking of. 

On the way to the bathroom, Atsumu hummed. The water turned on and Kiyoomi was still balling his fists. His house flooded with the sounds of Atsumu’s terrible shower singing. 

For someone with perfect pitch and such an immense amount of musical talent, Kiyoomi noted to himself frustratedly and wondrously, for some reason, Atsumu can’t belt diva pop songs on-key.

2019.12.12

Miraculously, they managed to make it to the day of their flight. The week they lived together had passed surprisingly quickly. After a day or two, Atsumu’s jet lag had worn off and they practiced once in the morning before lunch and after breakfast, and once in the afternoon before dinner. 

Their bickering had settled to a minimum and they were ready to perform. 

Atsumu, Kiyoomi, Yukie, and Hitoka were heading to Vienna. The venue they’d booked was the Wiener Musikverein concert hall, home to the Vienna Philharmonic. They were to stay for three nights before flying out to Prague.

Yukie drove them all to the airport. Hitoka was in the passenger seat which left Kiyoomi and Atsumu together in the back.

That was the first mistake.

The second was when Yukie made a sharp lane switch after someone cut in front of her and the two cars almost collided, because the impact caused Kiyoomi to slam into Atsumu. 

“Hey, what the fuck are ya doing?” he barked, as Kiyoomi’s head made impact with his shoulder. Atsumu shoved him away. “Get off me!”

“How in fuck’s name was that my fault? Yukie just made a hard turn! It’s her fault.”

“Technically, it’s the fault of the idiot who just cut me off, which is what made me—whatever,” she murmured, honking.

“Ya didn’t have to lie down on me! You tried to put yer whole face in my lap! I should file a lawsuit against you for sexual assault.”

Kiyoomi facepalmed, his ears turning red. “Oh, my God.” 

“No, no, guys—” Hitoka laughed nervously, turning around in her seat. “Let’s not fight, okay?”

“What do you say we ditch them on the plane and just sit next to each other?” Yukie stage whispered. 

“I don’t wanna sit with him!” Atsumu said. “He’s probably going to try to force himself on me again! How is that safe for me?”

“You know what?” Kiyoomi demanded. “You’re right. It’s not safe for you. Because I’m going to shove you out of the fucking plane. Seriously, what makes you think I want to sit with you any more than you want to sit with me?”

“I’ll probably get recognized on the plane, anyway,” he scoffed, “and I don’t need some plebeian messin’ up the picture or gettin’ in my frame.”

“Stop acting like you’re a celebrity. And how am I a plebeian? What are you? A thesaurus?” 

“Yer comebacks suck!”

“You suck!”

“No, I’m literally great.”

“Guys, let’s—let’s try to get along, okay?” Hitoka placated. “You guys got along earlier in the week. Please stop bickering now.”

“What if we slip some roofies or some pills into their waters so they pass out while we’re on the plane?” Yukie suggested. “That way they won’t bother us.”

“Yukie, don’t act like we can’t hear you talking about drugging us,” Kiyoomi said, dragging a hand over his masked face in frustration.

“Who said I thought you guys couldn’t hear me?” she snarked. “Maybe we should make you guys share hotel rooms until you learn to get along again.”

“Wait—” Kiyoomi said.

Atsumu put his hands up. “No, no—”

“I was kidding,” Yukie said. “You two have separate rooms, but Hitoka and I will share, you know, since we’re not children? I’m making a left turn now. Hold on, now, kids.”

Grumbling, Kiyoomi reached for the grab handle.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

One tense plane ride later, they arrived in the Baroque city of Vienna. Much to Kiyoomi’s dismay, someone had actually recognized Atsumu on the flight. They’d asked for a picture too.

Yukie and Hitoka were checking into their hotel while Kiyoomi and Atsumu sat on either ends of a large, plush couch, awkward and silent. 

In the lobby, the interior design consisted of gilded statuary, high ceilings painted with bright colours and vivid imagery, intricately carved tables, and damask furniture. 

Once again, Kiyoomi found his stubborn ass debating whether he should apologize to Atsumu for something that wasn't his fault. He’d tried to swallow his self-regard before. 

It hadn’t worked out the first time—obviously. 

Though if the options were to take accountability for something with which he wasn't culpable or to wait for Atsumu to crack first, Kiyoomi had to admit, with shame, that he was more likely to concede. 

There had to be some way to get along. They were both prideful and obstinate, and neither of them were all that probably to make the first move; there had to be some other way.

As Yukie and Hitoka turned from the front desk, key cards in their hands, Kiyoomi adjusted his mask, turned to Atsumu, and said, “Truce?” He held out his hand.

Atsumu tilted his head, blinking slowly.

“I just—” Kiyoomi’s face was burning. God, why do I always have to be the bigger person? “I just don’t want to wake up with you trying to smother me with a pillow or something. Whatever. Let’s just try to get along for the duration of this godforsaken tour. Then we’ll both go our own ways and we’ll never have to see each other again.”

That is, until Yachi and Yukie swindle us into working together again.

He clenched his jaw. Discomfort settled into his gut for whatever reason. Kiyoomi told himself it was just because he was trying to make up with Atsumu, that he had to be, again, the mature adult in the situation. No other reason.

“Come on,” he urged. 

“Alright.” Atsumu shook his hand, his face imperceptible. “A truce…”

His palm was warm and the pads of his fingertips were slightly calloused. He gave a bright, happy grin that made Kiyoomi’s stomach twist even more. It was too innocent. Atsumu’s snake-like smile was too reminiscent of Yukie and her trickery.

That bastard’s up to something, isn’t he…?

2019.12.14

Two tense mornings and afternoons spent practicing later, they had almost made it through the first performance. The concert hall was packed. It was like a dream. 

Here Kiyoomi was, playing with Miya Atsumu the piece he’d watched him perform on television when they were eleven. He’d watched and wanted piano lessons. Never did Kiyoomi think, over ten years later, that he would be the one on stage with him.

Like he did thirteen years ago, Atsumu brought Hubay’s Carmen Fantasiee Brillante to a close, striking his bow against the strings of his Strad, drawing out a shining chord. Kiyoomi alternated with him until Atsumu pulled out one final note.

The crowd erupted in applause and Kiyoomi almost smiled.

Until Atsumu stood, grabbed the microphone, and started saying, “Thank you everyone so much for comin’ tonight. As you may know, I’ve been on a sabbatical until only a couple months ago. I debuted with the Berlin Phil and since then, I’ve played and performed with many other wonderful orchestras.

“During my sabbatical, I mainly learned orchestral music. I picked some new concertos, a little bit of chamber music, even.”

As Kiyoomi started seeing red, the crowd tittered.

“And I even learned some new solo pieces,” Atsumu said, grinning prettily, “and since this is kind of like my tour, not with an orchestra or anythin’ like that, I figured I could show you some of those solo pieces, kind of like a little encore.”

Puzzled, Kiyoomi glanced backstage, where Yukie and Hitoka were scowling at each other. He shot them a look, but they merely shrugged. They clearly had no more of a clue as to what Atsumu was doing than he.

“I learned the Last Rose of Summer by Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst, God Save the King by Niccolò Paganini, and Gaspard de la nuit by Maurice Ravel,” he explained.

Then, and Kiyoomi genuinely couldn’t believe this, Atsumu glanced at him, his smirk broadening.

There’s no way—

Kiyoomi stared, dumbfounded.

This asshole can’t be serious…?

Atsumu wanted to play Gaspard de la nuit, which was a piano piece, for the crowd, as well as Ernst’s Last Rose of Summer and Paganini’s God Save the King. But there was a reason why he was smiling at Kiyoomi expectantly. There was a reason why he’d announced Ravel’s piece last.

He wanted Kiyoomi to vacate the keyboard.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

On the trek back to their hotel, since it was only a ten minute walk away, sulked. No, sulked was too weak of a word. It’s definition was to be quiet, morose, and ill-tempered due to irritation or disappointment. 

Kiyoomi was feeling rage. Rage beyond explanation. All the horrible things Atsumu had done in the past paled in comparison. Every petty fight, every little snarky comment, every backhanded compliment, and unnecessary insult—it was all nothing.

Yukie kept glancing over at Kiyoomi, whose thin shoulders were tense and whose entire body was quivering with wrath, like a leaf in the wind. She glanced at Atsumu who was head talking animatedly to Hitoka, who looked sweaty and kept stuttering.

This wasn't jealousy. Or, at least, it mostly wasn't jealous. But Atsumu could play the violin and the piano, whereas all Kiyoomi had was the piano. And tonight, when Atsumu had kicked him out, had ousted him from the bench… 

It made Kiyoomi look like an accompanist. This was supposed to be a collaboration. They were duetting; they were both supposed to be soloists. What was supposed to happen was that they were of equal importance, contributing equally… right?

He thought back to the pieces the managers had chosen. Schubert’s Fantasie in F minor, where Kiyoomi had played the primo part, even if the parts didn’t matter. Then there was Ravel’s Tzigane, whose instrumentation had piano and violin. It wasn't a violin solo piece; it was a collaborative piece, right?

Had the managers picked solo violin pieces on purpose? Had they tried to make Atsumu the star?

Maybe Kiyoomi just wasn't thinking properly. People didn’t think straight when they were upset and he was definitely very, very upset.

Beethoven’s Spring Sonata was technically a violin sonata, but its orchestration included piano and violin so it was still a duet, still a collaborative piece, right?

As for Hubay’s Carmen… Kiyoomi didn’t even want to know what his managers were thinking when they picked that piece as a part of the repertoire. 

Just make sure people don’t forget about you, Yukie had said. Don’t be in Atsumu’s shadow. Because that would be even worse than looking like you squandered the opportunity you had to work with him.

Kiyoomi didn’t like the thought that Yukie had intentionally thrown him under with this tour, that she’d made it so that Atsumu would eclipse him on purpose. But given how Machiavellian she could be, he definitely didn’t think it was out of the realm of possibility. 

He told himself she hadn’t, that she would never, and didn’t know whether he truly believed it to be true. She hadn’t planned this. The managers didn’t know what Atsumu was planning to do.

That bastard stole the spotlight, Kiyoomi thought to himself, getting pissed again. The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became. He kicked me out of my seat to play his own repertoire. He called it his tour even though it was supposed to be ours. He is selfish, conniving, egocentric, a whore—

“—right, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu was saying. 

Kiyoomi glanced up, not realizing Atsumu had been speaking to him. “What?”

Hitoka’s eyes were wide with fear. Even Yukie’s face looked pinched and tight.

“I said it was a good show tonight.” He grinned. “Right, Omi-Omi?”

Before he could think better of it, Kiyoomi swung.

2019.12.15

It was the night of the second performance. Yukie and Hitoka had given Atsumu a clear talk that he was not to do anything like that again. After some resistance, he finally agreed.

Last night, Yukie and Hitoka had ended up having to pull Kiyoomi from Atsumu before anybody had gotten hurt. Kiyoomi’s hand was fine and the managers had stopped him before he’d landed his punch so Atsumu was unhurt as well.

As Atsumu tuned up, about an hour before their performance was supposed to start, Kiyoomi warmed up with scales. 

“Let’s run through the repertoire once,” Yukie said quietly. “With no surprises this time. Please.”

That was the closest either four of them had come to acknowledging what Atsumu had done last night.

“I don’t feel safe next to Omi-Omi anymore.” Atsumu pouted. “He tried to hit me.”

“Do you think this is a game?” Kiyoomi asked, his voice low, before he could stop himself.

Yukie averted her gaze. Hitoka clenched the hem of her shirt. They were silent as death.

“Do you think what you did yesterday was okay?”

“What, are ya mad at me for something?” he said. 

Both Yukie and Hitoka stepped forward, anxious.

“What did I do?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Kiyoomi snapped, raising his voice.

“Jeez, calm down, Omi-Omi—”

Kiyoomi walked off so he wouldn't do anything he regretted. His fists were balled and he was shaking with fury. One day I’m going to bury him. I’m going to stab him and kill him to death and go to prison for murder for the rest of my life, he thought to himself.

That night, Atsumu played even more beautifully than usual.

2019.12.16

Today was their last night in Vienna. Now that Atsumu and Kiyoomi had completed their final performance, they were free to do whatever they wished before they flew out to the Czech Republic the next morning. 

Yukie and Hitoka had gotten dinner together. Kiyoomi had opted out, which left him and Atsumu to their own devices. But Kiyoomi wasn't really in the mood for food; he was in the mood for a drink. He glanced out at the Austrian skyline, seeing his face reflected in the window. 

Cupolas dotted the horizon of the setting sun and twilight clung to the underbellies of the clouds above. The hotel room contained a heavy mahogany desk, damask wallpaper, and a large bed with white linen sheets. A standing lamp that was even taller than Kiyoomi lit the space with a warm, gold glow.

When he made his way down to the bar, he realized with derision that Atsumu was there too. He sat on one of the stools, still in his performing suit. Kiyoomi had already changed, and now wore a comfortable turtleneck with a blouse overtop and plaid slacks.

Atsumu looked slightly… dishevelled, with his tie haphazardly loosened, with his pale gold hair messy and tousled. It made Kiyoomi wonder how many drinks Atsumu had consumed before Kiyoomi had arrived. 

Though it was possible it could have just been the light, Atsumu looked like he had shadows beneath his eyes. Hesitantly, Kiyoomi claimed the seat next to him.

“Hi,” Atsumu said, sounding more sober than Kiyoomi would have expected, as he stirred his drink.

“Hey…”

Kiyoomi ordered a cocktail. 

They sat in silence for a couple minutes as the bartender made Kiyoomi’s drink. In all the time they’d known each other, Kiyoomi and Atsumu had never really managed to get along, ever. So it felt a little bizarre to Kiyoomi, having been able to sit next to Atsumu for so long without starting a fight.

When Kiyoomi’s drink came, he pulled off his mask and took a long sip, glancing sidelong at Atsumu.

His side profile was painted orange in the low light of the lamps hanging from the high ceiling of the bar. Behind them, around them, other tourists, travelers, vacationers conversed and talked and chatted loudly.

Through his curls, which were laying across his forehead and tumbling over his eye—he was due for a haircut—he stared, watching Atsumu tentatively, the slope of his nose, the hard line of his jaw, the pink of his rosebud lips. 

He wondered if Atsumu was going to say something. As the seconds passed and Atsumu didn’t, Kiyoomi tried to think of something.

“Why don’t you care about your reputation?” he asked randomly, his voice like thunder interrupting their little bubble of silence, like a disruption amid an air pocket in the ocean, wherein everything had been quiet a second ago. “Why is it that you don’t care about anyone? Why is it that nothing anybody ever says can ever affect you?”

Growing up, I watched you on a screen, revering. You and your talent were both insane, impeccable, Kiyoomi thought to himself. I’d heard things about your reputation as we both grew up and didn’t know whether to believe them as true or not. And when I met you… 

Disappointed was the only appropriate word to be used there and there was nothing else that could be said. Looking back, Kiyoomi figured his suppositions for a great soloist had been too high and the reality of Atsumu had been a let down, the hard fall only increased by the height of what Kiyoomi had expected.

It’s not that I think you’re unskilled or incompetent. Because you aren’t. It’s just that you aren’t a good influence either. You, yourself, are not worthy of being someone’s idol. People and children, like myself, when I was young, may want to follow in your footsteps from a standpoint of success, but you don’t lead by example.

  That same half-baked pity Kiyoomi had felt back when they were both playing for the Berlin Philharmonic returned, when he’d wanted to befriend Atsumu. Kiyoomi feelings were still as contradictory as ever, as they had been back then.

I would never want to be like you, he thought, in the sense that I have no friends and not of my own volition. People don’t like you and it’s not only because of envy. Of course, I’d like to have our abilities or fame or status, but not with the hating eyes and whispers that follow me everywhere.

People acknowledge your worth and your ingenuity yet they all seem to despise you. You have a different reputation on TikTok or outside the classical community, but within it, you are a pariah. People wish your prodigiousness had been borne with someone else. Someone more palatable, someone unlike you. 

Everyone wanted to be talented. It was human nature that everyone wanted to be great. Even the most timid of people, deep down, have always wondered what fame would feel like. How it would be to be an admired actress or a treasured songstress, doted on by adoring hearts; no person didn’t want to be loved.

We all hate you and it’s not because of jealousy. You are horrible, despite all your talent.

There wasn't anyone who didn’t want to be like Atsumu. Kiyoomi doubted it. But it was just that everyone wanted his skill. They didn’t want to be him, because the reality of the said him, was disillusioning, deceiving.

Maybe it wasn't even Atsumu’s fault that he turned out the way he did. It couldn’t have been easy growing up under constant scrutiny, having the feeling that you were watched all the time. Plus he did it alone since his brother left and nobody found him tasteful enough to want to befriend him.

Except for Kiyoomi, of course, but that had been a lapse in judgement. There had just been something about Atsumu that Kiyoomi had been drawn to.

“If I had a breakdown over every little mean thing someone ever said about me…” Atsumu started eventually, slowly, laughing a little. 

The sound was a rich liquor, mellow, unlike anything Kiyoomi had ever tasted before, and it was something he somehow felt he could have wanted to indulge himself with. 

“If I had a breakdown every time someone said something bad about me, I’d never have time for anythin’ else,” he stated, looking Kiyoomi right in the eye.

“There’s a difference between being unjustly called ungifted—which is not something I’ve ever heard anybody say about you, ever—and being hated for your person and for your character,” Kiyoomi said carefully, wondering how drunk or sober Atsumu truly was in this moment or if there was any way of telling. “Is it that you don’t care or is it that you pretend not to?”

“Why the sudden interest in me?” Atsumu asked listlessly, his down-turned honey eyes like a spiralling optical illusion, hypnotizing, and Kiyoomi found himself unable to look away. “Yer not tryna hit me or murder me or anythin’ anymore?”

“Why did you do what you did?” Before Atsumu could interject, Kiyoomi continued, “Yachi and Yukie aren’t here. You don’t need to pretend to be a good, little boy. We both know what you did to me. We both know it was intentional. I just want to know why. Since I don’t think I can ask you not to do something like that again.”

After a long pause, Atsumu began.

“This world of ours, of music?” he explained, finally glancing away, as he fiddled with his straw. “It’s not an amusement park, my dear Omi-Omi. It’s a battleground. Not everyone can make it. 

“This industry, it is highly competitive and extremely tight-knit. Everyone knows everyone and it’s so easy to develop a bad reputation. 

“Do you think that, even if I tried my hardest, I could fix or change mine?” Atsumu asked, his question rhetorical. He shrugged. “It is what it is. The classical community is small. I get away with the things I get away with because I’m so big. Without a name or connections, ya won’t make it. 

“But, you and I, we, more or less, have. We have made it. But it’s difficult to keep it that way. It’s difficult to stay on top. I’m better than everyone, but I have to work for it,” Atsumu said, passion entering his voice. “You and everyone else in the whole world may say I’m some brat who has had everythin’ he’s ever wanted just thrust into his lap, like that. 

His eyes went distant, glossy, like they were fixated on something far away. “But it’s not true. I’ve made sacrifices. I didn’t grow up the way I maybe wanted to. I prioritize my career over my personal life. 

“And you can’t say there was anythin’ wrong with what I did the other night. I’m the best for a reason. People say I’m number one. All I did was prove to that audience why it’s true.”

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

Even after Atsumu left, Kiyoomi stuck around, thinking over and over and over about what Atsumu had said. Though he never said it directly, Kiyoomi knew Atsumu thought of him as a rival. It made Kiyoomi feel slightly good—slightly. 

It was such a convoluted compliment. Though that was to be expected, since everything Atsumu said was either backhanded, contrived, or straight-up fucked.

Kiyoomi also kept thinking of the poignant way Atsumu spoke of his reputation and of his childhood. The way he’d spoken about his personal life, the way he’d said it was what it was and that there was no changing anything.

Just because one didn’t think they could change something didn’t mean they couldn’t imagine it or dream of it. Though fantasizing of things that would never come about, Kiyoomi knew more than anyone, was probably the most asinine thing to do. 

But the closest Atsumu had come to alluding to what he wanted was when he said he perhaps didn’t grow up the way he’d wanted to.

To Kiyoomi, it suggested that it wasn't necessarily that Atsumu didn’t care what anyone thought. It was merely that Atsumu couldn’t afford to care, that he didn’t let himself be impacted. That he refused to let it affect him because there was no point in it.

Atsumu’s commentary about his growing up could have pointed to the fact that he was under a spotlight since a young age. Or perhaps that he grew up hated. Kiyoomi figured it was more likely to be the latter, as he said himself he thrived under attention and Kiyoomi believed that bit.

Frankly, it was a lot to take in and, unfortunately, it just made Kiyoomi’s feelings towards Atsumu even more conflicted. People were complicated, though, and they weren’t one-dimensional. They were layered, with divots and crevices and bumps you had to learn to navigate, like a curving, winding back road. 

There wasn't a handbook or some instruction manual. This wasn't even a jigsaw puzzle because, at least, jigsaw puzzles came with pictures, images of what the final product was supposed to be. 

Kiyoomi thought of it more as a jigsaw puzzle with no pictures and no obvious end destination, a cold case murder. And for some odd intriguing reason he simply couldn’t fathom, Kiyoomi…

He wanted to unravel the mystery that was Miya Atsumu.

2019.12.17

The next morning, Kiyoomi found that Atsumu’s cocky facade was back up. He knew because that neutral, slightly cold expression was back on his face. Just like the first time they’d met. It was a look Atsumu had worn many times after that too, an indiscernible smirk, a veil to hide his true thoughts and feelings. 

He was distant, quieter than usual as they flew out to Prague. 

Out the window of the plane, above the conurbation, Kiyoomi saw a skyline full of Gothic spires and crimson light, the sun dipping over the horizon. 

The city was a maze of cobbled streets, medieval squares, masonry structures with overlaid tracery, and bridges like something from a fairytale. A canopy of snow shrouded the tops of buildings.

Yesterday night, Kiyoomi hadn’t slept. He’d tossed and turned, thinking of Atsumu, burdened with the knowledge of the conversation from the bar. Kiyoomi still struggled to understand him. He still didn’t know the reason why he wanted to.

Kiyoomi thought of the evening they’d spent in the grotto, where Atsumu had floated peacefully on his back, unburdened, and where Kiyoomi couldn’t stop staring at him for whatever reason. 

Then, he thought of the morning before and the afternoon of their first rehearsal. They’d bickered, and Yukie and Hitoka had quickly tired of their antics.

Eventually, Kiyoomi called to mind the day back with the Berlin Philharmonic where he’d caught Atsumu playing Liszt’s third Liebesträume. Atsumu had been… pleasant, then. Until the spell had broken. It had been in the opera house with Yukie and Hitoka. 

Now that Kiyoomi thought about it, it seemed they only squabbled in front of others, especially in front of the managers. 

