Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were twenty-seven pairs of shoes by the front door.

Kiyoomi knew because he had counted them. Not once. Not twice. Five times. Every morning. And every morning, there were either more shoes or fewer, and never the same combination twice.

“Put your boot back,” he said flatly from the dining table, where his planner sat open and aggressively color-coded.

Rintarou, currently sprawled upside-down on the couch like a half-melted cat, said nothing. He nudged the boot farther out of place with one toe.

Kiyoomi turned one page in his notebook, calmly. “Rintarou.”

“Kiyoomi,” Rintarou replied sweetly, still upside down. “I’m conducting a scientific experiment.”

“On chaos?”

“On gravity. I’m seeing how long I can stay like this before my brain falls out.”

Kiyoomi didn’t respond. Instead, he stood, crossed the room, and nudged the boot back into its place with the tip of his slipper. Then he sanitized his hands.

Rintarou hummed the Tetris theme in slow motion.

“I hope all your socks get wet,” Kiyoomi muttered on his way back.

“Joke’s on you, I’m not wearing socks.”

Their grandmother sat by the window knitting a sweater big enough to smother a cow. A fat chicken named Yuri sat on her lap, receiving the occasional blueberry and a stream of affectionate curses in Russian.

Yuri, for reasons unknown, hated Rintarou. The feeling was mutual.

Across the kitchen, the microwave beeped. Somewhere upstairs, someone cursed in German. It was a standard morning in the Sakusa-Suna household: barely contained chaos, flavored with multilingual tension and passive-aggressive breakfast.

Then came the crash.

Something — or someone — knocked over the hall closet. A cascade of shampoo bottles hit the floor, followed by a very loud “БЛИН!”

(“Blin!” — which could mean “pancake” or a stand-in for “shit,” depending on tone. This tone leaned heavily toward the latter.)

“Wer hat das verdammte Hantelset in den Schrank gestellt?!”

(“Who put the damn dumbbells in the closet?!”)

Rintarou groaned. “I was using them as doorstops.”

Yulia, his mother, burst into the kitchen in a flannel robe, a Slayer tour shirt, and one sock. She held a clipboard and a half-eaten Pop-Tart. Her eyeliner was flawless. Her chaos energy was unmatched.

“Emergency family meeting,” she declared, slapping the clipboard on the table.

“I didn’t break the window this time,” Rintarou said automatically.

“Good to know,” she said. “But concerning.”

Lotte, Kiyoomi’s mom, followed her in, sipping from a bone-white mug that said “Let Me Fix Your Grammar” in three languages. She pressed a kiss to Kiyoomi’s temple before sitting across from him.

“Guten Morgen, mein Schatz,” she said warmly. (“Good morning, darling.”)

Kiyoomi nodded, already suspicious. “Morning.”

Yulia grinned. “You’re both employed now.”

A pause.

“What?” Kiyoomi blinked.

“Full-time workers. Family business. Summer project.” Yulia spun the clipboard for dramatic effect.

“The ice cream shop?” Rintarou asked warily.

“Yes! You’re going to love it.”

“No,” Kiyoomi said.

“Oh yes.”

“This is illegal.”

“You’re seventeen.”

“I have OCD,” he tried again.

“Perfect,” Lotte beamed. “You can manage supply stock and the freezer organization.”

Rintarou raised a hand. “I have ADHD, zero customer service voice, and I talk back when people chew with their mouths open.”

“Which is why,” Yulia said proudly, “you’re on register and scooping. No one can lie to your face.”

“Can I eat the ice cream?”

“You can test new flavors.”

Rintarou leaned toward Kiyoomi. “I want to die.”

Kiyoomi wiped down his planner with disinfectant. “Same.”

“You start Monday,” Yulia said. “We open at noon. Your uniforms arrive Friday.”

“You’re not even paying us,” Rintarou pointed out.

“You’re being fed,” Lotte said sweetly.

“And housed,” Yulia added.

“And emotionally supported.”

Kiyoomi muttered, “I’m emotionally withering.”