Like Kiyoomi had thought before, everyone had three personalities, like peeling back to the inner layers of an onion, and that constantly disputing while they were supposed to be at home would have been draining. 

It was just a surmise, just a tentative hypothesis from having lived together for a little while, but was it possible that Miya Atsumu was letting down his guard?

2019.12.21

The next couple days in Prague had passed with little event. Kiyoomi and Atsumu didn’t fight. Likely because they pretty much never saw each other. Apart from their nightly performances, they’d never spent time together and they’d never had to interact.

Kiyoomi had gone with the two managers to see the city during their free time, while Atsumu did… Actually, Kiyoomi didn’t know how Atsumu had spent his time in the Czech Republic. He’d never asked, but on some evenings, he would for whatever reason wonder what Atsumu was up to. 

Though he didn’t know why, Kiyoomi would wonder if it was worth engaging in a conversation with Atsumu, just to see where it would lead.

Would they quarrel? Or would they have a normal talk like they had on their final night in Vienna?

He longed a little for the small moments of peace they had together, when they could just be in silence together or when they could have meaningful, civil conversations together. 

Now that they were in Germany, to perform in the Gewandhaus, Kiyoomi found that he was thinking of Atsumu more and more. Their hotel in Leipzig had a bathhouse, much like an indoor Japanese onsen, and Kiyoomi kept wondering if Atsumu would go down to check it out.

When they’d briefly lived together, and had shared a bathroom, Atsumu had always entered and exited the shower fully clothed. The only time Kiyoomi had ever seen him nude was that day at the pond.

What am I even thinking about? he suddenly thought to himself, his cheeks hot. Where on earth has my train of thought even drifted off to? There’s something seriously wrong with me. I just don’t know what.

Yukie and Hitoka sat in front of him, talking cheerfully about something. The three of them were all getting lunch together while Atsumu was out doing whatever it was that he was doing. He hoped the two managers didn’t see any red on face or on the tips of his ears. 

The last thing they needed to know was that he was thinking of Atsumu naked.

Let’s think of something else, his mind quickly said. Literally anything else. I don’t know why I’m having intrusive thoughts. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Maybe I should go to a doctor. I don’t know why it’s happening to me. Just think of something else. Not Atsumu naked.

Christmas was soon approaching and snow fell softly to the ground in flakes. Kiyoomi shovelled more food into his mouth, even though his stomach had no space, telling himself, I can’t wait for this tour to be over. Atsumu and I will go our separate ways, and we’ll never have to see each other again.

Despite being full, he felt a little empty at that.

2019.12.23

On the last day of their stay in Leipzig, since it was the night before Christmas Eve, the managers agreed to let a bunch of people come backstage to chat. Pretty German girls and boys crowded around Atsumu, who was taking pictures and making TikToks with them. He stuck out his tongue and flashed a beauteous white grin.

“When do we get to leave?” Kiyoomi murmured to Hitoka, who was standing next to him. Yukie was conversing with an old couple. “Is this what I get for not having a big social media presence?” 

Despite the conversation they’d had on their last night in Vienna, when Atsumu had implied to Kiyoomi that he viewed him as a rival, Kiyoomi was once again feeling very much so in Atsumu’s shadow. He did not like the feeling in the slightest. 

It was likely just him being paranoid and suspicious, but he wondered if the two managers had told Atsumu what to say that night. Kiyoomi himself knew already that everything Atsumu said was either backhanded, contrived, or straight-up fucked. 

Was it really out of the realm of possibility that they’d asked him to say that to appease Kiyoomi? To assuage him? Not only that, had they been the ones who’d let Atsumu take the spotlight and kick him from the piano bench that had supposed to have been his? How far did it go back, if it went back at all?

Kiyoomi himself also knew already that Atsumu was even less likely than him to swallow his pride, which was saying something, since Kiyoomi was probably one of the most stubborn people he’s ever known. 

It wasn't even a flashy type of headstrong; it wasn't a heated firework or a blazing flame. No, Kiyoomi’s type of stubbornness was silently unyielding, an unnoticed little pot sitting on a back burner that, if left unattended, would burn down your entire damn house. 

He was competitive—though quietly, as he was with most things.

“We’ll be done soon,” Hitoka said soothingly. 

“You mean he’ll be done soon?” Kiyoomi, wanting to take off his mask and breathe in some fresh air, pointed. To Atsumu. Who was now flirting with the young women and men. “Tell him to hurry up or something.”

Atsumu let the pretty people flirtily feel up his arm and abdomen, and compare hand sizes with him. He laughed at their jokes and let them swat at his shoulder playfully. 

Kiyoomi’s face was burning and he clenched his fists to suppress his irritation. No one was talking to him and he told himself, to soothe the humiliation, that it was solely because he looked unapproachable. 

That was definitely the reason. It also accounted for why people always offered to buy Atsumu, Yukie, or Hitoka drinks, but never him when they were at bars after shows together. He was just unapproachable. Not uninteresting or dull or ugly or plain. Just unapproachable. 

And Kiyoomi told himself he liked being unapproachable, aloof and reserved and withdrawn. It made him intimidating. 

Back when he was in school, he could shut his classmates up with only a glance and, in the mall or whatever, none of the vendors tried to waste his time with their samples of whatever magical elixir or cream they were selling.

His face burned hotter as Atsumu posed for a picture by lifting the hem of his shirt to expose the planes of muscle on his stomach and chest like a little—

I bet I could leave and no one would notice, Kiyoomi thought to himself. He glanced around. Atsumu definitely wouldn't notice and Kiyoomi figured—bitterly, for whatever reason—that Atsumu probably wouldn't care either. Yukie was occupied and now so was Hitoka.

So Kiyoomi put on his jacket, checked for his hotel key card, his phone, grabbed his tote from the chair he’d left it on, and slipped out the back door.

Once he was outside, he pulled his mask off and inhaled deeply. The winter air was cold and his breath came out in a puff. 

Since it was almost Christmas, the Leipzig marketplace was bound to be full of crowds. Overhead, the sky was dark and mottled with black clouds, and it wasn't late enough yet that the streets would be totally absent of people.

Kiyoomi headed the opposite way. He didn’t quite know how exactly to get back to the hotel, but he knew the general direction. At worst, if he got lost, he could take a cab. 

Anything short of admitting to Yukie would be better. He knew he’d never hear the end of it. And if he contacted Hitoka, she’d probably tell Yukie and word would probably get around to Atsumu.

He just walked.

As he crossed over a canal, he stopped to stare into the depths of the water. The bottom of the tributary wasn't visible. Kiyoomi could more easily see himself, see his pale face and the sliver of the even paler crescent moon hanging over his right shoulder, than he could the riverbed. 

There was no one else around. He braced his elbows over the railing of the bridge and rested his head against his forearms, letting his eyes close. 

In his pocket, his phone rang. Kiyoomi ignored it, even as it continued to ring. Even though he wasn't entirely sure who was calling or messaging him, he didn’t bother checking. He just put it on silent then slipped it into the outer pocket of his coat. 

Counting his breaths, Kiyoomi tried to calm down and clear his head.

Why was he so worked up? He was never the type to fret over being excluded. Not being the center of attention, to him, was a good thing. Kiyoomi would much rather be unbothered than have strangers trying to touch his abs or hit on him. 

I don’t know how, but it’s probably Atsumu’s fault, he thought wryly to himself. Everything is his fault. When in doubt, just blame it on him.

It wasn't Kiyoomi’s fault he kept thinking of Atsumu or that his feelings were so conflicted; it was all Atsumu’s fault. 

When Kiyoomi was about to cross the rest of the canal bridge, he heard a high voice call his name. “Kiyoomi-kun! Where are you?”

Scowling, he turned. It was Hitoka, Yukie, and Atsumu.

“Hey! There you are. What the hell? You disappeared on us!” Yukie exclaimed, as she jogged to the arch of the bridge, her breath coming out in quick panting puffs. “Why did you leave before us?”

“We thought you’d gotten kidnapped or something,” Hitoka said.

His scowl deepened. “What? No, I’m fine.”

“I turned around for one second and then you were gone.”

“It’s alright. It’s not a big deal,” he said, his face heating. “I just got bored so I went for a walk. I just wanted some air.”

“Feelin’ a lil left out?” Atsumu taunted, having seemed to have read Kiyoomi’s mind. He was standing at the base of the bridge with his arms crossed, a smug smirk on his face. As his grin broadened, he said, “Sorry if I stole yer thunder again.”

Though Kiyoomi knew better, though he was tired and he shouldn’t have picked a fight, shouldn’t have taken the bait, and shouldn’t have let Atsumu egg him on—and though he knew Atsumu was likely only acting like this because he put up that cocky facade of his in front of the Yukie and Hitoka—he snapped anyway.

“You shut up. I’m sick of you. I’m sick of hearing your voice, I’m sick of all your backhanded bullshit, and you trying so desperately to be the center of attention,” he hissed. “Constantly. You’re such a show-off. I’m here too, you know.”

Atsumu only smiled wider. “It’s not my fault I’m better than you.”

That really pissed Kiyoomi off. 

Not because it wasn't true, but because it was. 

It made him think of the fight they’d had in front of Runa, the way they’d never said to each other what they have really been wanting to say. They’ve never really hit each other where it hurted. Kiyoomi never brought up Atsumu’s brother or the fact that he was disappointing, and Atsumu never took a dig at Kiyoomi’s skill.

This was the closest Atsumu had ever come to aiming below the belt and the closest Kiyoomi had ever come to saying what he really wanted to say was on their last night in Vienna.

“You’re so full of yourself,” Kiyoomi grumbled, walking away.

“Guys, if you’re just going to argue, I’d rather go back to the hotel and take a bath,” Yukie drawled, standing near the bottom of the bridge. “You two know the way back, right?”

“Duh,” Kiyoomi lied, crossing the river. “I’m just going for a walk. Atsumu, don’t follow me.”

“Why the fuck would I follow you?”

“This is getting old,” Hitoka murmured to Yukie, as they headed in the direction opposite of Kiyoomi. “They’re always fighting, then kind of not fighting, then fighting again. It’s like every time they take one step forward, they always take five steps back afterwards.”

Despite what he’d said, Atsumu chased after Kiyoomi. “What, yer not even gonna acknowledge me? Yer not even gonna argue when I say I’m better than you? Come on, man, I didn’t think you were this pathetic.”

Why is he trying to pick a fight with me? said a voice in his head. Was it because they were in front of the managers? Or was Atsumu mad that, because of Kiyoomi, they had to leave backstage earlier than he would have wished?

Another voice said, don’t take the bait.

He took the bait.

“I don’t want to fight with you because it’s pointless,” Kiyoomi said tiredly, turning to face Atsumu. Yukie and Hitoka were already gone. It was just the two of them now. “You want to say you’re better than me? Fine. Maybe it’s true. But everything everyone has ever said about you was right. All the rumours are true, Atsumu.

“There’s a reason why your reputation is what it is. People don’t call you nasty things behind your back just because they’re jealous. They say those things because they’re true. People talk shit about you because they don’t like you. People don’t invite you to go drinking with them because they don’t want to spend time with you or hang out with you.

As he continued walking, he muttered to himself, “I can’t believe I tried to befriend you back with the Berlin Phil.”

“Yeah, ya tried to kiss me too!”

Kiyoomi froze.

Slowly, he turned. “What?” 

“Oh, don’t pretend like it never happened!” Atsumu spat. “At least own up to it. Yer one of the many people who’ve had the privilege of being rejected by me.”

“No, no, no,” Kiyoomi said, waving a hand. I never tried to fucking— “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t—since when did I—” 

He couldn’t even stomach saying the words.

Since when had Kiyoomi tried to kiss Atsumu?

“Aw, yer denying it?” Atsumu put a hand on his hip. Kiyoomi stared, sputtering and confused. “On the last night,” Atsumu explained. “You grabbed me by the lapels and you were, like, this close to kissing me,” he said, pinching his fingers. 

“I did no such thing,” Kiyoomi said, even though he wasn't even sure anymore.

What the fuck? Had I tried to kiss him? No, no, Kiyoomi hadn’t. He thinks I tried to kiss him? He thought I was about to kiss him? Is that why he panicked? Is that why he ran out of the dressing room? Is that why he disappeared five minutes before the performance started?

Kiyoomi turned away, his mind reeling. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide his thoughts; he knew they must have been plain on his face.

He thought back to when he’d asked Atsumu for drinks when the rest of his section had excluded him. Atsumu had pushed him away then; he’d reacted poorly.

It made a little more sense now, like the jigsaw puzzle’s picture was materializing, becoming clearer.

“You’re insufferable. You think everything is about you. I was checking to see if your tie was symmetrical,” Kiyoomi said, walking quickly. He was scowling and he was glad Atsumu couldn’t see his face. “I never—I didn’t try to…”

“Say what you want,” Atsumu called. “I know ya think I'm hot.”

“No—no I—”

Do I? Kiyoomi wondered. Atsumu had said Kiyoomi had tried to kiss him. That night, before their last performance, in the dressing room… Had Kiyoomi subconciously…  

No, there was no way. It was impossible. 

Atsumu is, like, yeah, objectively attractive, he thought to himself. But that's completely different than being attracted to someone.

“Yeah? Well, if ya don’t think I’m hot, then why’d you try to make a move on me?”

Now, Kiyoomi didn’t know if he had or hadn’t tried to kiss Atsumu on the last night of performing with the Berlin Philharmonic. All he knew was that he’d taken Atsumu to a dressing room where they’d be alone, did his tie, then grabbed him by the lapels to see if his tie was tied evenly, then Kiyoomi had leaned his head forward and—

Oh, God. I did, didn’t I? Is Atsumu just in my head and now I’m going crazy? Did I subconciously try to kiss him? Fuck, no, no.

“I—I didn’t. I didn’t try to make a move on you.”

I tied his tie. Then I grabbed him by the lapels. Was it because I was checking to see if his tie was even or was it really because subconciously I wanted to kiss him? And if Atsumu was right about that, is he right about me being attracted to him?

No, no, no. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu said, but Kiyoomi wasn't listening anymore; he was spiraling; he was panicking; he was having an internal crisis.

What is happening? 

The reason he had gotten so irritated with the fact that Atsumu was flirting with people backstage—was it possible it was because Kiyoomi was jealous? And not of the attention Atsumu was getting, that Kiyoomi wasn't getting. But of something else.

I can’t be jealous. What could I possibly be jealous of?

His face burned, even though a wind had picked up. He didn’t know if Atsumu was still behind him and he didn’t dare check. 

A memory entered Kiyoomi’s mind, like an intrusive thought. It was of the day he’d taken Atsumu to the grotto, where a half-naked Atsumu had floated peacefully on his back, and had stood at the edge of the cavern bathed in fading sunlight. 

Kiyoomi’s face only burned hotter when he though of all the people swatting Atsumu’s shoulder or feeling up his biceps or poking his abs to see how hard they were or whatever. He definitely wasn't jealous or anything and he definitely didn’t want to be near Atsumu or anything, let alone touch him.

Atsumu is disgusting and vile and… icky.

With his fists clenched in his pockets, he glanced behind him to see the forest path he’d mindlessly wandered down was empty. Kiyoomi quickly went back the way he came; had no clue where he was and the last thing he wanted to do was get lost in a foreign city.

He followed the light of the streetlamps and headed in the direction of the square, of the Christmas market, of chatter and people and crowds and suburbia, wondering three things.

One: had he subconciously tried to kiss Atsumu on the last night of their performance with the Berlin Philharmonic?

Two: even though being attracted to someone was different than begrudgingly acknowledging the fact that they were objectively different, which one applied to Kiyoomi? Was it both? The former? Or the latter?

And three: was the reason Kiyoomi had gotten so hot and bothered by Atsumu flirting with people backstage because he had been jealous?

2019.12.24

On the night of Christmas Eve, Yukie, Hitoka, Atsumu, and Kiyoomi took a train from Leipzig, Germany, to Paris, France. Kiyoomi wished they had taken a flight. The train ride would be close to eight hours long.

It was currently around noon. They’d been on the train for a little under four hours. Atsumu, who sat with Hitoka in the row across from Kiyoomi, ate onigiri noisily. The sound pissed him off. However, being in not only in public space, but also a trapped and enclosed space, was as good a deterrent to starting a fight as any.

If either of them picked a fight, all the strangers around them would stare and even after the tussle, they would have nowhere to storm off to, making the entire thing awkward afterwards.

One glance at Yukie, who was smugly listening to music through headphones with a little smirk on her face, told Kiyoomi that she was aware of these things too.

The only main worry of Kiyoomi’s, apart from not wanting to take off his mask and eat lunch on public transport, was Atsumu. More specifically, what Kiyoomi’s subconscious thought of him and the fact that there were many things he still hadn’t figured out whether they were of Yukie and or Hitoka’s doing.

With the repertoire they’d chosen, had they highlighted Atsumu and put a damper on Kiyoomi intentionally? 

When Atsumu had kicked him out of the piano bench to play his own solo encore repertoire, had they known he would do that? And if they’d known, had they been the ones to encourage that behaviour?

Kiyoomi figured there was no point in wondering. It wasn't impossible, but it was in the past. Really, was it even worth fretting over? Atsumu hadn’t pulled anything like that again and the repertoire was what it was. 

Most likely, Kiyoomi was just being stubborn, holding an unnecessary grudge and just holding onto his time in Vienna for no reason.

What he thought was a more valid concern was, on their final night in Austria, had Yukie and or Hitoka told Atsumu to say all those things to Kiyoomi at the bar? Had that been a product of their orchestration, no pun intended?

That, Kiyoomi doubted. Because even if Kiyoomi himself had wanted to say something like to Atsumu, if the managers had asked him to when he was already planning on it, that would have definitely made him change his mind. 

Like if your parents asked you to do the dishes when you were already about to do them; it made you want to roll your eyes and go back upstairs, the sink still messy.

He doubted Atsumu had talked to him so genuinely the last night in Vienna because of Yukie and or Hitoka. Kiyoomi was still having such a hard time figuring Atsumu out, though, and couldn’t even tell if that conversation had been in or out of character for Atsumu. 

Had Atsumu only talked to him so civilly because he’d been drunk? 

The more Kiyoomi thought, the more he became confused. Every bit of information, every memory, every conversation he’d had with Atsumu conflicted with each other. 

It started with walking in on him playing Liebesträume. Then, there was the day at the grotto. After that, after so much bickering, there was their final night in Austria. 

As of late, there was also Atsumu thinking Kiyoomi had tried to kiss him on the night of their final performance with the Berlin Philharmonic. 

Which accounted for two things: the likely reason why Atsumu had disappeared, panicked, five minutes before they were to perform and also the subsequent question of whether or not Kiyoomi was attracted to him.

This entire thing is so fucking stupid, Kiyoomi thought to himself. Look how he’s invading my mind. See how he’s all I think about now. Maybe he’s just blowing hot and cold, acting so misleadingly, to fuck with me. I bet he knows what he’s doing. That fucker’s probably trying to confuse me because he thinks it’s funny or something.

Or perhaps Atsumu was just a jigsaw puzzle that didn’t want to be solved, a cold case destined to forever stay a mystery.

With a sigh, Kiyoomi shifted in his seat. Atsumu was watching a movie on his phone, Hitoka had her head against the window and she was napping, and Yukie was, too, asleep, her chin propped up on her fist. Kiyoomi pulled from his bag the lunch he’d packed at breakfast.

While he ate, his eyes kept darting to Atsumu and he thought to himself, I’m going to have to do something about that. 

“Hey, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu said.

Kiyoomi jumped.

“What?”

“Is that juicebox tiny or is yer hand just huge?”

He scowled. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever compared hands.”

And your point is?

“I guess not.” Kiyoomi went back to eating. From his periphery, he could see Atsumu still staring at him. Sighing once more, he glanced up. “What?”

“Let’s compare hand sizes.”

“Fine,” he said and thought to himself, but only so you’ll leave me alone.

Grinning, Atsumu held up his hand. Kiyoomi placed their palms against each other, lining up their hands at the heels. He positioned their fingers together. Atsumu’s palm was slightly wider than Kiyoomi’s, but Kiyoomi’s fingers were a little longer and thinner.

As Kiyoomi was about to pull away, Atsumu interlaced their fingers, so that they were holding hands. 

What on earth is going on inside his head? Kiyoomi wondered to himself, prying his hand away from Atsumu. What is his game? Does he think I like him? Is that why he’s acting like this, acting like this is some game?

How was it that if Kiyoomi showed actual interest in Atsumu he got pushed away, but when Atsumu thought Kiyoomi had wanted to kiss him, he went along with it? If only for the sake of his ego or because Kiyoomi was a conquest to him or because, hey, why not, right?

Atsumu didn’t say anything though. He just went back to watching his movie and Kiyoomi truly realized just how much he thought of Atsumu and just how little Atsumu thought of Kiyoomi.

This notion was only punctuated when Atsumu said, “Ah, by the way, before I forget to tell ya. I’m playin’ Mendelssohn with an octet for a benefit while we’re in Paris.”

“Oh.” Kiyoomi didn’t know what else to say. “Good for you.”

“Thanks!”

What kind of reaction had Atsumu been expecting? Had he expected Kiyoomi to pick a fight? For the unspoken tension and distaste between them to increase? Did the fact that the managers were asleep and might as well have been absent have an impact on anything? 

Kiyoomi couldn’t help but feel—just a little bit—that this announcement was directed at him. The timing was odd and whatever emotion he was feeling in the moment was one he did not like one bit. He didn’t even know what it was, either.

It just made him feel a little empty. Dejected. Like there was a weight on his chest, like he was inconsequential. Was he supposed to have gotten pissed? Did Atsumu want him to get envious? 

Or was Kiyoomi reading too much into things, making something deeper than it was, searching for something, a grudge, to hold against Atsumu?

He felt the same thing he’d felt the night Atsumu had kicked him out of the piano bench, minus the violent rage. That night, Kiyoomi had felt like an outsider in his own tour. 

Something Atsumu had said to him, during their conversation on their last night in Vienna, came to his mind.

This world of ours, of music? It’s not an amusement park, my dear Omi-Omi. It’s a battleground. Not everyone can make it. 

That line made Kiyoomi wonder if this was another thing Atsumu had planned to get ahead. It made him wonder if this was somehow Atsumu’s way to show Kiyoomi that he would always be two steps in front, would always be better, always be the best.

But what really had his attention was the way Atsumu had called it their world. Like classical music was some little secret they shared, a special thing that belonged to them and them only.

Atsumu had called the world of music theirs. 

It led Kiyoomi’s train of thought back to where he thought it might have all started, on that day in Berlin when he’d walked in on Atsumu playing Liebesträume. The way it had also felt like something that was theirs. Or, rather, something that was Kiyoomi’s, but had been thieved from him by Atsumu.

Like Liebesträume had been a part of Kiyoomi and Atsumu had claimed that piece of him; like they had switched identities, reversing the roles of the cocky veteran who liked showing off, who always wanted to be ahead, and the cautious parvenu who found beauty in interpretation, who couldn’t sort out his conflicting feelings.

That day had been like the blurring of the lines between two discrete entities: Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu, where one thing of Kiyoomi’s was now a thing of Atsumu’s.

Did Atsumu let his guard down around Kiyoomi, when no one, not even the managers, were around?

He’d reacted poorly on the last night they were playing with the Berlin Philharmonic, when he’d thought Kiyoomi was about to kiss him. But then, at the grotto, his disposition had been decent enough. And they’d been alone both times.

Whatever, he thought to himself. I don’t get it. This stupid tour has barely been half a month and I’m already tired. We keep regressing. Any progress made to break through that cocky facade of his always becomes undone within the next week. 

I don’t understand him. I don’t even know if it’s worth trying to understand him. One week we’re bickering. The next we’re bathing in grottos. It’s all just too much. When Atsumu leaves, will everything be fine again or will everything only get worse? My life was so much simpler before he was in it. 

Kiyoomi just didn’t know if it would be simpler again once Atsumu was out.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

Around five, Yukie brought them to a classic three-bedroom apartment over a candy shop in the heart of Paris. Kiyoomi wondered where in the city Atsumu had stayed during his sabbatical. 

The place was situated near the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower was visible from the tall French windows. There was a little Juliet balcony with wrought iron railings, parquet floors made from oak wood, a coat of elegant off-white paint coating the walls, a marble fireplace, and intricate crown moulding.

Hitoka stoked the hearth as Atsumu claimed one of the rooms. 

According to Yukie, all the hotels were booked on the dates of Christmas so they would be transferring to a hotel only after the holidays were over.

Kiyoomi set his things in the chamber to the left of Atsumu’s. He collapsed on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, every joint in his long body aching, and wanted nothing more than to take a hot bath and go to sleep.

Yukie knocked on the doorframe. “Since it’s Christmas Eve tonight and we have an apartment with a kitchen to ourselves, I was thinking we should have a holiday dinner.”

He groaned, his face buried in his arms.

“Is that a yes?” she asked. “You, me, Hitoka, and Atsumu—”

At that, Kiyoomi lifted his head. 

“Come on, I think you two can handle one dinner together.” Yukie rolled her eyes. “It’s Christmas. You two have been acting like children since the start of the month. You don’t think you can have one civil holiday dinner with Atsumu?”

“I never said I couldn’t,” he grumbled. “And fine. I just want to nap first.”

“Uh, huh. Alright.” 

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · · 

When Kiyoomi woke, it was close to seven. He headed to the bathroom to wash his face and came into the living room, where Yukie, Hitoka, and Atsumu were almost done with cooking.

He wondered, when he would go into the dining room and sit down and say his blessings before digging into the food, whether Atsumu would pick a fight with him, whether they’d bicker pointlessly like they usually did around Yukie and Hitoka, like a carousel—constantly moving, dynamic and never static, but never going anywhere.

Because that’s what it was. That’s what their relationship was. A carousel. There was a row, a seeming make up, a falling out for whatever reason, be it Kiyoomi lost a handle on his temper and snapped or if Atsumu was just feeling extra peevish that day, then repeat.

These days were all the same, too. They would dissent over nothing, then Atsumu would exact some inexplicable behaviour, leaving Kiyoomi confused and conflicted, wishing the tour could be over already yet wondering how he could live without Atsumu in his life. 

Really, would Kiyoomi just be better off without him? Or had Atsumu done some odd, irrevocable damage that couldn’t be fathomed?

I’ve gone down this track before, haven’t I? the voice in his head asked, as he dried his hands with a cloth. 

It was true that he had that sort of internal crisis over Atsumu every single day or every other day, hell, sometimes even multiple times a day—after all, this was his second crisis; the first had been on the train—where he would wish to unravel the mystery that was Miya Atsumu, then wonder why, then Kiyoomi would realize he was thinking too much about Atsumu.

See, I’m doing it again, he thought, catching himself in the act.

Atsumu would behave in a peculiar fashion, Kiyoomi would wonder if it was out of character, try to interpret something that might not have even been there, then ask himself why his train of thought had gone down the course it always did.

There was so much that he was likely reading too much into, so many paths that maybe didn’t need to be followed because they didn’t lead anywhere anyway. Perhaps once this tour was over, Kiyoomi would be better off, since the seeming dead end of Atsumu would be gone, away and unable to tantalize him.

Or maybe it would make no difference and Kiyoomi would be itching to fight with a person who wasn't there, but was always present on his screen, in his mind, in interviews and on the radio and in the recordings he listened to.

Kiyoomi still hadn’t figured out why his mind refused to stop circling Atsumu, why his thoughts always led back Liebesträume or Vienna or that day in the grotto or to a multitude of other things that weren’t Atsumu, but at the same time actually were. 

Because everything he thought of almost always led back to him. Or something connected to him. And Kiyoomi didn’t know why. 

He could probably think of nothing but Atsumu for hours and hours on end then only realize by the coda that his mind had only been on the same three concepts, the same four memories, the same two conversations, and had circled over and over again, looping like that stupid carousel going nowehere.

It was like an optical illusion, where the melding of the beginning and end of the rotation was seamless.

Before his thoughts could make a full loop back to square one—which would throw him in the midst of that never-ending cycle wherein the only thing Kiyoomi ever thought about was Atsumu—he stepped foot into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

There, was Yukie and Hitoka and Atsumu who would really talk to him in the real world, meaning he couldn’t just get lost in his merry-go-round going nowhere. They would notice if he did and prohibit him.

“Good evening,” Hitoka said, her voice cheerful.

“Merry Christmas,” Kiyoomi grumbled, glancing from the corner of his eye at the object of almost all his thoughts. Atsumu was setting the table with Yukie. “Did you guys make this all yourselves?”

“Some of it is store bought,” Yukie called over her shoulder.

On the dining table was a stuffing made of roasted yams, chestnuts, beets, parsnips, turnips, carrots, onions, and garlic. As well, there were mashed rosemary potatoes with a thick brown gravy that smelled of thyme, foie gras, steak frites, and a tart of apples caramelized in butter.

There were two unopened bottles of alcohol on the table and a charcuterie full of cheeses, grapes, French bread, and capers.

Hitoka—who was at the counter where oysters with lemon, red wine vinaigrette, dill, and apple cider vinegar still remained—brought over a soup that smelled of onions and a dish of smoked salmon with crème fraîche on crostini crackers. 

“Kiyoomi, you mind grabbing that?” Yukie said, pointing to a large platter where a medium-sized turkey sat.

He nestled the dish in the center of the table. After the last of the food was brought over, Yukie and Hitoka took their seats—next to each other, leaving Kiyoomi and Atsumu forced to sit beside one another, across from the managers.

Once they all settled in their seats, Yukie opened one of the liquor bottles. Apparently, it was an anise-flavoured aperitif poured over ice. It smelled of liquorice. She poured everyone a glass before raising hers.

“A toast!” she said. “To the new year. To new opportunities, new connections, new relationships, new projects, and, most of all, new music.”

“Cheers!”

Atsumu clinked his glass against Yukie’s and Hitoka’s. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Kiyoomi said begrudgingly. 

They all drank. He didn’t love the bitter, fennel-like taste, but he finished it nonetheless. Kiyoomi kept his eyes decidedly on the window behind Yukie and Hitoka, so that he didn’t have to look at Atsumu, so that Atsumu hopefully didn’t notice the fact that they hadn’t spoken in hours, that the last time they’d spoken had been on the train when Atsumu was telling Kiyoomi about the octet.

Atsumu definitely didn’t notice. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing Atsumu would preoccupy himself with. Not that Kiyoomi knew him so well. 

Besides, even if Atsumu did notice, he clearly wasn't making anything of it. Even though Kiyoomi wasn't acting on it either. 

Perhaps he was doing it again. Building, in his head, Atsumu into something he was not, which was the same thing he’d done that led to meeting Atsumu in real life for the very first time to such a trenchant disappointment. 

Back on the carousel again, I see, a voice in his mind chided. 

Kiyoomi scooped food onto his plate. The night went by with Yukie and Hitoka talking to each other—and only each other, which led Kiyoomi to wonder if that had been on purpose—and Kiyoomi and Atsumu sitting awkwardly next to each other, refusing to acknowledge the other’s existence. 

After dinner, they opened the bottle of brandy, made from pears and apples in Normandy. 

By the time it was eight, night had fallen and a light rain had begun to pour, pitter-pattering against the closed window. Beyond, against the dark skyline, stood the Eiffel Tower, glowing gold. 

Hitoka had struck up a conversation with Atsumu and when Kiyoomi went to go retire to bed, Yukie followed him. “Oi, Kiyoomi-kun!” she called.

He turned, his eyes half-closed from wishing he were asleep. “What is it?”

There was a smile touching the corner of her mouth. “I was just wondering… were you thinking of buying any Christmas gifts this year?”

“I don’t usually do gift exchanges or Secret Santas and whatnot,” he said scowling. “Why?”

“Again, just wondering.” Yukie was wearing that Cheshire smile. “Just wondering if you were planning on buying a… specific someone… a Christmas gift. You know. Kind of like an apology for having been a pain in their ass? A token of appreciation? For all they’ve done for you?”

As his eyes narrowed, Kiyoomi resisted the urge to groan in frustration. She wanted him to buy Atsumu a present? It wasn't the worst idea, but Kiyoomi’s pride made it so that he’d rather stab his hand with a fork. What had Atsumu ever done for him, anyway?

“I—I suppose,” he mumbled nonetheless, staring at the floor and sighing. “I guess Paris is kind of famous for shopping… So I’m sure I can find something. I guess.” 

Yukie clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Since tomorrow’s Christmas Day and we don’t have a show, don’t worry about staying out too late to find the perfect gift!”

“Yeah…” Kiyoomi rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why Yukie was so insistent he buy a gift for Atsumu. “Alright.”

Did he want to buy Atsumu a present for Christmas? Was he supposed to have put up a fight? Or had Kiyoomi gotten used to not only the antics that came with him, but also Atsumu himself? 

Kiyoomi wondered why he was so quick to agree. 

I’ll just buy him his stupid gift, said the voice in his head. We only have one more destination left after Paris. I’ll be done with him soon. So soon. I can taste it.

If Atsumu had asked Kiyoomi to buy him a gift, he definitely would have said no. In fact, it probably would have started a fight. Kiyoomi wondered if Yukie or Hitoka had asked Atsumu to buy him a gift… would Atsumu have done it? 

Maybe Kiyoomi was just too tired to put up a fight. Perhaps he simply wasn't thinking straight or maybe the Christmas cheer that seemed to have enveloped Yukie and Hitoka was also impacting him too.

Or—was Kiyoomi just over it? He was sick of fighting, sick of Atsumu. Kiyoomi recalled the way he’d put up such a fight when Yukie and Hitoka had arranged for this tour or when they’d arranged for Atsumu to live with him. 

Now, if they had proposed that idea, would Kiyoomi have argued? If they wanted to extend the tour by another week or even by months, would Kiyoomi have assented?

I’m probably just a little drunk, he told himself. 

But it was odd, he thought, that Yukie had implied he should buy Atsumu a present and Kiyoomi just went along with it. 

I think I’m either just drunker than I had originally thought or I’m really, really just over it, Kiyoomi rationalized. I just want to hurry up and be done with Atsumu. Wash my hands of him and go on with my life. I think I’m just tired of fighting. I’m just over it. If Yukie thinks I should get him something for Christmas, then I’ll do it, if only to placate him.

He could see the finish line, the final stretch of the velodrome. Kiyoomi was almost at the end of the racetrack and all he had to endure was Paris and then Amsterdam? 

It’s probably because he hasn’t spoken in a couple hours, said the voice in Kiyoomi’s head. Like when pregnant women give birth, there’s some chemical that makes them forget how bad the pain actually was. I’m probably just forgetting how annoying Atsumu actually is, which is why Yukie managed to convince me so easily to get him some presents.

Be it whether Kiyoomi was drunk or over it or tired or whatever, he grabbed an umbrella, shrugged on his coat, and head out of the apartment to brave the streets of Paris, in search for the perfect Christmas gift, for someone he didn’t think deserved it, for one of the most annoying brats he’d ever met.

For Atsumu, whom Kiyoomi, for some reason, could simply not stop thinking of.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · · 

As Kiyoomi walked past the Arc de Triomphe, which was thronged by crowds despite the cold rain, and made his way to the Champs-Élysées, he called his cousin. Mostly to tell him Merry Christmas, but also because he had no idea how to buy gifts. It simply wasn't something Kiyoomi did. 

What kind of things would Atsumu want? What kind of things did Atsumu like? 

Even though it was stupid and he couldn’t care less what Atsumu though and was definitely only doing this for his own sake and because Yukie had asked him to, Kiyoomi wanted to get a good gift. 

Kiyoomi was prideful and stubborn and would be very pissed if he got Atsumu something like a mug that Atsumu ended up never using.

The boulevard was illuminated by lights and animations. Giant pine trees towered, enchanting and lively. Decorations adorned the trees, little chalets and silver baubles. Loud music played, and within the display windows of shops, synthetic snow and ice glimmered. 

“Hello?” Motoya said.

“Hi. Merry Christmas.”

Motoya laughed. “Thanks. You too.”

“Um,” Kiyoomi started, making his way into the Bulgari store. 

Inside, it was warm and the people spoke in hushed tones. He pulled his mask higher over his nose as he passed the fragrances, the heavy colognes and strong perfumes smelling of wildflowers and leather and musk.

“If you were Atsumu, what would you want for Christmas?”

For a second, the line was silent.

Then, Motoya started snickering. “Are you buying him a gift? I thought you two were still at each other’s throats. Do you not hate him anymore? Have you two become friends? Have you two learned to get along? Did you two hate-fuck? Is this a hate-fuck gift?”

“No. Dude. Shut the fuck up!” Kiyoomi’s face was hot and he scowled. “What is wrong with you?”

“Ah, I’ve been on Twitter quite often these days.”

“Uh, huh. Fuck you. You’re annoying.”

“I’m no worse than you.” Motoya was evident in his voice. “I remember when you called me the day your tour was announced. You were so mad and for what? It was hilarious.”

“I was mad because Atsumu is a pain in my ass and because Yukie—” He sighed, glancing around the glass cases filled with watches and cufflinks and jewelry. “Not the point. Yukie told me to get him a gift so I said I guess I would do it and now here we are. What should I get him?”

He eyed the bangles shaped like snakes, embedded with green emerald eyes, and the bracelets shaped like serpents. Did Atsumu have his ears pierced? Kiyoomi glanced at the earrings, most of the studs in a soft, roseate shade of gold.

“I don’t know. What do you think you should get him?”

“If I knew, why would I be asking you?” His scowl deepened. “I don’t buy people presents. I gave people money when my parents forced me to attend birthday parties or whatever. I don’t know what to get him. If I did, I definitely would not be consulting you.”

“Wow, what a way to ask for advice,” Motoya quipped. “Why don’t you get him something you’d want for yourself. Isn’t that what they usually say?”

“Something I’d want for myself?” Kiyoomi murmured. “I want a copy of an original Chopin manuscript. I want his Prelude in D flat. But Atsumu doesn’t even like Chopin.”

“Okay, maybe you were taking this too literally. What else do you want? Something… broader. More general. Like a hoodie or chocolate or something.”

“No, that’s lame. The gift can’t be lame.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he snapped, making his way to the Swarovski store.

Under the soft light, clear crystals glistened, glittering and shining like a ball at a discotheque. The little statuettes and figurines of animals and cartoon characters stared back at him through their cases with beady, little black eyes. Kiyoomi glanced at the pens, at the swan-themed necklaces and jewelry.

“It’s just that if I have to get him a gift, I’d rather it be something cool. Like jealousy-worthy. You know?”

“Is this about your ego or something?” Motoya asked. “If you’re going to get him a gift you have to get him something amazing? Is that it? You can’t just half-ass it?”

“Exactly. Since when have I ever half-assed anything?”

“Right. You were always the go big or go home kind of person,” he remarked. “You never let anything go unfinished, even if it meant working for hours without sleep or food. I remember when we were sixteen and you kept trying to learn La campanella.”

“Okay, so what should I get him? Stop going off on an unhelpful tangent.”

“Maybe a watch? A car? I don’t know. What’s your budget?”

Kiyoomi sighed. “I’m literally in Paris right now, making my way down the Champs-Élysées avenue. It's a luxury shopping hub. I don’t think now is the right time or place to skimp. Just help me.”

“Your options are probably jewelry or cologne.”

He sighed again, but as he made his way to the Cartier store, a little dainty, luxurious something caught his eye. 

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · · 

When Kiyoomi went back to the apartment, he hid the little jewelry bag under his coat and resisted the urge to grin. Finally, he’d managed to find a good gift. The fact that Atsumu would receive it from someone who didn’t even really like him made it all the more impressive. 

In fact, Kiyoomi didn’t know if it could ever be topped. 

Imagine if the best gift Atsumu ever receives is from me of all people, he thought to himself. Every time he gets a gift, it’ll suck more than mine and then he’ll think of me.

As he entered the apartment, he saw, in the kitchen, Yukie and Atsumu speaking in low voices. They stopped their conversation to stare and wave at him, smiling oddly, as he made his way to the bathroom to shower and get ready to go to sleep.

By the time he was finished, it had stopped raining. Kiyoomi tucked the bag away underneath the desk’s chair and collapsed on the bed, exhausted from a day of travel.

From beyond the window of the room, the wrought-iron lattice of the Eiffel Tower sparked like polished moissanite. 

It was a nice view to fall asleep to and Kiyoomi drifted off within minutes.

2019.12.25

The next morning, Yukie, Hitoka, and Atsumu were up early. After getting ready, Kiyoomi made his way to the kitchen. Outside, the sky was pale, and the entire space smelled of eggs and custard and cinnamon and syrup. For breakfast, it appeared that Yukie, Hitoka, and Atsumu had made French toast with berries and powdered sugar on top.

“Good morning!” Hitoka said cheerfully, flipping over a slice of bread by the stove. She cut a piece of butter and tossed it into the pan. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Kiyoomi replied, glancing at Yukie and Atsumu, who were already eating at the dining table. He was in a fairly chipper mood and he couldn’t wait to give Atsumu his gift. “It’s nice, this morning. Kind of makes me wish we had a tree to decorate.”

“Oh?” Yukie said between bites. “The holiday cheer seems to have spread even to you.” Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him. “You seem smiley today.”

As he covered his mouth with a hand, he murmured, “Do I?” 

“Come eat some food. Then we’ll open presents.”

Kiyoomi couldn’t wait.

After breakfast, he helped do most of the dishes and after everything had been cleaned, the four of them gathered on one of the couches in the living room. Yukie and Hitoka were conversing excitedly while Atsumu appeared to be filming a TikTok as Kiyoomi went to retrieve the little Cartier bag.

“Alright, Hitoka-chan, here’s what I got you,” Yukie said, handing her a wrapped box. 

Yukie had gotten Hitoka some new sparkly lip glosses. Hitoka had gotten Yukie a pair of disposable polaroid cameras. The two of them had gotten Atsumu a set of designer travel-size eau de toilettes, perfumes, and colognes. 

Much to Kiyoomi's surprise, they’d also gotten him something—a mini projector to watch movies on—and he realized he hadn’t gotten them anything.

Shit, he thought to himself. Now what?

He cleared his throat and said, “Atsumu, I got you something.”

The managers exchanged glances.

“You did…?” Atsumu said, looking skeptical.

His face burning, he handed Atsumu the Cartier bag. Atsumu stared, glancing from Kiyoomi to the gift, then back to him again.

“Thanks.” Gingerly, he removed the box from the bag, suspicion etched on every line of his face, and turned it over in his hands.“You—you didn’t have to…”

Clenching his jaw, Kiyoomi held his breath as Atsumu opened the box. 

Yukie’s hand flew to her mouth. Hitoka gasped audibly.

Inside, was a tennis bracelet made with thirty-six brilliant cut diamonds and set with white gold. 

“I—you—” Atsumu sputtered and Kiyoomi tried not to smirk at his dumbfounded expression, his round eyes and parted lips. “Are—are ya serious? You got me…”

“A diamond tennis bracelet for Christmas,” Kiyoomi finished. “Well? Are you going to try it on?”

“Holy fuck,” Yukie cursed loudly and Kiyoomi wondered if it was the first time he’d ever heard her swear.

“Yeah—I…” Hitoka was also at a loss for words. “Kiyoomi-kun, I can’t believe—wow.”

All three of them watched intently as Atsumu looped the bracelet around his right wrist. Kiyoomi helped him with the clasp, too much adrenaline rushing through his body to register Atsumu’s warm skin against his hands.

It fit like a dream.

“That’s beautiful,” Yukie muttered, chewing a nail.

Hitoka’s eyes were still wide. “Gorgeous.”

“Thanks—thank you,” Atsumu said slowly. “Thank you very much, Omi-Omi.” 

“If that’s what you got him, I can’t wait to see what you got us,” Yukie said.

“Huh?” Kiyoomi said, panicked, thinking to himself, f uck, fuck, shit, fucking balls, what do I do now? 

“Um, Omi-Omi, I also got you something.” 

Now it was Kiyoomi’s turn to be surprised.  He turned to Atsumu, wearing what was likely the mirror image of Atsumu’s previous expression. The shock overtook the gratitude he felt to Atsumu for having saved him from admitting he hadn’t gotten Yukie and Hitoka anything for Christmas.

“You—you did?”

Atsumu produced a Dior bag from beneath a side table and handed it to Kiyoomi.

What the hell?

“This day just keeps getting better and better,” Yukie murmured.

“And so the plot thickens,” Hitoka chimed in.

Kiyoomi pulled out the large box and opened it.

For Christmas, Atsumu had gotten him a pearl choker with a golden pendant.

“Thank—thank you,” Kiyoomi stammered. 

“Put it on.”

Though Kiyoomi didn’t like taking orders from Atsumu, he obliged anyway, settling the necklace around the base of his throat and fastening the clasp. The pendant, shaped into the initials C and D, rested snugly in the space between his clavicles.

The four of them were dead silent.

“I didn’t expect you guys to get gifts for each other,” Yukie said, breaking the awkward quiet. She smirked a little. “In fact, I expected gifts for me and Hitoka. I thought you two would have gotten us gifts.”

“But—” Kiyoomi scowled. “But you said—”

She frowned. “What?” 

“Yesterday night—” he sputtered. “After dinner—”

“I was referring to myself!” Yukie crossed her arms, looking astonished. “When I asked if you were getting a Christmas gift for a certain someone you’d been pissing off lately, I had meant myself!”