“You’ll bond. You’ll learn. You’ll hate it. That’s tradition,” Yulia said cheerfully, already walking away.

The sound of chicken feet on linoleum echoed as Yuri hopped off Grandma’s lap and chased Rintarou around the table.

“FIGHT OUTSIDE NOT INSIDE.” Yulia screamed. 

It didn’t take long before Rintarou found himself outside. 

The backyard was peaceful — if you ignored the ominous tension between Rintarou and the chicken currently staring him down across the lawn.

Yuri, the family’s disgruntled hen, was perched in the garden like a retired war general, her beady eyes tracking Rintarou’s every move.

On the porch, Kiyoomi nursed a chamomile tea like it was alcohol. Wrapped in a blanket and radiating “leave me alone” energy, he watched as Grandma Sokolova rocked slowly in her chair, her sharp eyes never missing a beat.

“Ты опять с ней дерёшься, Ринтаро? Стыд и позор.”

(“Fighting the chicken again, Rintarou? Shameful.”)

“I’m not fighting her,” Rintarou replied in Russian. “I’m strategizing.”

Kiyoomi glanced up. “Are you really arguing with babushka in her native language?”

“She started it,” Rintarou said, arms folded. “And Yuri started everything else.”

“Курица умнее тебя,” Grandma muttered, unimpressed.

(“The chicken is smarter than you.”)

“She tricked me into feeding her spicy pickles last week!”

“You fed a chicken pickles?” Kiyoomi asked, disturbed.

“She tricked me!”

“Лжец,” Grandma scoffed.

(“Liar.”)

“I heard that!”

“You were meant to,” she replied, sipping her tea.

Rintarou turned to Yuri, taking a cautious step forward. “We don’t have to do this. It’s not too late to walk away.”

Yuri fluffed her feathers and clucked menacingly.

“She’s not walking away,” Kiyoomi said. “She smells fear.”

“I don’t fear her.”

“Ты дрожишь, как котёнок,” Grandma observed.

(“You’re trembling like a kitten.”)

“I am not trembling,” Rintarou snapped. “This is tactical shaking.”

“Ты позор для фамилии,” she added.

(“You’re a disgrace to the family name.”)

“I am the only one trying to defend the family from the poultry uprising!”

Yuri charged.

“Ох, чёрт!”

(“Oh, shit!”)

Rintarou sprinted across the lawn as Yuri flapped after him in hot pursuit.

Kiyoomi watched with mild interest. “You know she’s not going to stop until she draws blood again, right?”

“Why do you sound so calm?!” Rintarou yelped as he ducked behind the patio furniture.

“I’ve made peace with our bird overlord.”

“Курица — твоя хозяйка теперь,” Grandma said with a smirk.

(“The chicken is your master now.”)

Rintarou dove onto the porch, dramatically clutching his leg. “Tell my story.”

“No one’s going to tell your story,” Kiyoomi replied.

“She pecked my ankle like she meant it!”

“She always means it,” Kiyoomi said. “She’s efficient.”

Grandma Sokolova gave Yuri an approving nod.

“Молодец, Юрий.”

(“Well done, Yuri.”)

Rintarou stared at her in betrayal. “Why are you rooting for her?! I’m your grandson!”

“She’s the only one in this house with discipline,” Grandma said proudly.

“Are you calling me weak?”

“Да.”

(“Yes.”)

Kiyoomi stood, gathering his blanket around him like a cape. “Come on, Chicken Slayer. Time to sleep.”

Rintarou limped beside him, grumbling. “This isn’t over. One day, I’ll be faster.”

Behind them, Yuri let out a victorious squawk.

Rintarou flinched. “Tonight I dream of vengeance.”

“You dream of nightmares.”

“You are the nightmare.”

Grandma rocked slowly, watching them retreat, and muttered just loud enough for Rintarou to hear:

“Глупый мальчишка… всё равно я его люблю.”

(“Stupid boy… I still love him anyway.”)

That night, after the everyone settled (as much as it could), the boys lay in their room — beds separated by a long strip of painter’s tape and a pile of mismatched laundry.