Ah, Kiyoomi thought to himself. That makes a lot more sense.

“Is that what—” Atsumu started. He cleared his throat. “You… I thought you meant…”

“Oh, my God, did you talk to him too?” Kiyoomi said.

That makes so, so much more sense. No wonder Atsumu got me a gift. He thought Yukie had told him to. Is that what they’d been talking about last night when I got back to the apartment?

“But, hey, I mean you two must have wanted an excuse to buy each other gifts already,” she said, “considering the fact that you were the first people you thought of instead of me and Hitoka.”

“I—I do find it odd you guys thought to buy each other gifts before you thought of us,” Hitoka said meekly, eyeing the pearls around Kiyoomi’s neck and the diamonds around Atsumu’s wrist.

Diamonds trump pearls, right? My gift was better, right? I win, right?

“Yeah, no, for sure.” Yukie examined them both. Atsumu refused to look away from the floor and his fists were clenched. Kiyoomi’s face was so hot he thought it would catch fire. “Now, I’m just really mad because the gifts you got each other were so awesome. Like, what? I want a diamond bracelet!”

“How much did it even cost?” Hitoka said, her voice hushed.

“Um, does—does it really matter?”

“Spit it out, Kiyoomi-kun. It’s the least you can do to make up for not getting us anything for Christmas,” Yukie spat.

“It was, like, fourteen thousand in euros.”

Both their eyes went wide.

“Fourteen thousand,” Yukie mumbled, looking something up—a conversion, likely—on her phone. Hitoka’s eyes shifted to Atsumu. “It’s—holy! Almost two million in yen!”

“What the hell?” Hitoka cried.

Atsumu’s glare at the floor only intensified. 

What is wrong with my subconscious? Kiyoomi asked himself. Lately, I’ve tried to, what, kiss him? I don’t know if I’m attracted to him. And now, unknowingly, I must have wanted to give Atsumu a gift.

Yukie must have been right when she’d said Kiyoomi had already secretly wanted to buy Atsumu something. He just hadn’t known it. But it explained why his first thought of a certain someone to buy a Christmas present for had been Atsumu instead of Yukie or Hitoka.

Or maybe Yukie had really been talking about Atsumu and she just wanted to mess with him.

What if Atsumu and I gave the gifts we got each other to Yukie and Hitoka? he wondered suddenly. They probably deserve it more than we do.

Kiyoomi glanced surreptitiously from the corner of his eye at Atsumu and realized Atsumu hadn’t been staring at the ground; he’d been staring at Kiyoomi’s gift the entire time.

As Yukie and Hitoka jabbered on about the sheer inanity of the presents he and Atsumu had exchanged, Kiyoomi said quietly, “Do you like it?”

“I’m—I’m still struggin’ to wrap my head around… it, everything.”

You and me both, Atsumu. You and me both.

2019.12.28

The rest of Christmas Day and for the duration of the entirety of Boxing Day, Kiyoomi and Atsumu avoided each other. On the day after Boxing Day, they’d performed a show together. But apart from that, they hadn’t interacted at all.

He didn’t know if Atsumu wore the bracelet he’d gotten him. Kiyoomi didn’t wear the pearls.

Yukie and Hitoka were checking them into a hotel by the Champs de Mars park and the curve of the Seine. Out the vast windows and awning were the landscaped paths and bare trees, the extensive green lawn, and the tourists taking photos. 

In the lobby were exposed beams, fireplaces set in stone, and tapestries and artwork. Through an open cafe door drifted in jazzy piano music. Another door led to a swimming pool and spa.

Atsumu appeared to be scrolling on TikTok and Kiyoomi kept glancing at him, at his wrist, which was covered by a sleeve. 

Today was also the day Motoya would touch down in Paris. Kiyoomi didn’t quite remember why his cousin was visiting town. He vaguely remembered that Motoya had said something about it the other day when they’d called. 

But, at the time, Kiyoomi had been too busy trying to figure out how the credit card machines worked in this country to pay attention and a salesman had been yelling at him in French.

As Kiyoomi found his eyes were trailing off on their own towards Atsumu again, he wondered if he should say something. 

Would they usually have been talking by now? Did they usually initiate conversations when alone? Had they previously ever talked casually like friends or had they only ever bickered?

By the time Yukie and Hitoka came back towards Kiyoomi and Atsumu with the key cards, Motoya arrived. Kiyoomi stood and the three of them greeted Motoya by the entrance of the lobby.

“Hey, long time no see!” Hitoka said, giving him an embrace.

“Happy holidays!” Yukie shook his hand and Kiyoomi realized she and his cousin had never actually encountered each other before. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard plenty about you and I commend you for having put up with Kiyoomi-kun for as long as you have.”

Kiyoomi scowled and adjusted his mask. “Oh, that’s really nice.”

“Frankly, I deserve an award,” Motoya replied, laughing. 

Yukie put a hand on her hip. “Did you know he didn’t even get me a Christmas present?” 

For a couple minutes, the three of them joked about what a prickly pain Kiyoomi could be and talked about what they’d done for the holidays. Eventually, Yukie and Hitoka gave Motoya his, Kiyoomi’s, and Atsumu’s key cards and headed upstairs to settle down before checking out the spa.

“Hey, I know you told me the other day, but I wasn't really paying attention,” Kiyoomi stared, “so can you remind me what you’re doing in town?”

Motoya rolled his eyes. “I’m playing with an octet for a benefit.”

“With—with Atsumu, right?”

“Yeah.” He lowered his voice. “Speaking of, how did he take the gift you got him? Did he like it?”

“He… I’m not too sure. He was surprised, to say the least.” Kiyoomi swallowed. “He also got me something.”

“He did?”

“He got me a pearl necklace. From Dior.”

A second passed and Motoya had on an astonished expression—wide eyes with a small, flabbergasted smile.

“I was equally surprised that he got me something,” Kiyoomi admitted.

“No, for sure. I’m—I’m astounded as well.” Motoya scratched the back of his neck. “How are you two? How are things? Do you still hate him or anything?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just that…” He sighed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Atsumu wasn't listening in on their conversation. “I don’t know anymore. I think I’m over it? Maybe I’ve just gotten used to it? I only got him a gift because Yukie suggested it to me. And when she did, I didn’t even put up a fight. I was kind of just resigned.”

It was almost as if being around Atsumu so often had chipped away at Kiyoomi’s exasperation, like he’d accepted the everything about Atsumu. He’d learned to grin and bear it, he’d come to terms with it.

“Hm.” Motoya thought long and hard for a second. “I don’t really think that’s like you. You’re not really one to give in to the inevitable. I thought you would have gone down swinging. If anything, I think it’s more likely you’d try to hold onto a grudge rather than just put your shoulders up and realize it is what it is.”

“That’s exactly what I thought. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Well, maybe you want to screw him.” He grinned, mischievous and gleeful, as Kiyoomi’s face fell—his expression starting off as shock, then switching to horror, then finalizing into disgust. “Anyways, I’m exhausted. I flew in all the way from SoCal. I’m going to take a nap. Here’s your key card!” 

Kiyoomi merely sputtered as Motoya pressed the cards into his hand.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · · 

After watching the back of Motoya’s head disappear down the hall, Kiyoomi managed to pull himself together and he tried to hand Atsumu one of the key cards.

“Hold on, Omi-Omi, I’m doin’ a TikTok dance.”

Atsumu did a body roll and Kiyoomi’s head tilted back as he rolled his eyes, Doja Cat’s Say So playing softly in the din of the lobby. He turned around because he thought he would stare at the thrusts of Atsumu’s hips if he didn’t otherwise.

“Are you done now?” he asked quietly.

“Yup,” Atsumu said, plucking the card from Kiyoomi’s hand.

Blood rushed loudly in his ears. 

He made his way to the elevator, Atsumu a couple feet ahead of him. They waited on opposite sides, separated by a couple American tourists and a businessman in a suit who spoke angry, rapid-fire French into a telephone. 

To Kiyoomi’s dismay, they got off on the same floor, then began walking in the same direction, the rolling wheels of their suitcases and their footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting. Candelabra hung from the pale blue wallpapered walls.

Both Kiyoomi and Atsumu stopped in front of the same door.

“What are you doing?” Kiyoomi demanded.

“This is my room…? Atsumu flashed his key card, clearly imprinted with the numbers ten and fourteen. “I think the better question is, what are you doing?”

Kiyoomi showed his key card, which also had the same numbers. “I’m—this is my room!” 

“Did—we’re sharin’ a room?”

He scowled, facepalming, “There must be some kind of mistake. My cousin must have forgotten to give me one of the cards. Something—there must have been some kind of mix-up.”

“I’m callin’ Hitoka,” Atsumu said, dialing her number.

“Right. I’ll call Komori.”

The line rang. And rang. Then went straight to voicemail. Kiyoomi’s scowl intensified and he tried calling again.

“Did Yachi pick up?”

“Nope. Lemme try Yukie.”

Did Yukie and Hitoka intend for them to share a hotel room? They had said specifically at the beginning of the tour that they wouldn't be lodging together anymore. 

Had Motoya given them both copies of the same key by accident? Previously, Yukie and Hitoka had kept spares of all their hotel key cards, just as a backup, so it wasn't unusual that there were two of the same key cards.

Well, maybe you want to screw him. 

Once, before, Kiyoomi had possibly subconsciously tried to kiss Atsumu. After that, Kiyoomi had wondered if he was personally attracted to Atsumu and speculated to no avail.

Either Yukie and Hitoka had only gotten them one room to share or Motoya had given him only one pair of keys when he was supposed to have given Kiyoomi two—either accidentally or deliberately. 

“Yukie’s not pickin’ up either.” Atsumu dialed again. “Now what?”

It was a good question. Unfortunately, Kiyoomi didn’t know how to answer. 

“Whatever. I want lunch. I’m hungry. I’m just going to ditch my luggage in the room until everything gets sorted out,” Kiyoomi said. “You can have the room to yourself for now. I don’t really care.”

Atsumu shifted from foot to foot. After a second, he said, “Alright… then.”

Kiyoomi inserted the key card and, after the light went green with a beep, he pushed open the hotel room door.

Beyond, was only one bed.

Shit, he thought to himself. Of course, there’s only one bed. Komori only gave me one half of the key cards he was supposed to, so this is either my or Atsumu’s room. It wasn't supposed to be both of ours.

“Do you happen to know what room number my cousin was staying in?”

“No.” Atsumu scowled. “How the hell would I know somethin’ like that?”

Rolling his eyes, Kiyoomi said, “I was just asking.”

“It was a dumb question.”

Rolling his suitcase into the room, he shot Atsumu a glare over his shoulder. “Whatever. Like I said, this will get sorted out in no time. I’ll just figure out which room Komori is staying in or I’ll go find him and I’ll get the other key cards.”

Let’s just hope he isn’t asleep, said the voice in his head. 

Motoya had said himself he was exhausted, that he’d flown in from America. If Motoya was asleep, if he’d passed out already, who knew how long it would be until he woke up? Kiyoomi didn’t know his room number so there was no way to find or contact him.

“We can just call Hitoka. Or Yukie,” Atsumu suggested, as he shut the door, ditched his luggage, and plopped on the bed. He sprawled out across the bedding, supine, his long limbs spread-eagle. “We can ask them to get the other key cards from the front desk or give us yer cousin’s room number.”

“No—no. Think about it,” Kiyoomi said, hating the tinge of panic that was beginning to stain his voice. 

If Yukie and Hitoka—if Yukie, at least—found out that Atsumu and Kiyoomi were only given one hotel room with only one bed, there was no way things wouldn't stay that way.

“We can’t go to Yukie and Hitoka, especially Yukie,” Kiyoomi said, “Atsumu. We can’t.”

Realization seemed to dawn on Atsumu as well. “Shit. Yer right.”

“Well, now what?”

“What do ya mean?”

“I’m going to call the front desk and ask for a couch bed or—or something,” he said, sounding even more hysterical. 

“What? Why?” Atsumu smirked. “Do ya think if we shared a bed ya wouldn't be able to resist me?” 

“I won’t be able to resist hitting you, that’s for sure,” Kiyoomi snarled.

A mock gasp. “You wouldn't dare!

“You’re right. I wouldn't,” Kiyoomi murmured. “Pianists need their hands.”

“Ugh! Yer so rude.”

Living with Atsumu had been rough. But at the very least, they hadn’t slept together. At the very least, they’d had separate rooms.

One side of Kiyoomi’s mind was asking why he was so adamant against the idea of sharing a bed with Atsumu. Why not just give in? He’s objectively attractive, even if I don’t know whether or not I myself am attracted to him. Plus, I thought I was over it. Resigned.

The other demanded why he wouldn't be adamant. If nothing else, at least I’m starting to become myself again and I’m starting to object to Atsumu. In retrospect, I can’t believe I didn’t put up a fight with Yukie when I thought she wanted me to get him a Christmas present.

When Kiyoomi glanced over to see how Atsumu was faring, he was still lounging on the bed. He was making another TikTok, sticking his tongue out, lifting the hem of his shirt up to reveal his beautifully toned midriff. 

Of course, he doesn’t care, Kiyoomi thought to himself. Isn’t that, like, his whole thing? That he doesn’t care about anything?

Kiyoomi suddenly recalled a moment they’d had after rehearsals, earlier in the year when they were both playing with the Berlin Philharmonic. No, it wasn't the conversation itself; Kiyoomi was thinking of his train of thought from after the performance. 

Atsumu had said he didn’t need anyone to confide in. Kiyoomi had thought to himself that everyone needed someone and that with Atsumu, it would just be about who’d be the first he let in, that he confided in. He’d said that he didn’t care and Kiyoomi had thought to himself, I’ll make him care. 

Did Kiyoomi still think those statements held up? Both his and Atsumu’s. Was Kiyoomi still interested in being the first person Atsumu let in, the first person who made Atsumu care? 

This is stupid, Kiyoomi thought to himself, as Atsumu began filming another TikTok. It’s not like I can fix him and it’s cringey that I’m even thinking about it.

Nevertheless, he continued to wonder if those positions were even still open. Or if Atsumu had gotten over himself? Kiyoomi doubted it, but… 

He didn’t particularly know if he understood Atsumu any better now than he did back then.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · · 

After some amount of time where Atsumu rolled all over the bed like a dog, making thirst traps and taking selfies for Instagram, and where Kiyoomi took an uncomfortable shower before phoning his cousin over and over fruitlessly again, Yukie and Hitoka called them both.

It was close to noon so they were asking Kiyoomi and Atsumu to lunch.

They would have to play their cards right. Their best bet was waiting for Yukie to leave the table, then either asking Hitoka for Motoya’s room number or for another set of key cards. Kiyoomi didn’t want to rely on the possibility that Motoya would wake before nighttime or even that either of them would see him. 

Because what would happen if Kiyoomi and Atsumu didn’t see Motoya before it was time to go to sleep and they were forced to share a hotel room, share a bed?

No, it was much better to just ask Hitoka.

What if Motoya messed with the cards on purpose? said a voice in Kiyoomi’s mind. What if when we ask him for the other pair of cards, he withholds them?

“Hey,” he said to Atsumu, as they made their way down to the restaurant on the ground level. “I don’t know if we’ll see my cousin before it’s time to go to bed.” And I don’t know if he’d even give us the other key cards or if he’d be thinking the same thing as Yukie. “So we should just ask Yachi for new cards. We won’t ask her for my cousin’s room number. We’ll just ask her to get us new key cards.”

“In that case, we’ll also have to somehow get Yukie to leave the table,” Atsumu said.

“Right. We can only rely on Yachi.”

If Yukie somehow found out for whatever reason that Kiyoomi and Atsumu were in a situation where they had to not only share hotel rooms, but also share a bed, her devious ass would never give them the cards. Kiyoomi could see her impish smirk in his mind’s eye. 

First, she’d manipulated him into doing this tour in the first place. Then, she’d manipulated him into letting Atsumu live with him. To be honest, Kiyoomi was just feeling a little grateful she hadn’t made them share hotel rooms and share beds to begin with. 

If she’d made something up about budgets or hotel availability during the holidays and had forced Kiyoomi and Atsumu to share, well, they couldn’t really say anything about that, could they?

Kiyoomi also wasn't totally convinced that Motoya wouldn't screw him over either. In fact, Kiyoomi also didn’t even know if his cousin had given him the wrong set of cards on purpose or not. 

But given his comments that were similar to Yukie’s, about hate-fucking and whatnot, he was willing to bet that Motoya wasn't all that innocent.

I don’t understand Twitter’s obsession with whether Atsumu and I have had sex or not, he thought to himself, as his face heated. Kiyoomi clenched his jaw. Whatever.

Yukie and Hitoka were seated at a square table in the cafe, by a window and bookshelf. Outside, the sky was a light, greyish shade of blue. They waved Atsumu and Kiyoomi over.

At the table, they’d already ordered a croque monsieur, a crêpes Suzette, and an almond croissant dusted with powdered sugar and a bowl of hot cocoa.

“Hi, guys,” Yukie mumbled between bites of the cheesy sandwich. 

“We’re going to get lunch, then we’re going to go practice,” Hitoka said, dipping a piece of pastry into the chocolatey liquid.

Atsumu and Kiyoomi exchanged glances. Kiyoomi had momentarily forgotten how much Yukie liked to eat. And France was kind of known for its good cuisine. Perhaps it would be harder to get her away from the table than they’d originally thought.

“If we can’t get Yachi alone during lunch, that’s alright. Remember: we just have to do it before nighttime,” Kiyoomi muttered to Atsumu, as they both sat down. 

“Got it.”

Funny how this was the most they’d ever cooperated, and it was so that they wouldn't have to share a hotel room and bed together.

In the back, back, back of Kiyoomi’s head, a piece of him wondered what it would be like to take Atsumu to bed, feeling his warm body pressed against Kiyoomi’s own.

Stop that, a more rational voice chided. What the fuck?

The question of whether or not Kiyoomi himself was attracted to Atsumu came back to the forefront of his mind. Kiyoomi tried chasing the question off, like an old grandma driving rambunctious teens away from her lawn, shotgun in hand.

Kiyoomi ordered a tisane and a fish stew. Atsumu ordered a slice of quiche, a chocolate soufflé, a mini rhubarb tart, and an onion soup. In the time it took for their food to arrive, Atsumu and Yukie also managed to finish the rest of the crêpes. 

Yukie also ordered more dessert and showed no indication that she was planning on leaving the table—to use the bathroom or to wash her hands—any time soon.

He sipped his tea. It was herbaceous and floral and a little bit spicy. Kiyoomi wondered again if it were possible Yukie and Hitoka had only gotten them one room and one bed. The odds seemed fairly low, but Yukie had said because of the holidays, it had been hard to find availability. 

Maybe this had been intentional. Perhaps she’d merely waited this long so Kiyoomi’s guard would be down, so he would think it was a mistake.

I even said it myself, that she could make some bullshit up about budgets or hotel availability during the holidays to get me and Atsumu to share a room and a bed, and we’d have now way of calling her out for lying, he thought to himself, as he ate a spoonful of bouillabaisse.

The other part of Kiyoomi’s mind—the part that was probably responsible for the previous subconscious desire to kiss Atsumu; that constantly asked if Kiyoomi was attracted to him; that asked if they shared a room, what the worst that could happen—wondered once again how Atsumu would look while he was asleep, when his gold hair was sprawled over a white pillow and his face was peaceful.

Kiyoomi found he was staring at Atsumu’s lips, which were wrapped around a bright red strawberry, and ripped his gaze away, his face burning like lava. 

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · · 

During practice, Yukie and Hitoka were never separated. Even when Atsumu tried to talk to Yukie alone, to divert her attention, to get her away from Hitoka, they were still together.

Motoya still wouldn't pick up his phone. He likely hadn’t awoken yet.

It had gotten to the point where they had finished their show and night had fallen. Atsumu, Kiyoomi, Yukie, and Hitoka were on their way back to the hotel. Yukie and Hitoka were by the front, conversing, and Kiyoomi and Atsumu were exchanging worried glances.

“How the hell are we supposed to get them alone?” Kiyoomi asked. “Short of telling Yukie to leave, what can we do?”

“Why can’t I just tell Hitoka I need to talk to her alone?” Atsumu said.

“It’s suspicious.”

Atsumu raised a brow. “It’s suspicious that I’d want to talk to my manager alone?” 

“Yes. Kind of. I don’t know.” 

“Try callin’ yer cousin again.”

“I called him ten minutes ago. He didn’t pick up.” Kiyoomi grumbled, “We still have time. Let’s wait for a better opportunity.”

Alas, there was no better opportunity.

The second they got back to the hotel, Yukie and Hitoka headed towards the spa. Kiyoomi shot Atsumu a panicked look.

“Uh—Hitoka!”

Both women turned.

“What’s up?”

“Er…” Atsumu scratched the back of his head. “Can I talk to you?”

“Can it wait?” Yukie said.

“Yeah, you can just tell me tomorrow, Atsumu!” Yukie and Hitoka both began walking back towards the spa. Hitoka rubbed her neck. “I need a massage. These knots in my shoulders are killing me.”

“No—no, can it—”

They disappeared beyond the doors of the spa.

Kiyoomi and Atsumu traded panicked looks. Atsumu darted to the lady standing in front of the doors and, reluctantly, Kiyoomi followed.

“Hi, um, can we…” Atsumu pointed. “Is it—uh…”

“Bonsoir, messieurs. May I please get a name or room number for your appointment?” she asked. 

Again, they stared at each other.

“We don’t have an appointment,” Kiyoomi said.

“Désolée, messieurs. We don’t do walk-ins.”

“No, no. We don’t want a massage or anythin’ like that.” Atsumu waved a hand. “The two women who just walked in. We need to talk to them.”

“You may wait until after they are done,” the woman said. 

She greeted the couple behind them in line, and Kiyoomi and Atsumu stepped aside to let them pass.

“This is yer fault,” Atsumu snapped under his breath.

“What?” Kiyoomi scowled. “How is this my fault?”

“I don’t know. But I’m blamin’ you anyway.”

“That’s stupid.”

“We should have gotten Hitoka alone while we had the chance.”

“How could you have done that without raising suspicion?”

He sighed.

“Hi, excuse me, madam? Ma’am?” Kiyoomi said, unsure of what the French word for Ms was. “I was just wondering, when will those two women be done? We—we really need to talk to them.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot disclose that information for safety reasons.”

Atsumu clucked his tongue in irritation, but, frankly, Kiyoomi was a little glad the hotel wasn't just giving away information about women to stranger men.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is this urgent matter that is so pressing you must discuss it right now?” the woman said. “If it’s an issue the hotel can fix, you may ask the front desk.”

Kiyoomi’s and Atsumu’s head swivelled to gape at each other.

“Let’s ask the front desk!”

“Right, the rooms are probably booked either under Hitoka’s name or Yukie’s,” Atsumu said and started heading towards the front desk, Kiyoomi following suit.

At the front desk, a man greeted them in French.

“Hey, hi, uh, bonjour, we were wondering if we could get spare key cards? We, um, we lost one of ours,” Kiyoomi lied, though he didn’t think it exactly constituted an untruth. 

“The rooms are either under the name Yachi Hitoka or Shirofuku Yukie,” Atsumu added. “I’m… not sure which.”

“Of course,” the man said, checking his tablet. “However, I recall it was two women who had checked in this morning. Not two men…”

Damn this hotel and their regard for women’s safety, Kiyoomi thought to himself. Needless to say, they’re not just going to hand out the key cards of women’s rooms to random men who ask for them.

“They’re our managers,” Atsumu said cheerfully. “We’re with them.”

“Alright… And can you tell me which room you need a copy key card for?” he asked expectantly.

“Not—not room ten fourteen,” Kiyoomi offered. “The other room?”

The man stared.

“Look, we’re with them. I swear,” Kiyoomi said, showing the man the key card for room ten fourteen. “We just lost the other key card and we need a copy.”

“There should be four rooms, right?” Atsumu interjected. “One of them is ten fourteen, right?”

“Yes,” the man said slowly, “but my question was: which room do you need another copy of the key card for?”

“We don’t know the room number,” Atsumu said. “There should be three rooms for one person and one room for two people. We just need the key cards for the other two rooms for one person.” 

“Are there any other hotel rooms? I have my credit card on me. I’ll pay for another room. It’s fine,” Kiyoomi said.

“Unfortunately, due to the holidays, we don’t have any vacancies. All our rooms are booked and unavailable,” the man replied.

“Do you have any couch beds or anything like that?”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t.”

“Can you please just give us the cards for the other rooms?” Atsumu demanded, sounding exasperated. 

When the man said something to himself in French, looking equally annoyed, Kiyoomi caught his gaze darting to the two security guards standing by the front of the lobby door.

“Shit, Atsumu—” Kiyoomi pulled hard on his arm, jerking his chin towards the pair of security guards. “Let’s—I’ll try calling my cousin again. Let’s just make sure we don’t get thrown out of the hotel.”

“What—” Atsumu followed Kiyoomi’s gaze. “Fuck.” As Kiyoomi tried dialing his cousin’s number again, Atsumu patted Kiyoomi’s shoulder and said, “Well, while you sort this whole thing out, I’m gonna go shower. Then I’m gonna go to sleep. Good luck.”

“Hey—woah. No. That’s not fair,” Kiyoomi said, scowling. “That’s my room.”

“No, it’s not.” Atsumu put a hand on his hip. “How is that yer room? Didn’t ya say I could have it?”

“That was earlier. Now I want my room back.”

“It wasn't yers to begin with,” he snapped, making his way towards the elevator.

“Actually, my cousin gave me the key card.”

“Okay? Then you gave me a key card so I have one too.” Kiyoomi struggled to follow Atsumu’s brisk pace. “And it’s not like you can take it away from me. So I’m goin’ to go shower and then I’m goin’ to go to sleep.”

“Well—what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Wait around for Yukie or Hitoka?” Atsumu suggested. “Call yer cousin till he picks up? Sleep on the floor? I don’t know.”

“Oh, I am not sleeping on the floor. Why don’t you sleep on the floor?”

Kiyoomi followed Atsumu onto the elevator.

“I don’t wanna sleep on the floor.”

“What makes you think I want to sleep on the floor?” Kiyoomi snapped.

“I don’t care where ya sleep, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu said pleasantly, pressing a button. “I don’t care at all. I will be sleepin’ on the bed. If yer so bothered by me, then you can sleep on the floor. It’s not like you can kick me out. So I will be sleepin’ on the bed and you can figure out what yer plannin’ on doin’ by yerself. 

“Besides, this is all yer fault. You should have let me talk to Hitoka alone before we got into this whole mess.”

“You’re fucking annoying,” Kiyoomi said.

“Wah, wah.”

“You’re sleeping on the floor.”

Atsumu laughed. “No, I’m not. I’m sleepin’ on the bed.”

“Look, this isn’t even my fault. If it got around to Yukie that we only had one key card, she definitely would make sure we didn’t get our hands on the other. You know that,” Kiyoomi explained, “I was right to hold back. It would have been too suspicious otherwise.”

“So what I’m hearin’ is that we would have ended up at square one anyway, but you think it’s better we didn’t even give talking to Hitoka a try?” Atsumu snorted. “Wow. That’s some real sound logic ya got there, Omi-Omi. Makes me wonder how ya even got into a place like Harvard in the first place.”

Kiyoomi was about to retort.

He remembers I went to Harvard? said a bashful voice in his head. Wait—not the point.

“We did try,” he argued. “We just didn’t have a proper opportunity. And I scored perfectly on my SATs, I will have you know. I’m very intelligent.”

“Sure.”

“Ugh, why am I even trying to explain myself to you,” Kiyoomi muttered to himself. “What is wrong with me?” 

“Have a wonderful evening,” Atsumu sang, as the elevator doors opened.

“Hey, no—come back here!” As Atsumu started making his way towards room ten fourteen, Kiyoomi followed, struggling to keep up despite having longer legs. “Seriously, Atsumu, hold on.”

Fuck, am I really going to have to share a bed with him? he thought to himself, as he dialed his cousin. 

When Motoya didn’t pick up, he tried calling Hitoka’s number, then even tried calling Yukie. None of them picked up and they all went straight to voicemail.

“I refuse to sleep on the fucking floor.”

“Okay? Then don’t.”

His pace slowed a little. 

What the hell is that supposed to mean? said the voice in his head, wishing he could give some sort of cocky retort, like something egotistical and narcissistic Atsumu would say.

But Kiyoomi wasn't like that. Not only did he fail to think of a comeback, he also didn’t have the audacity to say it, even if he had.

Is he inviting me to bed?

If the roles were reversed, Atsumu probably would have made some ironic joke that he meant a lot more seriously than he let on about how most people would have killed to sleep in the same bed as him or about how everyone desired him.

Why can’t I say something like that? 

Frankly, if Kiyoomi made some sort of smooth quip like that, Atsumu probably would have laughed in his face. However, if Atsumu had said something like that, too, Kiyoomi likely would have also brushed it off like nothing. 

The difference was that Kiyoomi would have been humiliated, had his hypothetical banter backfired—because he was prickly and defensive—whereas Atsumu would have taken it in stride—because he was a cocky piece of shit who acted like he was the hottest person to walk the earth, even if it were maybe a little tiny bit true.

Perhaps not caring is really better than giving a fuck, Kiyoomi thought to himself. I just wish he weren’t so flippant and facetious all the time.

They reached the room.

Atsumu swiped the key card and pushed open the door. He didn’t exactly slam it in Kiyoomi’s face, but he also didn’t exactly hold it open for him to enter.

At this point, Kiyoomi began mentally preparing for the suddenly very real possibility that he would fall asleep tonight with Atsumu between the sheets next to him. He pulled off his mask and tucked it into his pocket.

His internal monologue was a mantra: fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Part of him wondered why Atsumu wasn't more adamant at the idea of Kiyoomi in bed with him, though he didn’t ask—again, because he didn’t have the courage or boldness to say such a flirtatious thing, even if it wasn't meant to be taken like that. 

Any acknowledgement of them sharing a bed would have come off that way, Kiyoomi knew.

“I’m gonna go shower,” Atsumu said, without even deigning to look Kiyoomi in the face while saying it; he merely grabbed his toiletry bag and shut the door.

He called Hitoka. No answer. Then he called his cousin. Again, nothing. As Kiyoomi’s heart was beginning to pound and the sound of water as well as Atsumu’s off-pitch singing filled the hotel room, he even tried calling Yukie, who was his last resort. 

Radio silence.

Finally, when Atsumu was done with his shower—for the duration of which, Kiyoomi merely stared out the window at the Eiffel Tower, his entire body frozen in panic and trepidation—the shower shut off and he came out of the bathroom, shrouded in steam and with a towel slung low across his hips.

Kiyoomi fully turned his body away, knowing his eyes would betray him and wander places he didn’t want them to go.

While Atsumu got dressed, Kiyoomi stayed facing the other way, and only dared look over his shoulder when he heard the click of the tableside lamp switching off. Atsumu was lying on his side beneath the fresh linen covers, eyes closed and only occupying one side of the bed.

Was he supposed to shower? He tried calling Hitoka, then Motoya, and finally Yukie. They still weren’t answering. It was close to eleven. Seriously, was his cousin actually still asleep? Were the two managers still in the process of getting massages?

Shit, balls, ass cheek on a stick, fucking fucks flying into the sun and outer space, now what the hell do I do? 

After staring self-consciously at Atsumu for a couple more seconds, just to make sure he wasn't secretly being watched by him or anything, Kiyoomi grabbed his towel, his pajamas, and his toiletry bag and headed into the washroom to bathe.

He showered as quickly as he could. Kiyoomi’s mind circled back to Atsumu as he washed the suds of soap off his skin beneath the hot water. It wasn't quite unexpected, but he kept thinking back to how he’d originally wanted to befriend Atsumu in orchestra, how he’d wanted to get Atsumu to let him in.

Then, Kiyoomi’s mind thought back to his conversation on the phone with Motoya, the day he’d gone shopping for Atsumu’s Christmas present.

Motoya had said Kiyoomi wasn't the type to half-ass anything. And he wasn't. Kiyoomi never let anything go unfinished. He was persistent and stubborn and perseverant, always going big and never going home; he never quit and he definitely never gave up.

So why had he been so quickly resigned when it came to Atsumu?

I think the better question is: why do I keep thinking of him? asked the voice in his head, as he dried off with a towel. What is it about him that draws me to him? Why can’t I just leave it alone?

Considering the fact that Atsumu was the type to constantly push people away with his passive aggressive nature and that Kiyoomi was borderline obsessive with his all-consuming need to complete his high goals, on paper it would appear that they’d be a perfect match.

Meaning every time Atsumu would try to chase him away, Kiyoomi would come running right back, right?

Once dressed, he shut the bathroom door and turned off all the big lights. Kiyoomi made his way to the left side of the bed; Atsumu was perched on the edge of the right. 

As he shut the curtains, hiding away the glow of the Eiffel Tower and fully encapsulating the hotel room in shadow, he resisted the urge to ask Atsumu if he were asleep. In fact, he refused to let himself say anything, in worry he’d say something he regretted, but obviously couldn’t take back.

Once, Kiyoomi had kept quiet in fear that he’d make a comment that went too far or that was too scathing. Now, it appeared he was fretting about the opposite. 

It was easier to speak your mind when you weren’t showing your face, when it was too dark to see, and it was easier to say things aloud that you usually wouldn't dare to otherwise. Just like how, online, people had no filter, no fear, and no shame, and their true colours would show.

Kiyoomi was scared he would get too comfortable in the darkness, say something he shouldn’t have, and have Atsumu push him away again, like he always did.

There was once a quote Kiyoomi no longer remembered in verbatim, but could be summarized as such: it was better to have spoken, as there were few words that could not be remedied, than to have died without admitting to the truth, because death was irreversible and what was too late was too late.

He climbed into the left side of the bed, trying to avoid—for the time being—any physical bodily contact with Atsumu.

I used to regret having started piano so late, Kiyoomi thought to himself. I used to always wonder how different my life would have been if I had started earlier. Could I have become more successful? Would nothing have changed? 

When Atsumu left and the tour was over and they went their separate ways, would it be as though nothing had happened? Had Atsumu made an indent in Kiyoomi’s life? 

These were the kinds of thoughts that were constantly plaguing Kiyoomi’s mind, thoughts of Atsumu, philosophical commentary on the fundamental nature of the human psyche. 

Like a swarm of bees haloing his head, they swarmed and bombarded, constantly seeking truth within the questions of which Kiyoomi did not know the answers to.

The reason why I’d convinced myself to go meet him, back in Cambridge, Massachusetts, he thought, when Motoya had wanted to go and I hadn’t… I had managed to convince myself by rationalizing the fact that I did not want to come to feel remorse later when reflecting back on that moment. 

I didn’t want to think back five, ten, maybe even thirty years later, wishing I had done something different, wishing something could have changed. I didn’t want to wish I hadn’t passed up the opportunity of meeting Atsumu, whom I had thought was so great, years later, the same way I regretted starting piano so late.

It was better to speak than to die, ultimately.

Upon speaking, it was impossible to unsay whatever words you had chosen to express. But it was easier to withdraw or retract a statement than it was to come back to life after demise, to resurrect and right all your past contrition.

Kiyoomi opened his mouth to say something.

Almost as though Atsumu were reading his mind, he said, “Omi-Omi?”

In the bed they were sharing together, Kiyoomi froze. “Yes?”

All was still.

“What is it, Atsumu?” he prompted, trying to hide the tremors in his voice that were also wracking his body.

Atsumu was quiet for a second. “Goodnight.” 

“Good—goodnight.”

In the end, though it was better to speak than to die, Kiyoomi kept his silence, for his cautious nature—that same nature that had gotten them into this situation in the first place, that had deemed it too suspicious and too dangerous for them to approach Hitoka directly earlier in the day, the nature that should have been his reason to speak instead of cowing, but for whatever reason wasn't—won out over his desire to live without regrets.

2019.12.29

The next morning, Kiyoomi woke to bright sunlight streaming through the cracks in the curtains where the cloth did not cover.

Atsumu’s head was dangerously close to his shoulder.

Over Atsumu’s face was a painted line of light, turning his thick dark brows to a lighter shade of brown. He really did look peaceful when he slept. Atsumu didn’t look obnoxious or annoying or anything like that at all. 

If truth be told, he looked youthful. Boyish and sweet and innocent rather than conniving and snide and backhanded. Kiyoomi kept scrutinizing Atsumu’s face, wondering what colour his eyes would be under the atypical winter sun. 

As his unstyled golden hair fell across his frons, he shifted, and his temple suddenly made contact with Kiyoomi’s bare bicep.

They both froze.

Kiyoomi held his breath, not daring to move, not daring to even think too loudly in case it would wake Atsumu up. 

When Atsumu repositioned himself again, his hair—which was a lot softer and a lot less… crispy than Kiyoomi would have anticipated, given the bleach and the toner and the level of high maintenance the hairstyle itself possessed, which likely would have required Atsumu get it redyed every couple weeks or so—tickled Kiyoomi’s arm.

His hair was so soft and as the nook of Atsumu’s nose and his forehead brushed against Kiyoomi, he thought to himself, Atsumu’s skin is soft too.

He clenched his jaw and clenched his fists, reprimanding himself over and over. Kiyoomi could look, at least while Atsumu appeared still to be asleep, but he most definitely could not touch. Inhaling shallowly as to not make too much noise, Kiyoomi closed his eyes. 

This felt like a test.

Perhaps Atsumu wasn't actually asleep and was merely feigning to be. Or maybe Kiyoomi was really, really losing it at this point. It was possible he was just too suspicious of a person to begin with, coming up with conspiracies at the hands of Yukie and Hitoka, although he didn’t think Yukie was below his qualms.

Atsumu rolled over and pressed his back almost completely against Kiyoomi’s side. He could feel Atsumu’s body heat emanating from him. 

At least he doesn’t sleep naked or anything like that, said a voice in his mind, which sounded the slightest bit dejected or disappointed for whatever reason. 

Kiyoomi opened his eyes, daring to glance at Atsumu. A flash of light caught by his hands, which were curled and tucked beneath his chin, and Kiyoomi realized, with a shocking start, that what was causing the flare could have been diamonds. From the bracelet he’d gotten Atsumu for Christmas.

He stirred and Kiyoomi’s eyes flew shut. Kiyoomi pretended to be asleep as Atsumu moaned and sat up, the bed groaning under his shifting weight. For a couple minutes, he shuffled around the hotel room before disappearing into the bathroom.

For some reason, Kiyoomi felt like he was about to get caught somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. 

Though this was both of their rooms, and despite the fact that they were sharing, Kiyoomi felt like a petulant child climbing the counters to find the cookie jar cabinet. He felt like if he opened his eyes, he’d be seized.

It felt like a stolen moment, the minutes Kiyoomi had been up before Atsumu, like the day he’d walked in on him playing Liebesträume—something vulnerable, a private and hidden part tucked beneath the pleats of Atsumu’s cocky exterior. 

No, Kiyoomi was more worried that if Atsumu saw he was awake, he would pick a fight. Today, due to whatever cause, he really was not interested in quarrelling. He felt as though his opportunity to speak had slipped away, too, even though Atsumu had bade him goodnight. 

You’re reading into it too much, Kiyoomi thought to himself. Like always.

After about what felt like an hour in which Kiyoomi spent with his eyes closed as though he were unconscious, Atsumu exited the bathroom.

There was more rustling. Then, there was the click and slide of the hotel door opening and closing. And then, finally, there was silence.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

Kiyoomi found Yukie and Hitoka in the cafe for breakfast. Meanwhile, Atsumu was nowhere to be seen. There were croissants and breads and bowls of fresh fruit at the table along with jars of jams, marmalades, and confitures. A pitcher of grapefruit juice and a platter of tomato tartines rested on the wooden surface as well.

When the two managers saw him approach, they pulled out a chair for him. They appeared to be the only ones at the table. 

He hated that he was wondering where Atsumu had gone and whether he was out trysting with some dainty French lady. It was none of his business, but it made him scowl for whatever reason nonetheless.

“Good morning,” Yukie said, with her mouth full, as she picked apart a palmier cookie with her bare hands, the sweet and sticky glaze clinging to her fingers. Kiyoomi cringed. “Have some food.”

Hitoka crushed her mille-feuille custard beneath the tines of a fork, the pudding oozing out from between the sheets of flaky pastry. “What was it that you wanted to talk about yesterday?”

Ah, he thought to himself, exhaling uncomfortably. 

Though it was too early in the morning for Kiyoomi to have had an appetite and though he was candidly feeling a little queasy, he slathered a scone with butter and took a large bite so he wouldn't have to respond.

Yesterday, he had wanted to talk about the fact that Motoya had possibly mistakenly given Kiyoomi the key cards to only one room, which also happened to have had only one bed. 

Speaking of his cousin, Kiyoomi should try calling him again. Except he’d have to do it after leaving the table or while Yukie wasn't present or something.

Today, currently, Kiyoomi was more concerned with Atsumu’s whereabouts and the fact that they’d shared a bed together. He didn’t intend on bringing it up, though, and didn’t know if he wanted to try to get Hitoka alone so he could get the other key cards from her.

From beneath the table, Kiyoomi sent his cousin a text that read, ‘Where are you? I’ve been spam calling you since yesterday.’

He waited a couple minutes, where Yukie kept eating, Hitoka sipped at an Earl Grey latte, and he continued forcing down food so he wouldn't be questioned by the managers. Motoya didn’t reply.

“Hey, does one of you happen to know where my cousin is? I called him yesterday and he didn’t pick up and even now, he’s not returning my calls or texts or anything,” Kiyoomi said, since he figured it was okay to inquire about a family member even if his interest lied in Atsumu.

“Oh, he’s probably at rehearsal,” Yukie mumbled, her speech garbled by toast.

“Rehearsal?” 

“For the octet?” Hitoka reminded.

“Yes. Right…” Kiyoomi said, as he scratched the back of his neck.

Motoya was practicing with the octet and so was Atsumu. At this point in time, Kiyoomi kind of realized how little he mattered to Atsumu, how insignificant he probably was. While Atsumu occupied Kiyoomi’s thoughts almost ninety-nine percent of the time, Atsumu most likely never thought twice about him.

He realized how little Atsumu’s life revolved around him, whereas Kiyoomi had been idolizing Atsumu for years, watching him on television, looking up to him, listening to his recordings on vinyl, getting on that mental carousel that led nowhere yet was never static and never-ending.

Kiyoomi felt small. 

It was the same way he felt when, as a kid, he would watch those Youtube videos about how inconsequential the earth was in comparison to the sun, then about how inconsequential the sun was in comparison to the solar system or the Milky Way, and so on and so on.

In comparison to Atsumu, he was so meaningless, so less great. Like Nannerl Mozart, forever known as the other one. Not the first one called to mind when talking about the great Austrian composers, but the afterthought.

Besides, it was different with Motoya. They weren’t rivals and they didn’t even play the same instrument. Motoya had even switched, when they were children, from piano to the cello because he thought Kiyoomi was doing better than him at it despite having started second. 

Obviously, Kiyoomi was glad to know his cousin was alright in such a large foreign city like Paris, even though he had never actually been concerned that Motoya was in any actual danger to begin with…

But with Atsumu, it was just another reminder of what they were and what they would always be: the cocky veteran who liked showing off, who always wanted to be ahead, and who didn’t care about what anyone thought.

And the cautious parvenu who found beauty in interpretation, who couldn’t sort out his conflicting feelings, and who was anything but monumental.

Like Yukie had said, all those months ago, Kiyoomi was in Atsumu’s shadow, forever eclipsed. 

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

They didn’t have a show to perform that night so Kiyoomi spent the day feeling like shit; he was nauseous from having forced himself to eat so much at such an early hour and he still felt a little jaded at the revelation he’d had at breakfast.

In the end, he and Atsumu would always be, and would always be reduced to, the idol and the idolizer. The beloved soloist and the fanboying arriviste, the darling of the classical community and the fanatic mentee. 

Anything but equals. 

Plus, even if they were equals, Atsumu probably still wouldn't care about him. That was just his nature, no? 

He spent most of the day in their hotel room, but steering clear of the bed, on the off chance there would still be some residual scent of Atsumu’s cologne or his shampoo lingering within the white sheets. 

Not that Kiyoomi was likely to recognize what Atsumu smelled like anyway. Kiyoomi had never given that any thought. Maybe Atsumu didn’t even wear cologne or anything. 

Yukie tended to smell like vanilla and cinnamon and sweets, Hitoka smelled like bergamot and citrus perfume, and Motoya still used the eau de toilette one of his ex-girlfriends got him for his birthday one year.

Kiyoomi was stuck for a couple hours wishing simultaneously and halfway that he were home in Britain, where everything was quiet and still and he could play away at his Bösendorfer for hours, but also that he were in the countryside of Tokyo, Japan.

For whatever odd reason, he was feeling reminiscent of his parents’ manor and the dusty old music room he’d first tinkered in. Kiyoomi had grown up in that house and he’d passed so many hot, listless afternoons in that house.

Now, though, he was passing his time in a hotel room in Paris, twiddling his thumbs. He hadn’t wanted to go shopping with Yukie and Hitoka, and he didn’t want to make TikToks or take pictures of himself as Atsumu probably would have done to entertain himself.