“So,” Rintarou said, tossing a stress ball at the ceiling. “Ice cream.”

Kiyoomi stared at the ceiling fan. “I’m going to cry into the freezer.”

“Think motoya will let me make a spicy durian flavor?”

“He’ll throw you into the industrial sink.”

“Bold of him to assume I wouldn’t like that.”

Kiyoomi rolled over. “I’m learning Korean next.”

“Why?”

“So I can insult customers in five languages.”

“Ambitious.”

“I’m dying.”

“I know.”

Yuri screamed from grandma sokolova’s room. Rintarou didn’t move.

“Summer’s gonna be hell,” he whispered.

Kiyoomi sighed. “Ja. Richtig beschissen.”

(“Yeah. Totally screwed.”)

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn crept softly through the slatted blinds, painting thin stripes of pale gold across the room. A steady, almost relentless buzzing pierced the early morning calm.

Rintarou groaned and fumbled blindly for the phone on his nightstand. The alarm’s shrill insistence refused to be silenced without his cooperation.

“Rintarou! Kiyoomi! Aufstehen!” Lotte voice thundered down the hall, breaking through the last remnants of sleep.

(“Get up!”)

“Mama, chill,” Rintarou mumbled as he buried his face under the pillow, willing himself to disappear into the mattress. The words came out muffled but clear enough. “Nicht schon wieder…”

(“Not again…”)

Across the room, Kiyoomi sat primly on the edge of his bed, running a small comb through his sleek hair with surgical precision. He glanced at Rintarou with a mixture of mild annoyance and amusement.

“You’re going to miss breakfast if you don’t get up,” Kiyoomi said, voice calm but firm.

Rintarou gave a dramatic sigh, dragging himself upright. “Morgens sind nicht mein Ding,” he grumbled.

(“Mornings aren’t my thing.”)

“You sound like a broken record,” Kiyoomi replied, sliding off the bed and already putting on his socks.

“Dann komm runter, bevor ich dich persönlich abhole,” Yulia’s voice boomed this time from downstairs.

(“Then come down before I come get you myself.”)

The two seventeen-year-olds exchanged a glance. Neither wanted to argue further.

By the time they reached the kitchen, their mother Yulia was bustling about, her long blonde hair tied neatly back and her bright eyes already focused on the day’s tasks. She was the picture of calm efficiency, even in the chaos of morning.

“Good morning, boys,” Yulia said, smiling tightly. “You know why you’re up this early.”

Rintarou rolled his eyes but remained silent. He had learned over the years that protesting only made things worse.

“You’re working at Sundae Ritual today,” Yulia continued, motioning toward the car keys on the counter. “Motoya and Atiya are already there. You’ll learn the ropes. It’s family business.”

Rintarou shuffled toward the fridge, grabbing a bottle of cold water. “Can we at least get some breakfast first?” he asked hopefully.

Yulia shook her head, tying her apron around her waist. “Eat on the go. We open in one hour.”

“Bye boys!” Lotte smiled

The ride to the shop was a tense silence broken only by the faint hum of the engine and the occasional directions Yulia muttered to herself.

“Are you nervous?” Kiyoomi asked, glancing sideways at Rintarou, who was fidgeting with his phone.

“A little,” Rintarou admitted. “I mean, what if I mess up?”

“Messing up is how you learn,” Kiyoomi said simply. “Besides, Motoya will help.”

Rintarou gave a derisive snort. “If he doesn’t mess up first,” he muttered.

“Я не нервничаю,” Yulia said in Russian as she pulled up to the storefront.

(“I’m not nervous.”)

Sundae Ritual was a pastel dream — mint green walls, pink striped awnings, and a cartoon ice cream cone mascot that winked on the front sign. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of vanilla, sugar, and waffle cones.

Motoya greeted them with a wide grin and an apron tied crookedly over his T-shirt. “Finally! About time you showed up.” His voice was teasing but warm. “Ready to become ice cream legends?”

Rintarou smiled reluctantly. “We’ll try.”

Atiya, their other cousin, waved from behind the counter, stacking napkins with robotic precision.

“First lesson,” Motoya announced, leading them toward a large white machine humming softly in the corner. “Soft serve. Push lever, swirl cone, don’t drop.”

“Просто машинка, да?” Rintarou asked, eyeing the machine suspiciously.

(“Just a machine, right?”)

“Don’t treat it like a monster,” Kiyoomi warned, arms crossed.

Rintarou stepped forward nervously, gripping a cone. “What if it attacks me?” he joked.

“It won’t,” Motoya laughed. “It only attacks if you’re not quick enough.”

Kiyoomi took the first try and his cone emerged perfectly swirled, the soft serve gleaming like spun sugar. “Siehst du? Ganz einfach.”

(“See? Simple.”)

Rintarou attempted next. His hand shook, and the soft serve spiraled off-center, toppling onto the tray with a sad plop. His face twisted in frustration.

“Ruhig, ruhig,” Komori said patiently. “Es braucht Übung.”

(“Calm down, calm down. It takes practice.”)

Atiya chuckled quietly from across the counter, her hands deftly wiping down the surface.

“Now, the register,” Yulia instructed when she arrived. “Remember, no German or Russian when customers come.”

The boys exchanged nervous glances. The idea of switching languages made their heads spin.

“Good morning or evening when greeting,” Yulia said, demonstrating the polite bow. “And always smile. Even if you’re dying inside.”

“smiling is tiring,” Rintarou muttered under his breath.

“We are not here to make friends,” Yulia said firmly.

The first few hours blurred into a whirlwind of customers, orders, and frantic attempts to keep cones from melting or dropping.

Rintarou’s ADHD made the fast pace overwhelming — noises blurred together, customers asked questions quickly, and the register beeped relentlessly.

After accidentally mixing up two orders and dropping a tray of cones, Rintarou leaned against the counter, breathless.

“Ich glaube, ich kann das nicht,” he admitted quietly to Yulia.

(“I don’t think I can do this.”)

“Du kannst nicht einfach aufgeben,” she said, surprised.

(“You can’t just give up.”)

“Ich versuche wirklich, aber es ist zu viel,” he said softly.

(“I’m really trying, but it’s too much.”)

Yulia sighed but nodded in understanding. “Okay. You can help Motoya and Kiyoomi when you’re able.”

Meanwhile, Kiyoomi had found a rhythm. His OCD drove him to arrange everything perfectly — the cones, the napkins, the toppings — and his attention to detail made him the most reliable employee.

He began taking charge quietly, directing Komori when needed and correcting small mistakes without being bossy.

That night, Grandma Sokolova sat on the porch in her worn rocking chair, humming softly in Russian.

“Вы двое хорошо потрудились сегодня,” she said warmly as Kiyoomi and Rintarou washed dishes in the kitchen.

(“You two worked hard today.”)

“Спасибо, бабушка,” Kiyoomi replied with a small smile.

(“Thank you, Grandma.”)

Rintarou wiped his hands on his shirt and nodded. “Morgen wieder, ja?”

(“Again tomorrow, right?”)

Kiyoomi laughed softly. “Natürlich.”

(“Of course.”)

Outside, Rintarou stood a few feet away, his gaze fixed upward on the glittering stars scattered across the night sky. The soft rustling of leaves whispered in the breeze, but the silence inside him was louder. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to calm the restless storm of thoughts and frustrations swirling inside.

“Ich kann das schaffen,” he whispered, the words shaky but determined.

(“I can do this.”)

He wasn’t sure if tomorrow would be easier — or if he would be able to keep up with the relentless pace — but for now, he allowed himself a moment of quiet hope beneath the vast, patient sky.

After a while, Rintarou stepped back inside, the creak of the door breaking the calm night. Once alone in his room, he sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. His fingers trembled slightly as he rubbed his temples, the buzzing of his thoughts refusing to quiet.

He thought about the fast pace of the ice cream shop, the constant demands, the noise, and the need to stay focused. His ADHD made it hard to follow every step perfectly, and the embarrassment of small mistakes weighed on him more than he wanted to admit.