Eventually, the sky darkened and the sun set and Kiyoomi ordered room service for dinner. He hadn’t tried contacting his cousin or the managers regarding the issue of the missing key cards again. Kiyoomi simply got ready for bed, and lied down with his eyes closed and the lights off.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

When Atsumu returned to their room, Kiyoomi was still pretending to be asleep. He didn’t stumble around like he was drunk, which made Kiyoomi wonder why Atsumu had been out so late.

It’s none of my business, he thought to himself. 

Quite honestly, Kiyoomi would probably throw a fit if Atsumu demanded to know his whereabouts. Except Atsumu would never care enough about him to do something like that. So maybe Kiyoomi didn’t mind the concept as much after all.

Atsumu grabbed some things from his suitcase before heading into the shower. Soon, the sounds of the water and the sounds of his off-pitch singing filled the room.

Deep down, something was perturbing Kiyoomi.

Something had changed between him and Atsumu. But he didn’t know what. Before, his feelings surrounding Atsumu were always exasperation bordering on violence. Irritation and vexation and annoyance for the platinum-haired nuisance. 

The disappointing, talented soloist who pushed people away. 

Kiyoomi had thought Atsumu as cocky and egotistical and narcissistic and obnoxious. But now that they hadn’t been speaking much recently—apart from their partly civil conversations regarding the key card mix-up and the Christmas gift exchange shenanigans—Kiyoomi felt like it was unusually quiet these days.

Did Kiyoomi… miss Atsumu? Was that weird?

No, it wasn't, he told himself. It wasn't weird at all. Life was the slightest bit more boring and bland now. Yukie was fairly mean to him, but she didn’t banter with him like Atsumu did. Atsumu had kept Kiyoomi on his toes, challenged him. 

He felt slightly jaded now. Resigned and just waiting for the tour to be over with. He wanted to be done with it. That must have been the issue, that Kiyoomi was uninterested in the tour due to the lack of dynamic Atsumu had previously provided.

However, when Kiyoomi thought of the idea of—of missing Atsumu, when he thought of that thing, that tension, that relation between them that had shifted like a modulation into a minor key or a change in colour, a dark stain tinging clear waters, it made him feel the slightest bit uneasy. 

Kiyoomi didn’t know if he liked the change. 

Or maybe I just haven’t been getting enough sleep and I’m not thinking as clearly as I used to, chided a voice in his head. So what if Atsumu and I don’t argue as much as we did before? I can’t believe I thought I missed him. What’s there to miss?

Despite this self-reassurance, Kiyoomi felt like he was kind of… fucked.

There was a lot of anxious foreboding and not a lot of sense, and Kiyoomi couldn’t quite put a name to the things he was feeling. It was like an imperfect cadence, waiting for the return to tonic, the final conclusion, the last chapter in a book, the answer that would never come. 

As Atsumu finished his shower and climbed into bed next to him, Kiyoomi felt some sort of pressure in his lungs, like there was a weight sitting on his chest, the same kind he felt in the frantic minutes before he was to perform, premonition.

2019.12.30

The next morning, when Kiyoomi woke up, Atsumu was gone again. He assumed it was for octet rehearsals, but couldn’t help and wonder if Atsumu had finally gone to Hitoka to sort the mess about their rooms out.

Kiyoomi sat up, glancing around quickly. 

Both of their suitcases were still in the room. Some tension slipped from his shoulders. He reached a tentative hand over to the side that Atsumu had slept on, feeling for warmth or any sign of when Atsumu had left. The side of the bed that belonged to Atsumu was cool to the touch; he must have left a while ago.

Outside, a harsh and belligerent rain rapped against the glass of the window.

Tonight, they had a show and when Kiyoomi got down to the cafe to have breakfast with Yukie and Hitoka, Atsumu was absent from the table and the two managers had only saved one seat, which he assumed was for him.

He sat down, and filled a mug with coffee and creamer. Yukie and Hitoka were dipping croissants into bowls of hot chocolate and whipped cream. They were chatting about something and Kiyoomi didn’t even bother wondering if he should try to bring up the whole hotel mix-up. 

It wasn't like Atsumu was ever around anyway. 

Perhaps that was his solution, his show of distaste for having to share with Kiyoomi, avoiding him and staying out as late as possible. 

Besides, their last day in Paris was tomorrow. 

Succeeding that, they would fly out to London and perform another week’s worth of shows before the tour was finally over. Kiyoomi knew it would feel like the end of an era, like graduating high school, where you were leaving so much behind, but also signalling the start of a new beginning.

After breakfast, Yukie and Hitoka went to go explore the city, to go shopping, and to visit touristy bakeries and the favourite restaurants of locals. Kiyoomi didn’t particularly feel like going so he went back up to his hotel room to kill the time however he’d managed to the day before.

Ten minutes before they were supposed to meet in the lobby to head to the venue to set up and prepare for their show, Atsumu returned.

When the door had opened, at first, Kiyoomi had thought it was housekeeping so he’d closed his book and made to vacate the room. But when Atsumu walked in, his hair damp and with a sopping coat draped around his wet shoulders, Kiyoomi froze.

For a second, they merely stared at each other.

Then, Kiyoomi went back to reading, his face heating all the way to the tips of his ears. He hoped he wasn't visibly red. Atsumu grabbed a change of clothes and headed into the bathroom. The silence was deafening to Kiyoomi’s ears.

While Atsumu was in the bathroom, Kiyoomi debated just heading down to the lobby to avoid Atsumu altogether. 

Before he could decide, Atsumu came out, towelling his hair. Kiyoomi stared at his book without seeing the words or registering the sentences in his head. He shifted to the edge of his side of the bed as Atsumu sat too to put on his shoes. 

Kiyoomi snuck a glance at Atsumu over his shoulder to find he was already being stared at.

“What?” he said, his face burning even hotter.

“Did someone die or something?” Atsumu said.

“I’m sorry?”

“What’s goin’ on with you? Yer actin’ all shifty, like there’s some news ya don’t wanna break to me. I don’t fuckin’ bite. I mean, unless ya want me to.”

“Huh?” Kiyoomi shook his head, trying to process. “What—what are you talking about? No one’s dead. Everything’s fine,” he said, even if it weren’t true. “What?”

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I just dunno why yer ignorin’ me like I did something or like something bad happened. Yer actin’ all weird. That’s all I’m saying.”

He thinks I’m ignoring him? He’s the one who’s never here, Kiyoomi thought to himself, scowling, though he didn’t say anything in worry he would unintentionally pick a fight.

This was the first conversation they’d had in what felt like a week. It felt odd and unnatural, and perhaps as a result of that, Kiyoomi was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to… make up? Atsumu sounded irritated because he thought Kiyoomi had been avoiding him, when really it had been the opposite.

He wanted to make up for the opportunity he’d missed, the first night they’d shared a goddamn bed together, where Kiyoomi had wanted to say something, but Atsumu had told him goodnight and he’d chickened out.

There was a pit in his stomach and a weight on his chest.

“Hey, look…” Kiyoomi started, putting his book down and turning to face Atsumu. “Um, this might be kind of bad or weird timing since we only have, like, a week left of this tour, but…” He struggled to find words and cleared his throat to buy time. “I know we haven’t always gotten along and we got off to a rocky start, but let’s just make up. For real this time.

“The managers were right when they said all of our bickering was immature and…” His voice trailed off. And what? They were almost at the end of the tour. Would there even be a point in trying to make up? Soon enough, they would go their separate ways anyway. Atsumu had no reason to care or try to get on good terms with Kiyoomi. “Let’s just try to get along for—for the rest of it. Alright?”

Though his gaze was fixated on the wall, he could still tell Atsumu was watching him, and could feel his hazel eyes piercing into his soul.

“Sure,” he said, his voice imperceptible. 

Kiyoomi half expected some sort of rebuttal, even if it were desultory. He expected Atsumu to act out or say something rude instead of half-heartedly giving Kiyoomi acquiescence.

As Atsumu grabbed the suit he’d wear tonight from the closet, Kiyoomi felt the weight on his chest shift. It was still there, albeit it was now tinted with—not hope, because that was too strong of a word—but anticipation.

You could lead an Atsumu to water, but you couldn’t force him not to push you away. Or drink the water? Whatever. However the horse metaphor went. Kiyoomi had done his part. He’d extended the olive branch. It was up to Atsumu to accept it.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

That night, after finishing up the last of their repertoire, in the concert hall of the Philharmonie, Atsumu said to him, in a low voice, not that anybody would hear him over the din of applause, “Do you wanna play an encore?” 

For a long second, Kiyoomi merely stared, registering the question, unable to process what Atsumu had just asked. “I—I do, yes.”

This was the horse—Atsumu—drinking the water. Or whatever the nicer-sounding metaphor was. He was accepting the olive branch and extending one of his own.

So that night, during their second last performance in Paris, Kiyoomi performed Lizst’s third Liebesträume for the audience, but also for Atsumu.

Once, Atsumu had played Liebesträume and Kiyoomi had walked in on him, had felt like a piece that had belonged to Kiyoomi had been thieved by Atsumu, that they had switched identities. 

The cocky veteran who liked showing off, who always wanted to be ahead, and who didn’t care about what anyone thought, only because he couldn’t afford to. 

And the cautious parvenu who found beauty in interpretation, who couldn’t sort out his conflicting feelings, and who was anything but monumental, and who was now taking back that piece of himself.

Liebesträume—and this dream of love—was his.

After that show, when they’d gone backstage to meet with the managers, Yukie crossed her arms, smirking, and said, “Nice show,” which was the first ever compliment she’d ever given them.

In that moment, Kiyoomi definitely thought Yukie had intended from the start for him and Atsumu to share a hotel room, and a hotel bed, together. She didn’t allude to it, though, and merely glanced at Hitoka.

“It really was a good show tonight, guys,” Hitoka said. “Seriously, I think there’s something different in the air.”

I think so too, Kiyoomi thought to himself, as he chanced a glance at Atsumu.

He was surprisingly, and suspiciously, quiet tonight. Suspiciously compliant and good-natured and pleasant. It made Kiyoomi wonder if it were again some spell that was soon bound to break. 

Kiyoomi didn’t want the spell to break; he didn’t want for them to regress, and for Atsumu to start picking fights and pushing people away, even if Kiyoomi would have preferred that to nothing, to radio silence.

What he wanted was for this tentative pressure to build until there was deliverance. Like the whisper of a caress blossoming into eventual release. He wanted for Atsumu to continue being agreeable, albeit it was a hesitant congeniality, and see where it went.

Tonight, Kiyoomi wanted to test the waters and see just how far deep he could swim.

“We’re going to leave you two to it,” said Yukie, seeming to have read Kiyoomi’s mind, “so me and Hitoka are going to go get dinner, and we’re going to have some, uh, girl time.”

Hitoka raised a brow, but she didn’t object.

Once they left, Kiyoomi swallowed hard, glancing over his shoulder at Atsumu who was loosening the hair of his bow. “Let’s—you want to walk back to the hotel together?”

Atsumu seemed to deliberate for a second, turning his blond head this way and that, before saying, “Sure.”

It was a boring, one-word response. But it was better than a simpering or back-handed comment and it was definitely better than nothing at all.

“If you want, I’ll hold your violin,” Kiyoomi offered, as Atsumu shrugged on his coat.

His change in expression was miniscule, but Kiyoomi still caught him frowning a little bit. “Okay,” he said though and handed Kiyoomi the decorated case of his Strad, stickers pinned against the dark fabric.

They left the building side by side and Kiyoomi carried Atsumu’s violin with his left hand so that, on the off chance that he wanted to, Atsumu could hold his right.

Outside, it was snowing slightly, the overall weather still warm enough that there wasn't a cushion of white on the ground and that the flakes melted the second they touched the asphalt. Specks of ice caught in Atsumu’s lashes and hair, dampening the strands.

Though they weren’t fighting, and though they weren’t talking, Kiyoomi still felt alright, the pressure on his chest alleviated, though only slightly. He and Atsumu walked a couple feet away from each other, and, as they crossed the parking lot, Kiyoomi tried to stand a little closer.

He noticed, with a jolt, that Atsumu was humming; Atsumu was humming the main theme to Liszt’s third Liebesträume. And he was doing it on pitch. Kiyoomi found this hysterical, since Atsumu’s shower singing was usually violently atonal. 

The expression on Atsumu’s face was peaceful. Neutral, but not in that passive aggressively cold way that meant his cool exterior, his walls, that cocky facade of his, was up.

Like he did when he was asleep, Atsumu looked boyish and youthful, like the innocent twenty-four-year-old he was.

As they left the Cité de la Musique, the number of stolen glances Kiyoomi kept sneaking at Atsumu increased. They still weren’t talking and the air around them, their still little bubble frozen in space and time, was serene. Almost picturesque, like a quiet, motionless lake.

Light from the street lamps turned Atsumu’s golden eyes tawny and his hair was endearingly limp, flopping over his forehead, damp from the lightly hitherto-falling snow.

Speak or die, said a voice in his mind. It is better to speak than to die wishing you had spoken all those years ago.

Kiyoomi and Atsumu neared the Seine, and the thicket of people grew denser. There was more noise and more throngs of tourists, which caused Kiyoomi to put on a mask and draw closer to Atsumu.

Right before they were about to cross the bridge, Kiyoomi gently brushed his fingers against Atsumu’s hand, an offer and a precariously hopeful desire, asking, “Can—can I hold your hand?”

Atsumu turned to him and stared.

They were standing so close together now. Kiyoomi bet Atsumu could probably feel the heat on his face, emanating down his neck and up to the tip of his ears. 

The crowds amassed on the bridge, the Americans taking photos and the families looking wondrously into the river, swept up against the two, causing them to press closer together.

After what felt like ten years and what felt like would certainly take off Kiyoomi’s life ten years, Atsumu interlaced his fingers with Kiyoomi’s and, without a word, kept walking, pulling Kiyoomi along and across the Pont d’Iéna.

When they made it back to the hotel, Yukie and Hitoka were nowhere to be found. Nobody glanced their way and they continued surreptitiously holding hands.

Against his, Atsumu’s palm was warm, the very tips of his fingers slightly calloused, likely from pressing down against hard violin strings. The rest of his skin was soft and when Kiyoomi brushed his thumb across Atsumu’s knuckles, he could have sworn Atsumu shivered and not from the cold. 

Kiyoomi and Atsumu padded down the corridor after stepping out of the elevator onto their floor, and made their way to room ten fourteen.

With his free hand, Atsumu swiped his key card and pushed open the door. 

This is driving me crazy, Kiyoomi thought to himself. I can’t.

Atsumu was about to turn on the lights and shut the door, but Kiyoomi pulled off his mask, dropped his Strad—which in retrospect, was an incredibly bad and disrespectful decision to make—pressed him against the door, grabbed him by the face, and kissed him hard. 

Immediately, Atsumu cried out in shock. Yet surprisingly, he didn’t shove Kiyoomi off or make any attempts to stop him.

In fact, Atsumu kissed him back.

Finally, finally, finally, finally, finally, chanted a voice in Kiyoomi’s head.

This must have been what he’d wanted, what he’d wanted for a while, even back in Berlin, when Kiyoomi had subconciously tried to kiss Atsumu. 

It was the culmination of his desire, the apotheosis, the mount to the zenith, whose start dated back to that day in the grotto, where Atsumu had been half-naked and beautiful, floating on his back, his hair fanning out in a golden halo around him, or maybe even before that.

He pushed off Atsumu’s heavy winter coat, which thudded loudly to the floor along with his own. Then, the jacket of Atsumu’s suit followed and Kiyoomi’s hands found the lapels of Atsumu’s shirt. 

Kiyoomi grabbed tight, white-knuckled, pulling Atsumu towards him so their chests were pressed flush against each other. Their hips ground against each other and they both had one of their thighs between the other’s legs.

Meanwhile, Atsumu was undressing Kiyoomi in a similar frantic fashion, the pads of his scarred fingers pressing hotly into the skin of Kiyoomi’s hips—Atsumu was pulling Kiyoomi’s shirt from his pants, messily untucking it—and gripping his waist with rigor.

They kept their parted lips pressed close together, open and hot, as they went, their difference in height—two bow’s breadths, roughly—reintroducing itself. 

He sighed into Atsumu’s mouth.

While Atsumu’s lips attached themselves to his throat, Kiyoomi gasped for air. He craned his head back to allow access, red and purple marks, like the petals of a blooming verbena flower, blossoming across his neck.

His hands, gripping Atsumu’s starched collar, began undoing the buttons of his blouse, one by one, slowly unclothing Atsumu’s chest, revealing the pale gold skin beneath his white shirt. The process was long and arduously difficult since his fingers were trembling as they struggled. 

The hotel room around him, the rest of the world itself, seemed to spin, like Kiyoomi’s knees would give out any second, like he was in some dizzying fever dream he didn’t want to wake from. His face was hot, his skin was hot, everything felt like a summer eve, balmy and warm and pyretic.

When Atsumu slowed, his lips kissed lines across the column of Kiyoomi’s throat languorously, his teeth gently grazing over the bump of his Adam’s apple, feeling the vibrations of a low moan reverberate.

Kiyoomi’s slender pianist hands, long and pale and skeletal, learned the shape of Atsumu’s narrow waist the second Atsumu’s shirt hit the ground, exploring, following the descending route that led to his hip bones. He engraved the feel of Atsumu into his memory, every curve and sensation, every line and edge.

Atsumu’s body was a liquor Kiyoomi wanted to get drunk on. He was addicted; he wanted to indulge himself until he was passed out under the table, bottle in hand. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted before and it was something he wanted to kill himself with. 

They pushed off the door and traipsed their way to the bed, stumbling, the room still dark as pitch, save for the illuminating Parisian skyline visible beyond the confines of the window.

Once Atsumu was situated on the bed, Kiyoomi climbed on top of him, positioning himself on his hands and knees, his head ducked so he could press his mouth against the hollow of Atsumu’s throat. He hoped this wasn't some fantasy or dream he would wake from.

In this small pause, the possessive desperation and frantic passion subsided, shifting into something more undemanding and patient. Their hands changed from gripping hard and fast to slowly flowing motions, cascading and rising and falling, skimming like a stream of water over pebbles and stones.

Now, they had all the time in the world to create something shared and hallowed. The long moonlit hours of night were all theirs to fill selfishly with the evidence of their love-making. Both of them found their impetuosity waning until all that was left was a pounding heat that swelled between them.

Kiyoomi didn’t want this spell to break. He wanted the indefinite pressure to build, to burgeon into straining release, before finally fading away into something more chaste, more sinless. 

Less classily put, he wanted to fuck Atsumu’s brains out.

To nail him until his eyes rolled back and he was screaming, at which point Kiyoomi would wonder if he should bother trying to muffle his cries or let Atsumu wake up the rest of the hotel floor with his noises, was the goal.

Then, he wanted to fall asleep with their arms around each other.

But not only that, Kiyoomi wanted Atsumu to play him piano, perform for him and only him the beautiful sounds of pieces he thought were his. He wanted to give Atsumu that part of him, give him anything he wanted, switch their roles and identities.

There was so much he wanted. 

He wanted to see Atsumu be pleasant and agreeable, wanted to see him smile for real, wanted him to put away that cocky facade, wanted to remedy whatever damage had happened to him growing up, wanted to learn more about him, wanted so many things; there was simply so much he wanted.

As Atsumu’s hands began making small circles into Kiyoomi’s sides, with Atsumu’s lips brushing against his neck, the pads of Kiyoomi’s fingertips pressed into the uncovered skin of Atsumu’s collarbones, so tantalizingly bare.

The scents of winter, snow, sweat, arousal, and lust; the taste of salt and skin; the sight of gold hair and tanned skin offset by the white of the soft sheets, of defined muscles, of arms; the sound of Atsumu’s panting breath and pleasure—all these memories, Kiyoomi knew, would for always be ingrained into his  mind, his being, the shape of his soul, like a defining moment, something that would alter him irrevocably.

Kiyoomi discovered that Atsumu smelled of incense, jasmine, and cedarwood. It was something spicy and woodsy, camphoraceous and heady, rich and sweet. Erotic and intoxicating and sensual, but not too cloying. He hadn’t known before, hadn’t thought he would ever be able to identify Atsumu’s scent, but was now glad he could.

He kissed down Atsumu’s chest, sucked on a nipple to make him moan, then brushed his mouth along Atsumu’s ribs to make his back arch and to make him squirm. When he moved back up to kiss Atsumu’s jaw and cheek and lips, he lingered there for a long time, breathing in the scent of him.

The two of them continued to trade languid kisses in the dark privacy of their shared hotel room until they were both dripping with arousal.

Rearing up to get his shirt off, Kiyoomi pulled off Atsumu’s slacks. Atsumu lifted his hips to help. Kiyoomi nipped at Atsumu’s bottom lip before drawing back.

“I want to feel you, he said. “All this skin has been tempting me.”

In response, Atsumu spread his legs. 

One of Kiyoomi’s cold hands landed on Atsumu’s clothed hip and the other gripped around his bare thigh, pale silvery marks rippling across his gold skin, like the waves of an ocean Kiyoomi couldn’t wait to drown in. Under the pressure of Kiyoomi’s touch, Atsumu basked in the contact.

Kiyoomi moved to the foot of the bed to kiss Atsumu’s thigh, replacing the spot where his hand had been with his mouth. His hands slid to hold Atsumu’s legs open and he traced over the ripples of silver with his tongue, sucking on them. 

Atsumu shivered and sighed and rolled his hips, tilting further against Kiyoomi’s face.

Crush me, kill me, it’s alright, said a voice in Kiyoomi’s head. If this is how I die, so be it. I’m perfectly okay with that.

Only when the zipper of Kiyoomi’s pants began straining against him did he pull away.

“Roll over.”

He scoffed. “I’m not a dog, Omi-Omi.”

Because Kiyoomi didn’t want to ruin the moment, he didn’t reply; and because he didn’t know if Atsumu liked it rough, he didn’t grab him by the hips and forcibly manhandle him onto his stomach. 

“Turn around?” Kiyoomi offered, a brow raised. “Please?”

Though he rolled his eyes, he obeyed, pressing his chest against the bed and arching. Kiyoomi placed his hands against the broad expanse of Atsumu’s back, sliding his palms down the small of it, and pushed down so that Atsumu was simply lying flat on his stomach. 

Kiyoomi placed his hands on Atsumu’s shoulder blades and, delighting in the low groan he was rewarded with, rubbed at the tension there, massaging. He bent to kiss Atsumu’s spine, then continued further down the path until his hands pressed against his backside. Grabbing two handfuls, Kiyoomi squeezed hard.

His mouth lingered at the base of Atsumu’s back, his tongue trailing along the small dip near the waistband of Atsumu’s underwear. Slowly, Kiyoomi pulled it down, stripping him completely. Atsumu pushed onto his hands, raising himself off the bed a little, allowing Kiyoomi to tug the undergarment over his ankles. 

Now that Atsumu was fully undressed, Kiyoomi’s free hand massaged the planes of Atsumu’s back, grasping his waist; he was relaxed, like a house cat lazing in the sun, pliable under Kiyoomi’s deft and nimble fingers.

Before thinking better of it, Kiyoomi gave Atsumu a sharp spank.

Atsumu cried out in surprise—not in pain; Kiyoomi hadn’t hit him very hard—but didn’t object. He only moaned softly, burying his face into the crook of his elbow, making no attempt to hide the way he was grinding down against the sheets, drawing circles against the bed with his hips.

He continued slapping Atsumu again and again. The small noises, the keening whines, and the little whimpers Kiyoomi earned himself were so incredibly gratifying that he continued smacking Atsumu until the curve and swell of his ass were bright, glowing red. It brought out Kiyoomi’s inner sadist.

Honestly, it felt just the tiniest bit good to be beating Atsumu into submission, like a reward for having put up with his antics for so long. God knew there had been many times Kiyoomi had wanted to sock him in his pretty face. This entire experience was just like one big reward, really.

At last, Kiyoomi reached for the lube by the minibar, hoping Yukie and Hitoka wouldn't notice it was charged on the bill and question it.

Kiyoomi coated a hand and took his time prepping Atsumu, teasing his entrance with a single finger, drawing circles and pressing in for only half a second before slipping back out. 

Every sharp, ragged intake of breath caused Atsumu’s rib cage to expand, causing his back rise beneath Kiyoomi’s dry free hand. Every moan Atsumu let out—every sound that made him shudder, that he emitted, that he allowed to slip past his lips, that racked through his body—Kiyoomi felt resonate beneath his palm.

And Atsumu was loud.

He was so loud—his voice a hitching cry, cracking as he let his pleasure be known—that Kiyoomi debated whether or not it would be worth gagging him. It was all going to plan, he supposed. 

After Atsumu let out a particularly sad and pathetically wanton whine, a broken whisper, Kiyoomi slipped his finger for real, rubbing against his walls. 

Around his hand, Atsumu was so warm and so deliciously tight, hot and responsive to the every curl of Kiyoomi’s finger, his every change in pressure and touch. He wanted to bury himself, deep and to the hilt, inside. As Kiyoomi stretched him open unkindly with two fingers, Atsumu cried out, his voice high and lewd.

In the meantime, Kiyoomi continued to decorate Atsumu’s nape and back with a pattern of kisses, touching his lips to Atsumu’s shoulder blades and spine. Kiyoomi felt a shiver sweep through Atsumu’s body and they both trembled at the feeling.

The press of a third finger inside him was enough to make Atsumu throw his head back and keen, arching off the bed, taking pleasure in the stretch, in the spread of Kiyoomi’s long fingers. He was very glad, in this moment, that his fingers were so long, because they allowed for better reach.

Kiyoomi didn’t slow. He relentlessly continued to force open Atsumu’s body with vigor and without pause. When Kiyoomi made contact with the perfect spot, he curled his fingers, pushing against him, just to hear the sounds Atsumu produced, indecent and breathy, dirty and carnal. Atsumu was practically screaming, just like Kiyoomi had intended.

They rocked together, the pace maddeningly unhurried. Kiyoomi took his sweet time and when Atsumu pushed back against his fingers in an attempt to take him in deeper, he simply pulled his entire hand out, laughing a little.

Lucky for Atsumu, after pulling down his pants and underwear—already hard and leaking, and he was panting and flushed, his face hot—Kiyoomi lined up and pressed in.

Both of them gasped.

All of the heat and the tight, crushing pressure made Kiyoomi’s head spin, and he could barely think straight. Not that anything they had done tonight was very straight, but Kiyoomi merely stayed where he was, crammed all the way in, frozen in place.

At the very least, Atsumu was equally distracted. He had his head turned to the side, his eyes squeezed shut, and his open mouth pressed against his bicep. Atsumu was struggling for air. Kiyoomi grabbed one of his hands and threaded their fingers together, his palm pressed against Atsumu’s knuckles, and didn’t fail to note Atsumu was wearing the diamond bracelet Kiyoomi had gotten him.

Once Kiyoomi pulled himself together, leisurely, he pulled out, the slick drag making them both groan like virgins. He waited, almost too long, before thrusting back in, pressing against all the right places. The rhythm came naturally, softly and insistently, striking without recess, a percussive drumbeat.

His hands came down around Atsumu’s hips, gripping hard enough to bruise and pinning him down onto the mattress, which Atsumu rutted against, in tandem with Kiyoomi’s strokes. 

The next time Atsumu whined and threw his head back, Kiyoomi grabbed his hair, pressing his chest against Atsumu’s back. He could feel the deep moans pouring filthily from Atsumu’s parted lips now that he was no longer trying to stifle them, obscene and venereal.

All of their noises vibrated between their bodies, the sound of repetitive pounding, both of their voices rising together in a rough and unrestrained harmony, a duet like the ones they played, though this one was a lot more sybaritic and licentious. It was a low, self-indulgent symphony, composed of hedonistic moans and deep, gasping breaths.

Kiyoomi and Atsumu continued to let their arousal and pleasure build, letting it scale to a cresting apex, which they strove for with patience. 

The hand in Atsumu’s hair slipped down to rub soothing circles up and down the back of his soft, ample thighs. Then, Kiyoomi’s hand forced itself under Atsumu’s stomach, feeling it bulge as Kiyoomi filled him up then receded. 

His other hand, previously intertwined with Atsumu’s fingers, slipped quietly around Atsumu’s throat and Kiyoomi pressed his lips against the crook where Atsumu’s shoulder met his neck. Kiyoomi branded him with the burning seal of his kiss.

It took him a while to realize he was chanting Atsumu’s name.

2019.12.31

They woke up tangled together around noon, black light shafting across the bedding. Atsumu had his face buried in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck, the hints and shadows of bruises still lingering against his pale skin, and Kiyoomi’s arms were wrapped around Atsumu’s waist. 

Outside, the rain poured viciously, like heavy marbles clattering across a hard tiled floor, lightning flashing across the overcast sky. It looked like night, rich and velvet and crepuscular. 

When thunder boomed, Atsumu flinched and whimpered, his eyes screwing further shut, burrowing deeper against Kiyoomi’s bare shoulder. Hesitantly, Kiyoomi ran a hand through his fair hair, patting his back in soothing strokes.

Memories from yesterday night returned like an onslaught.

For a couple nights, they had shared a bed, but last night and this morning was the only time it had really felt like sharing. 

Atsumu shivered as Kiyoomi drew circles down the ridges of his spine, skimming across his gold skin with the pads of his fingertips, his touch surface level. Kiyoomi pressed his lips to Atsumu’s forehead as another rumble of erupting thunder exploded. 

“Are you scared of storms?” he asked softly, tentatively, like he still wasn't sure if this was a dream.

This was the first time Kiyoomi truly felt that Atsumu had let down his walls and he didn’t want it to end. 

In the order of Atsumus, in last place was the one who avoided Kiyoomi at all costs, who didn’t stick around the hotel room and who disappeared before he woke and only returned when he was asleep. It was the one Kiyoomi had become most acquainted with recently.

Third place was the Atsumu who bickered with him and fought with him and who pushed him away, because at least that was better than nothing. Second place was the Atsumu he’d caught playing Liebesträume, the Atsumu Kiyoomi had taken to the grotto.

And in first place was the person lying between Kiyoomi’s arms, shuddering at the sounds of the storm.

“I’m not scared,” Atsumu lied.

Please don’t go, thought Kiyoomi. Please stay.

Inexplicably, it would hurt him so bad if, once they got down to the lobby or to the cafe to have breakfast with Yukie and Hitoka, Atsumu started putting up his cocky facade again. 

“Let’s go dance in the rain.”

“What?” He lifted his head. “Omi-Omi, are you insane?”

“Come on.” Gently, Kiyoomi maneuvered himself out from underneath him. He realized, his face burning, he was fully naked and threw on a robe. “Let’s go.”

“No, no, I don’t wanna go out there,” Atsumu said, his statement punctuated by a roiling peal of thunder, at which he recoiled. Kiyoomi stood by the edge of the bed and Atsumu was sitting, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, blinking slowly with round eyes, his pupils swallowing the dark gold of his irises. Little love bites covered his throat and Kiyoomi blushed. “Omi-Omi, we’ll be drenched.”

“That’s alright.” Kiyoomi grabbed his hand and tugged. “It’ll be fun.” 

He whimpered again, but Kiyoomi pulled him off the bed and into his arms once more. Kiyoomi handed Atsumu a hotel robe. 

“Omi-Omi, I don’t want to,” he whispered, his eyes shining. Atsumu shook his head as another roll of thunder cracked through the sky, trembling. “I’m scared.”

“It’s alright. You don’t need to be scared. I’ve got you. Don’t you trust me?”

Atsumu paused for a second before he nodded reluctantly. A thrill shot up Kiyoomi’s spine to see that Atsumu had trust in him. 

With one arm wrapped around Atsumu’s waist, his hand drawing patterns over his hip soothingly, he worked open the balcony door. It wasn't windy, but it was so incredibly rainy that a small strip of the room’s floor instantaneously became damp.

“Come now,” Kiyoomi coaxed with a smile.

Together, they entered the showering torrents of rainfall, swaying to an invisible beat. Hell, they were musicians. They didn’t need a beat. 

Music flowed through their veins, pouring through their hearts, borne with the sounds of beauty exemplified. Atsumu was the epitome of beauty. Tears flowed from his wide hazel eyes, his lips parted, his arms quavering. 

“You really don’t like thunder, do you?” he said wryly, as they stepped onto the balcony, as Atsumu pressed the curve of his nose into Kiyoomi’s neck.

“I hate it. I hate it, Omi-Omi. And ya made me come out here so I’m wonderin’ if you hate me too.”

Kiyoomi laughed, but didn’t respond. 

I could never hate you. I thought I could, but I don’t. I never did.

He stroked Atsumu’s shivering back. If they caught colds because of this, it would be worth it, even though Kiyoomi hated being sick so, so much. 

“Today is the thirty-first,” he murmured onto the top of Atsumu’s head. “I want to kiss you tonight, when the clock strikes twelve and we leave this year and enter into the next.”

Stay and never leave. Hold me like this forever, Atsumu. Let me keep you in my arms for always.

On the balcony, beneath the pouring rain, Kiyoomi and Atsumu clung to each other, shifting from foot to foot. You could barely call it dancing, but neither of them seemed to care. Kiyoomi was enamored and he was smitten.

“Can I?”

Atsumu sniffed, pondering. “Well, since ya forced me outside durin’ a thunderstorm, I’m thinkin’ I’ll maybe say no.”

“Who are you going to kiss, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi mused, “if not me?”

Please, never kiss anyone who isn’t me. Never smile for anyone who isn’t me. Don’t perform piano, especially not my pieces, for anyone who isn’t me and don’t do anything that isn’t for me. Fuck, I’m so selfish, but I don’t even care.

Now that he had him, Kiyoomi wanted Atsumu all to himself.

Never love anyone who isn’t me.

With an aching and audible and despaired gasp, Kiyoomi realized—

He realized two things. 

The first thing: that I’m the biggest motherfucking idiot in the entire universe. I am so dense and so stupid. Because it took dancing together in the rain, in fucking Paris, for me to realize... 

The second thing: I’m in love with Atsumu.

And now he didn’t know what the hell to do about it. Given everything he knew about Atsumu, it was more than likely that he would just get pushed away.

Atsumu didn’t seem to notice the change in Kiyoomi’s demeanor.

I’m fucked. Because I’m in love with you, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Kiyoomi couldn’t. How did I not realize it sooner? How could I have been so blind before? Of course, I’m in love with you. It makes so much sense. It explains why I think of you all the time, why I despair when we’re apart, why the only thing I hate more than when we fight is when we don’t speak at all.

I love you and it makes sense and I’m so fucking oblivious, he thought to himself. It’s you. Of course, it’s fucking you. It was always you. You have always plagued my thoughts. I have always wanted you. I have always craved you. I have always ridden that carousel with you, never static, but never leading anywhere.

Was this the end destination? Realizing he was in love with Atsumu in fucking Paris while they danced in the rain? This was really the final stop? Or was this simply Kiyoomi’s opportunity to get off the merry-go-round? 

“Maybe I’ll kiss Hitoka,” Atsumu joked. “Or Yukie. Actually, I think they both have girlfriends, but I supposed I can ask if they’ll make an exception for me.”

He couldn’t confess. 

It would ruin him. Confessing would break him, kill him, shatter him into a million tiny fragmented pieces. This was a bit of information he had to keep tucked close to his heart, but could never disclose.

The less rational part of his brain asked why.

Because he doesn’t love me back, Kiyoomi thought to himself, in pain and anguish. Because he’ll push me away if I do. Because I won’t be able to live with that, live with myself. Because I won’t be able to bear it if he leaves me for real. He’ll never speak to me again. It would kill me.

Though it was better to speak than to die, speaking would mean death anyway. But what kind of life would be one lived in torment, anyway? So perhaps, on the last day of the tour, when they were destined to part ways as it was, Kiyoomi could reveal that part of himself he figured he was better off keeping in hiding.

“Kiss me this New Year’s Eve,” Kiyoomi whispered, a knife twisting in his heart. “It’s the least you can do.”

It’s the least you can do for all that you’ve done to me. I finally have you now, but it took so much. You made me hate you, you made me think I hated you, you made me love you. And I know you would never love me back. 

You could never take the burden of something like my love without breaking me into pieces, without pushing me away, without disappearing on me forever. And I would rather be with you than be without you, even if being with you is agonizing. Because it’s better than losing you entirely.

“The least I can do?” Atsumu echoed, his face raised quizzically to Kiyoomi’s.

“Yes,” he said. “You owe me a kiss.”

“What have I done to owe you a kiss?”

Everything.

“You’re not crying anymore, are you?” Kiyoomi demanded. “See, we’re dancing on the balcony in Paris and it’s raining and thundering, but you’re calm.”

“Huh.” Atsumu smiled and the glowing light hidden in Kiyoomi’s heart threatened to explode, to spill out beyond the fringes of his tall corporeal body. “I suppose I am. Thanks, Omi-Omi!”

“Exactly,” Kiyoomi said, trying to hide the tremors in his voice, the trembles racking his body and not from the sopping cold. The rain hid the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. “So you do owe me a kiss. You’re fucking welcome.”

This was killing him.

Atsumu laughed and said, “I’ll give it to ya now, then.”

No, Kiyoomi thought to himself. I don’t want you to kiss me right now. I want it later. At New Year’s when the clock strikes twelve and everybody is watching. 

That’s when Kiyoomi wanted Atsumu to kiss him, indulge him, give him the liquor he so desperately craved. Kiyoomi wanted Atsumu to give him everything, but he knew Atsumu either couldn’t or wouldn't. It was killing him.

As Atsumu leaned in and pressed their lips together, Kiyoomi closed his eyes and finally let the tears he tried to hide slip from beneath his lids, down his face, dripping off his jaw.

God, I’m so fucked, he thought to himself.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

They went from their hotel room’s balcony to the streets down below, which were drenched in water and devoid of any people. Naturally, it was because most everyone else was sane, and were staying dry and warm inside. Kiyoomi and Atsumu ran around, chasing each other in the rain. It was freeing and gratifying and wet, but that was to be expected. 

As they sprinted up and down the deserted streets, a voice yelled from one of the hotel’s windows.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Yukie screamed.

“Get inside!” Hitoka called, her hands around her mouth to amplify her voice. “You guys are going to catch a cold!”

It was true that Kiyoomi’s arms were beginning to numb. So the two of them went back inside, clambered to their rooms saturated with rainwater, and pulled their robes off. They hung them up in the closets and hopped in the shower, turning the steaming hot water all the way up, until the bathroom was a sauna.

Kiyoomi and Atsumu made out until the feeling returned to their extremities. 

Afterwards, they dressed in each other’s clothes and wore extra layers of sweaters. Kiyoomi checked his phone to see he’d missed a call from both Yukie and Hitoka, and that his cousin had texted him back. 

Since tonight was their final show in Paris—and since Motoya, like Kiyoomi and Atsumu, had been so busy recently—they were all getting dinner after the performance. 

Yukie and Hitoka told them to hurry up and get down to the cafe.

Once they were there, their managers made them drink hot herbal teas and tomato soups, scolding them for running around like that in the rain in nothing but robes.

“There’s something we should probably discuss,” Yukie said. “Recently, the Wuhan Municipal Health Commission released a briefing on its website about early signs of some pneumonia outbreak in the city. There have been cases cropping up of some respiratory disease. Supposedly, it’s a strain of SARS. 

“This isn’t the first international message, but some places have begun inbound screening procedures and these reports have dated back all the way to November.”

“The Chinese CDC called it very urgent and serious,” Hitoka added. “And back in November, it was said that there was a potential novel coronavirus pandemic.”

“So…” Atsumu waved a hand. “I’m confused. What’s this about?”

“We just thought you might want to know,” Yukia said, glancing towards Kiyoomi. 

She was right. It was something he would want to know.

“Are you suggesting we cancel the rest of the tour?” Atsumu asked.

Panic seized Kiyoomi’s heart and he said, wide-eyed, “Wait, what?”

“This seems to be the beginning of something more serious,” Yukie explained. “I have a feeling it would be better to be extra cautious before it’s too late. There’s some unknown disease spreading around East Asia, and plenty of government and health officials have started to become worried. 

“And we travel a lot. We see many, many people a day. In a concert hall, do you know how many people are gathered?” 

Thousands of people.

His heart began to pound as Yukie continued, “If you ask me, it’s better to be safe than sorry and if I’m being completely honest, it’s probably best to postpone the London shows, just until we see where this goes. 

“If it’s a false alarm, we can reschedule. I’d rather push back the dates than contract some mystery illness,” she said, glancing at Kiyoomi as if she knew he would identify with her line of thinking.

“That sounds kinda like bullshit.”

“You’ve announced it already, haven’t you?” Kiyoomi asked quietly.

Both of the managers exchanged uneasy glances.

“Well, that settles that, then,” he murmured.

“Hold on, hold on, what?” Atsumu spat. “You didn’t bother to ask us first or consult us?”

“We had a feeling you would get upset,” Hitoka said sheepishly. 

“Of course, I’m upset! Why are we scared of some alleged disease that hasn’t even been confirmed yet?”

“If it makes you feel better, tonight’s the last show,” Yukie said. “You have your octet and then we’ll be finished.”

Kiyoomi’s mind was reeling and he clawed at his hair, feeling suffocated by the mask he now didn’t dare take off. He felt his heart crack so thoroughly he couldn’t even muster a word. 

All in one day, he’d realized he’d fallen in love with Atsumu, decided to confess on the last day of the tour, then came to discover the last day was today?

The last day is today, echoed the voice in his mind. You may never see him again after this.

He felt close to passing out.

Distantly, Kiyoomi heard Atsumu talking about Baroque studies and historically accurate Bach and heard him say, “—well, I’ve been thinking of taking another sabbatical so how is this whole mess going to affect that?” 

“Wait, what?” Kiyoomi blurted. “Why? You’re taking another sabbatical?”

During his first one, nobody had seen or heard from Atsumu for years. He’d disappeared off the face of the earth.

“What do you mean why?” Atsumu demanded. “Why not?”

Because I'm so fucking stupid, I was thinking I wanted to stay around you, said the voice in Kiyoomi’s head. But, of course, after this tour is done, we’re going to part ways. You’re going to be moving onto your next big thing and I’ll be moving onto mine. 

Oh, my god, this tour is done today. Today.

Atsumu was staring at him expectantly, daring him to contradict him, challenge him, but Kiyoomi couldn’t say a single thing.

If I feel something, anything for him, I have to say it today. I have to confess today. I might as well never see him again after today, especially if we go into a pandemic and a quarantine. What if one of us dies? I have to—  

“I can do what I want,” Atsumu said, crossing his arms.

Gone was the warmth and joy and vulnerability in his eyes. Replaced by it was a cold neutrality, the kind Kiyoomi dreaded. His heart was splintering into pieces. This was the process.

“I—I know that,” he said, shaking his head, trying to get his mind together, trying to hold the fragmenting pieces of his heart together for the rest of the duration of this conversation. “I know. I know, but I was just thinking that…” I don’t want this tour to end. I don’t want our time together to end. I don’t want to lose you. “It was fun touring together. That’s all.”

Though Atsumu was too busy scowling at Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi didn’t fail to note Yukie and Hitoka making eye contact. They seemed to say to each other, this seems personal. 

Did they know what had happened last night? What did they make of Kiyoomi and Atsumu running around in the rain together? Neither of them were stupid, and Kiyoomi hadn’t forgotten about all of Yukie’s commentary on Twitter and the concept of them hate-fucking. 

Yesterday wasn't hate-fucking though. He didn’t quite know what it was, but it definitely wasn't that. It was something different.

Does the tour end today today or after today? said a frantic voice in his head, trying to cling to any waning hope and possibility that today wasn't the last day Kiyoomi and Atsumu would see each other, that today wasn't his last and only chance to confess.

It was, though. It was his last and only chance to confess. How else was he supposed to do it? Over a phone call? Over Instagram? He couldn’t deny it. Today was his opportunity and today only. After that, they would part ways.

Kiyoomi hadn’t even had time to breathe, to sit with the realization that he loved Atsumu. The entire situation was all so sudden and it was all so new.

But I do love him, though… he asked himself. Don’t I? 

He did.

Unfortunately, irrevocably, despite the everything about Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi, he did—Kiyoomi loved him and it was terribly painful.

Maybe the tour doesn’t end, like, today today, he tried to rationalize. It’s just that today is our last show. Atsumu and my cousin still have their performance with the octet. Just because today is the last day I’ll be performing doesn’t mean I’ll be saying goodbyes and flying back today.

It was a lot of internal monologue to dance around one reality: Kiyoomi had today to confess. 

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

After Yukie and Hitoka had left, Atsumu stormed back up to their hotel room and Kiyoomi followed after him.

“Wait—wait, Atsumu, slow down. Please. Hold on.”

“Why? Leave me alone,” he snapped, trying to get the elevator doors to close. 

At the last second, Kiyoomi slipped inside. 

What am I even supposed to say to him? asked a voice in his head. Calm down? Don’t be upset? That would just make him less calm and more upset.

“Atsumu—”

“Can you piss off?” Atsumu demanded, his eyes burning. Before, they had been so sweet and innocent. “Why are you followin’ me? Fuck off.” 

God, this hurts so much more than it did before.

Kiyoomi missed the time where he could have said something equally rude, but empty, without thinking twice of it. He missed the time where he didn’t love Atsumu with all of his being because it was easier then, easier than this. But he didn’t know if, just because it was easier, he preferred it.

He wanted to pry beneath Atsumu’s layers and find the person who’d let him in momentarily, who’d danced with him in the rain, who clung him as they fell asleep, who’d held onto his hand as they crossed over the Seine. 

Where did he go? said a keening voice in his head. I miss him. I want him back.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he spat, as he exited the elevator and stalked down the hall. Kiyoomi tried to keep up. “Seriously, why do ya keep followin’ me? Yer, like, obsessed with me or something!”

That hurt a lot.

If only you knew the half of it, Atsumu, Kiyoomi thought sadly. If only you knew the half of it.

It was beginning to become harder and harder to keep his heart from falling apart, falling into pieces, and it was becoming harder and harder not to come undone, like pulling out the center string of a spindle of yarn and having the entire thing unravel into a tangled mess. 

That was what Kiyoomi’s heartstrings were turning into, yarn clinging desperately to a distaff that didn’t want it.

Once they reached their hotel room, Kiyoomi resisted the urge to put a hand on Atsumu’s trembling shoulder. His hands were shaking and he fumbled with the key card, struggling to put it in the slot. Atsumu dropped it and Kiyoomi bent to get it for him.

“Do you want me to help you?” Kiyoomi said quietly, as Atsumu brushed him off.

“No, I want you to leave me the fuck alone! Is that so much to ask for?”

Finally, Atsumu managed to get the door open.

In the hotel room, the patch of floor by the balcony was still wet, the bedsheets still rumbled, the evidence of last night still strewn everywhere. The clothing on the ground. Atsumu’s Strad case tossed haphazardly by the door. Even the little bruises across Atsumu’s neck, almost invisible, but not quite.

Each and every sign of what they’d done last night felt like a little papercut. Individually, it wasn't much, but after suffering from millions and millions of tiny cuts, Kiyoomi was wishing he’d received a stab wound instead.

Hands down, this was one of the slowest and most painful of tortures he’d ever experienced. 

Atsumu began making the bed. He began picking up their clothes off the ground, erasing the physical signs and evidence from yesterday night, hiding it away until it was gone entirely, save for in their memories. For Kiyoomi, it was one that would last forever. He didn’t know about Atsumu.

Was it something he would try to so quickly forget? Or would it grace his thoughts five years down the line, whether they had a happy ending together or not? 

Kiyoomi could see himself lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering the way Atsumu’s body fit in his hands, the way he’d cried out, the way they’d danced in the rain together the next morning, the way Atsumu’s eyes had looked all soft and pure.

The way Kiyoomi had fallen in love so excruciatingly.

As he worked, Kiyoomi stood in the corner, trying not to die. Every so often, the collar of Atsumu’s shirt would shift and he would see the dark bruise on the curve of Atsumu’s shoulder, where his neck connected with his clavicle. 

Like a reminder that Kiyoomi had done all that and that Atsumu was trying to make it go away.

“Atsumu…” he whispered, unable to come up with anything else.

“What? What?” Atsumu barked, his arms spread. “What is it that you want from me? What?” 

It is getting so very difficult to stop myself from falling apart, Kiyoomi said to himself, but I refuse to cry in front of him. He doesn’t deserve my tears. Not the person lashing out at me, anyway.

“Why is it that you push people away?” Kiyoomi asked, echoing his words from the last night of their stay in Vienna, in the bar, where Atsumu had been Kiyoomi’s second favourite version of himself.

“Because—huh?”

“You said once that if you had a breakdown every time someone said something nasty about you then you’d never have time for anything else,” Kiyoomi said, his voice so broken and quiet and unlike himself. Crying was unlike him, loving Atsumu was unlike him, but here Kiyoomi was anyway. “So you push people away and you don’t let yourself care enough about them to care what they think about you.

“But would it kill you to make a single exception?” It was becoming so, so, so goddamn hard to hold back the tears. “Would it trouble you so bad to let one single person in? What would it take to get you to stop pushing me away? What does it take for you to let me in?” 

“Yeah?” Atsumu crossed his arms, smirking in a way that was so unlike him. Posturing, putting up a cocky facade, was so unlike him. Kiyoomi knew this because he’d seen what Atsumu kept hidden beneath the wall, what he hid away, tucked away, so nobody could hate him for it. “And why should I do that? What makes you so special, huh? Why should I make an exception for ya?

“Nobody even knew who you were until a couple years ago. How are you special? What makes you so different from everyone else I’ve ever met?” he questioned, his voice dripping with derision. “Just because I slept with you? Yer still just some cautious pianist who started barely ten years ago, still just some guy my manager forced me to tour with.” The words felt like slaps to the face. “So tell me. Why should I make an exception for you?”

“Because I love you.” 

There was dead silence.

Outside, thunder boomed. Atsumu’s face was completely imperceptible, except for what seemed like hurt in his eyes, though Kiyoomi could have been mistaken. His vision was so blurry from the tears that were threatening to spill.

At least now he knows, said the voice in his head. God, I’m so fucked.

“Do you think yer funny or something?” Atsumu finally asked, his voice hushed.

“What?” 

Does he think…?

“I said—”

“It wasn't a fucking joke, you asshole! I’m not kidding.” Kiyoomi gestured to himself, finally crying, beyond enraged. “Look at me. I’m fucking falling apart in front of you, for you, and you tell me you think I’m joking? Do you really think you’re that disgusting or—or horrible that no one could ever love you?

“Because that’s too bad. I don’t care what you fucking think. Let me be the one who says that for once. I don’t care. I fucking love you and you’re unbearable and I wish you would just let me in. Fuck you, Atsumu!” Kiyoomi’s head pounded. He was tired now and his arms slumped by his sides in defeat. “Fuck you.”

As the anger subsided and the adrenaline faded and he stopped seeing red, Kiyoomi realized that Atsumu was shaking about as hard as he was. His face was turned to the ground, fists were clenched, and his bottom lip was wobbling, the one Kiyoomi had bit and kissed so amorously last night before everything had hit the fan.

“I need a minute,” Atsumu said softly.

He made for the door and Kiyoomi stepped aside to let him through.

· · ───────≪ ♩ ≫─────── · ·

Kiyoomi spent hours in that hotel room. He sat in front of the balcony’s sliding glass window, staring out at the downpour, as the water hit the streets, as the rain drenched the avenues and boulevards and thoroughfares of the darling City of Lights.

Laying in the bed they shared, Kiyoomi breathed in the smell of incense, jasmine, and cedarwood, the scent he was very glad he could now identify as Atsumu’s.

At one point, Kiyoomi thought he fell asleep, walking through dreamscapes and a surreal version of Paris, one where the streetlamps were upside down against the night sky and the roads were canals overflowing with water and there was no one else around except for him and Atsumu.

Ten minutes before he was supposed to, he made his way down to the lobby to wait for Yukie, Hitoka, and Atsumu. He didn’t dare take his mask off, now that he knew of the news that there had been some mysterious, possibly pandemic-inducing disease circulating out there.

How do you feel, he asked himself, now that you’ve ruined your relationship with Atsumu?

Quite honestly, Kiyoomi figured it was naive to hold out on the hope that Atsumu could ever possibly love him back. Now, truly, he was resigned.

After five minutes of waiting, Yukie arrived in the lobby. She stood by his side, silent, for once, like a sentry. He wondered what she knew. At the very least, she likely had her suspicions and surmises. Yukie was too intelligent not to. 

There was also the lube from the minibar she would inevitably see was charged to their hotel room. 

Another five minutes went by and Hitoka came down to wait with them. None of them spoke. Both of the managers kept their heads bowed, like they were mourning. 

Fifteen minutes went by and Yukie finally broke the silence, softly asking, “Where’s Atsumu?”

Back in Berlin, when Atsumu had thought Kiyoomi had tried to kiss him, he’d disappeared five minutes before it was time to perform. 

Was that what was happening now…?

Shit.

“I’ll try calling him,” Hitoka said, pulling out her phone. “I’m sure he’s just asleep or he forgot what time to meet us or something.”

Both Yukie and Hitoka had been there that night in Berlin. They’d experienced Tobio and the rest of the orchestra all scrambling to find the concertmaster. Were they thinking of that day too? Or had it not crossed their minds? If it had, then Hitoka likely knew what had happened, what was going on, and was only calling Atsumu as a courtesy.

If this plays out like it did in Berlin, Kiyoomi thought to himself, then we should be fine. Atsumu disappears for a little while, for attention, for whatever reason, then at the last minut, he shows up. I’m sure we’ll be fine.

Once another fifteen minutes went by, Yukie went up to go check their rooms. Room ten fourteen or room nine seventeen? Kiyoomi told her his was room ten fourteen.

So they had indeed had separate rooms…

Kiyoomi didn’t bother saying that Atsumu wasn't there. He wasn't in room ten fourteen because he’d stormed out after Kiyoomi had confessed his love like a fucking idiot and if he was in room ten fourteen, then Atsumu would have had to pass by the elevators and they would have seen him.

Yukie returned. “He’s not in his room,” she said.

They were left waiting, repeatedly calling Atsumu and texting him. Kiyoomi just wanted to go to sleep. He was so tired and his body felt so heavy, burdened, the weight on his chest seeming to have tripled in size.

“Should—should we look for him?” Hitoka suggested. “Where is he?”

“It’s pouring outside.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

With a sigh, Yukie put her forehead against her palm. “I have no clue. I guess we’ll grab some umbrellas and go look for him. I’d hate to have to cancel the show.”

And that’s what they did.

Once two managers grabbed raincoats and umbrellas, they split up to begin searching for the nuisance that was Miya Atsumu. Meanwhile, Kiyoomi ran through the streets like a ghost.

Hitoka started in the seventh arrondissement while Yukie looked in the eighth, past the curving Seine. After, Hitoka would search the sixth, then the fifth and Yukie would spread to the first, second, third, then fourth. They would begin in the heart of Paris, by the Eiffel Tower, and expand from there.

Both managers agreed that if Atsumu wasn't found at least ten minutes before the show, they would simply cancel it. When they’d asked Kiyoomi for his input, he had merely kept silent. Then, they agreed that if Atsumu wasn't found before night, they would call the police.

Kiyoomi didn’t think it would come to that. Or at least, he hoped it wouldn't.

As the wind began to pick up, the rain only poured harder. Lightning flashed across the dark sky and thunder boomed every couple seconds. Despite himself, Kiyoomi worried for Atsumu. He was worried first and would be livid second.

Though the rain made things more difficult—he could barely see, he couldn’t feel his fingers, it was cold and wet and miserable—at the very least, there were no people around. Not in the cafes, not in the bars or the libraries. Everyone was home, safe and dry, preparing for New Year’s celebrations.

The minutes dragged on. Kiyoomi still hadn’t received a call from either Yukie or Hitoka, letting him know Atsumu had been found. Eventually, Yukie called and said she was cancelling the show. Next, came a text from Hitoka. 

‘I don’t know why he does this. I’m sorry for all the trouble he’s caused you. Let’s go back to the hotel. You can take a hot shower and I’ll buy you dinner. If he’s not back by nightfall, then we’ll begin worrying again. But, for now, let’s just go back.’

Beneath the overhang of a bistro portico, Kiyoomi stared at the text. He felt hollow, like his insides had been scooped out, like his guts were in some garbage somewhere. 

Atsumu was hard to love. Kiyoomi began wondering if he was worth it, even though, deep down, he would never think it wasn't. He pocketed his phone. Right as he was about to make his way back to the hotel, he caught a figure standing in an alleyway, beneath an awning.

“Atsumu?” he cried, his voice barely audible beneath the din of the storm.

“Omi-Omi?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Kiyoomi murmured, as he made his way into the alley, his hair plastered to his forehead, slick with rainwater.

His eyes were red, like he’d been crying, and he turned around, putting his back to Kiyoomi and facing away from him.

“Hey.” 

No response.

In Paris, in the rain, Atsumu stood in an alleyway with his arms crossed, shivering from the cold, and Kiyoomi stood a little bit behind him, staring at the back of his head. If his clothes were dry and warm, he’d offer them to Atsumu without a second though.

What am I supposed to say to him?

“All that I am has already been laid bare.”

There was only the pattering of the torrent.

“Fine, then,” he muttered. “I grew up watching you on television.” Kiyoomi was not sure where he was going to go with this. “I idolized you. I never thought I’d meet you. But I did. And you weren’t what I expected… I’d heard about your reputation, but I supposed I’d subconciously given you the benefit of the doubt.

“I think my subconscious does that a lot. Favours you a lot because there are a lot of things that I subconciously do for you that I probably shouldn’t.

“I was disappointed when we first met. I had thought you were such a let down. I remember thinking to myself, this is the soloist that everyone is so in love with? Really? Him? He just talks about himself and strokes his own ego all day long.

“But then we played in Berlin together.” He shifted from foot to foot. Atsumu sniffled. “That, I think, is when everything began to change. You talked to me about your brother. I walked on you playing Liebesträume one morning. Do you remember that? 

“I had always loved that piece. I’d wanted to make it my own. I wanted for people to think of me when they heard it. Like André Rieu and the Blue Danube.

“When I heard you playing it, better than I ever could, probably, it felt like you had taken a piece of me. It was like there was this thing that was mine and you had claimed it for yourself. It felt like switching identities for a second. That I was you and that you were me. Just for a second.

“I’ve always wanted to be you. That’s what I thought, anyway. I always thought I had wanted to be you, but now… Now, I just want you,” Kiyoomi said.

“When we started touring together, I hated you. After that fight during that stupid interview where Kuribayashi-san fucked us over, I hated you. So bad. There were so many horrible things I knew you wanted to say to me and so many horrible things I know you know I wanted to say to you. 

“Looking back, I’m glad we didn’t say those things. I’m glad we kept them to ourselves. All the bad things I wanted to say about you weren’t true anyway. I don’t think your reputation is true now. I don’t think you’re an ass.”

He took a breath. “I think you’re sweet. Just a little bit. You’re annoying and you talk too much, but I miss it. I miss not hearing your voice. Life is boring without you and whenever we spend time apart, I spend that time wishing I were talking to you instead. Even if we aren’t talking, but screaming. Even if you’re screaming at me and bickering with me, it’s better than being without you.

“I think you’re sweet, just a little bit, because you bought me a really nice present when you could have gotten me a shitty one. It might have been because you had too much pride to get me a crap gift, but still. You fell asleep in my arms, with your head on my chest. 

“One of my greatest regrets was starting piano too late. It had led to years of wondering how my life could have been different if I had started earlier. That’s part of why I wanted to meet you backstage that day in Massachusetts. 

“I would have beat myself up forever like I did about starting piano so late, wishing I hadn’t wasted what could have been my one and only opportunity to meet you. After all, I thought you were amazing. You were. I mean, you are. You’re one of the best soloists to walk the planet, but… 

“Ever since we played together with the Berlin Phil, I started thinking of you differently. Subconciously at first, of course. But I’d wanted to befriend you. And I think you were right that night in Leipzig when you had accused me of trying to kiss you.

“I wanted to be the first person you let in. I wanted to be there for you when your brother wasn't or couldn’t be. I wanted to defend you when your brother’s dick-faced friends treated you like shit. I wanted to be your friend,” Kiyoomi said.

“It is better to speak than to die, Atsumu, because we can always attempt to take back the words in which we say. We can never undo regret once it is too late. I regret starting piano too late and I would have regretted not seizing the opportunity to meet you. And now, if I didn’t say this to you, I know I would have died thinking of this moment, regretting this moment.

“It is always better to speak than to die. Even if you hate me after this for saying all of these things, even if you never want to see me ever again, at least I can say I tried. At least, I will not spend the next five, ten, fifteen, thirty years wishing I had done something differently, the same way I wish I had started piano earlier.

“And I thought that when you invariably left me, when you left my life, when the tour would be over and our time together was finished, that we would go our separate ways. 

“I thought I was inconsequential to you. I had thought you were nothing to me too. I’d convinced myself of it, the same way you’d convinced yourself you didn’t need anybody. And don’t even bother arguing on that. I know you need somebody. Everyone needs somebody.

“I thought nothing would change. That nothing would be the same, but that nothing would ever be different. And I wondered if meeting you had changed my life.

“The answer’s obvious, isn’t it?” Kiyoomi laughed wetly. “Of course it did. Of course meeting you has changed my life. In fact, I’m so glad I met you.

“But there are so many reasons why you’d be hard to love and hard to be with. If I were with you, you’d probably lash out at me every now and then. And I'd constantly be in your shadow as a pianist. 

“When I get parts or become a well known soloist, I’ll never really know if it was because I’m with you or if it’s because of my skill. And I guess nobody else will know either. They’ll all be crying nepotism and I won’t even be able to argue with them. 

“There are so many reasons why it would be hard to be with you. I stand to lose so much less by leaving you. Don’t you understand? I would be sacrificing my livelihood and my pride to be with you. There are so many reasons why I’d be better off without you…”

Atsumu still had his back turned.

“But I don’t care.”

Almost imperceptibly, Kiyoomi saw his shoulders tense.

“You can push me away as much as you’d like. I’ll come running back every time. I’ll be with you because… You’re not getting rid of me. Not now and not ever. I’m here to stay. I’m obsessive and all-consuming, and you’re borderline and unstable.

“You’re hard love and yet harder still to leave. You driving me fucking crazy sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. You make me lose my mind. But I can’t live without you. I need you. I love you.

“I love you, Atsumu, and there is nothing I’ve ever been more certain of in my life. I know you care. You just don’t let it show because you don’t want it to hurt you in the long run or later on in the end. You push people away because you’re scared to let them in. You’re scared they won’t like what they see so you do what you can to get rid of them first.

“You’ve tried that with me. But it didn’t completely work, did it? I mean, I’m still standing right here, continuing to profess my love for you, hoping you’ll give me an answer that doesn’t shatter my heart and my pride and my soul and the everything else about me into a tiny million little fragmented pieces that I’ll have to pick up off the floor and pretend to be okay with.

“I know you tried to push me away. You tried to stop yourself from doing it or maybe you forgot to one or two times here and there. But it didn’t work and I’m still here.”

He took another deep breath. “So, please. Just turn around and look at me. You don’t even have to say you love me too or anything like that. Just—just look me in the eye. Let me make sure you’re you because it would be really embarrassing if I wasted such a speech and you turned out to be the wrong person.”

Kiyoomi fidgeted. “Please?” 

As Atsumu turned, slowly and with vulnerability etched in every line of his beautiful, tear-stained face, he sobbed.

“I don’t know what ya want me to tell you,” Atsumu cried. 

“I want you to say you love me back,” he whispered, his voice a whisper over the rain. “But only if you mean it. I don’t need lies. I just want the truth.”

Please don’t let the truth be that you never want to see me again. Please don’t hurt me, please don’t tear my heart and soul and my pride into shreds. Please don’t push me away. Please don’t kick me out of your life. Please don’t push me away.

“How can you love me if you don’t even know me?”

“I do,” Kiyoomi insisted. “I do know you. I have since Berlin.”

“Berlin?”

“Yes. And Vienna. And yesterday and this morning,” he explained. “I’ve always known you.”

His voice was hesitant. “Do I know you?”

“You do. Yes, you do, Atsumu. All that I am has already been laid bare,” Kiyoomi repeated. He opened his arms, hoping that Atsumu would hug him forever and never let go. “Please, just come with me.”

From the look on his face, Kiyoomi could tell Atsumu still needed convincing.

“I would give you the first sip of my drink,” Kiyoomi told him. “I would let you play whatever music you like in my car. I would let you trash my house and dirty up my room and make my bathroom all messy and drive me crazy.

“I would give you the last bite of my dessert. Shit, I would learn to make your favourite dessert just so I could bake it for you on rainy days where the thunder hurts your ears and the lightning scares you. I would give you the center of the bed and I’d sleep on the edge if that’s what you wanted. 

“I would give you my time. I would give you my life. I would give you anything and everything. Anything you could ever ask of me, it’s yours. Just say the word and it’s yours, I promise. Anything at all. I swear I don’t care. You could demand everything of me and I’d give it to you. I’d let you ruin me. Because I love you. Please. Just hold me.”

Something, some wall between them, seemed to break away, like a violin string finally snapping from the excessive tension. Atsumu fell into Kiyoomi’s arms and they stayed like that, sobbing and messy, until the rain finally stopped.

All that I am has already been laid bare.

“I love you too, Omi-Omi.”

2020.12.31

After that stormy day in Paris, Kiyoomi and Atsumu had kissed at midnight, as the clock struck twelve and they left 2019 to enter into 2020. They had been dressed in fancy clothes and the jewelry they’d gotten each other for Christmas. Following that New Year’s Day, Kiyoomi didn’t take off his pearls and Atsumu didn’t take off his diamonds.

After Atsumu’s performance with the octet, he and Kiyoomi and their managers had gone back to Britain. Atsumu and Hitoka had relocated to Britain so the four of them—many Kiyoomi and Atsumu, though—could be together.

They had spent the year in quarantine. Kiyoomi had learned new pieces and Atsumu had postponed his sabbatical. The days had gone by more or less the same. Over the summer, sometimes Kiyoomi would take Atsumu to the grotto and they would swim for hours. 

On other days, especially during the colder months, they would simply huddle beneath the covers, trading kisses and laughing together, playing Liebesträume, which now belonged to both of them, for each other. 

Every time it stormed—as it did fairly often in the English countryside—Kiyoomi would bring Atsumu outside so they could dance in the rain, crying and drenched and happy.  

Today, the streets of Paris were barren. 

It was raining hard, like it had been exactly a year ago, and Kiyoomi walked with an umbrella, dressed in a suit at Atsumu’s request, through the avenues. 

For whatever reason, Yukie, Hitoka, and Atsumu had brought him back to Paris. They’d booked room ten fourteen at the hotel in the seventh arrondissement, before the Eiffel Tower, and hadn’t told him why. Kiyoomi simply wandered towards the Notre-Dame de Paris, wondering what on earth would be waiting for him there.

He passed the philharmonic concert hall he and Atsumu had played at together, the alleyway where Atsumu had finally let Kiyoomi in once and for all, and the apartment they’d stayed in during Christmas—which, unbeknownst to Kiyoomi, had been purchased for him by Atsumu as a wedding gift, assuming Kiyoomi was willing to marry him.

As he made his way up the steps and entered the cathedral, he closed his umbrella and readjusted his mask. The hall was decked in bouquets of flowers and, there, waiting for him at the altar was Atsumu, flanked by Yukie, Hitoka, and Motoya. All four of them were grinning. 

Kiyoomi noted the priest and smiled himself, too.

Little did Kiyoomi know, he was soon about to be spending the rest of his life’s time around Miya Atsumu.