“Why is this so hard?” he muttered under his breath, frustration clear in his voice.

The weight of expectations — from family, from himself — pressed down. He hated feeling like he was slowing everyone down, yet he was afraid to admit it out loud. His mind raced, jumping from worry to worry like fireflies darting in the dark.

But then he took a deep breath and reminded himself of something his grandmother had said earlier: “Терпение, Ринтаро.”

(“Patience, Rintarou.”)

Patience — something he needed to learn to give himself as much as anyone else.

He leaned back against the pillow, letting the quiet settle around him, hoping that tomorrow would be a little easier. That he would be a little stronger.

And maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to make this work.

Chapter Text

“Why does this freezer feel like it’s trying to kill me?” Rintarou asked, his breath fogging in front of him.

“You’re wearing a hoodie in summer,” Kiyoomi deadpanned, holding a box of waffle cones like it might personally offend him.

Rintarou looked down at himself. “It’s for the vibes.”

Kiyoomi didn’t answer. Instead, he pivoted out of the freezer with robotic grace, muttering something in German under his breath.

“I heard that,” Rintarou said, following behind him, rubbing his arms. “That was about me, wasn’t it?”

“Ja,” Kiyoomi replied, not bothering to lie. (“Yes.”)

The midday rush had just ended, and the cousins — Akari and Niko — were manning the register while Komori tried to fix the syrup dispenser, which had started making a sound suspiciously close to a dying goose. Atiya had took the day off.

In the back, the two boys slumped on milk crates near the dry storage.

“I think I’m losing the ability to form full sentences,” Rintarou mumbled, tilting his head back against the wall. “Is this what death feels like?”

“You’ve been working for three hours.”

“Exactly.”

Kiyoomi leaned against the shelf beside him, arms crossed. “At least you’ve stopped trying to juggle the cones.”

“They were fine until I dropped one.”

“On a toddler’s head.”

“That’s not fair,” Rintarou groaned, covering his face. “He moved.”

Motoya poked his head in through the swinging door. “Hey! We need someone to run the trash out. Niko got soft serve on her shoe and refuses to go outside.”

Kiyoomi stood up immediately. “I’ll do it.”

“That was suspiciously fast,” Motoya mused. “Are you okay?”

“I just need air,” Kiyoomi replied flatly.

Once Kiyoomi was gone, Rintarou exhaled loudly, stretching his legs out.

“Why does he act like he’s being sentenced to death every time he does something normal?” he asked the ceiling.

Yulia suddenly appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing dark sunglasses and holding a half-empty iced coffee. Her expression said she’d been listening for a while.

“You survived day two,” she said, unimpressed.

Rintarou tilted his head. “Barely.”

She walked in, glanced around, and then sat down next to him, stealing a fry from his forgotten takeout box. “And how’s the attention span today?”

Rintarou blew air through his nose. “Let’s just say the sprinkles are winning.”

Yulia gave him a long look. “You want to quit, don’t you?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you do. I’d rather you tell me now than have a breakdown in the mop closet.”

“That happened one time.”

“Once is enough.”

Rintarou fiddled with the drawstring on his hoodie. “I don’t want to be useless.”

“You’re not,” Yulia said gently. “But that doesn’t mean every environment is made for you, Rintarou. Some jobs require stamina you shouldn’t have to force.”

He didn’t answer, eyes drifting to the sticky floor, the muted buzz of the freezer, the hum of the old ceiling fan.

“Let’s finish the week,” Yulia said after a pause, standing up and brushing crumbs off her jeans. “Then we’ll decide.”

He gave a tired thumbs-up, already zoning out again.

Out behind the shop, Kiyoomi was having a different kind of break.

He set the garbage down and leaned against the brick wall, breathing in deep. The air still smelled like sugar and vanilla, but at least it was quiet.

“Scheiße,” he muttered under his breath, noticing a streak of fudge across his apron. (“Shit.”)

From the side of the building, Lotte appeared with a small hand towel. She passed it to him without saying anything at first.

“You’re doing well,” she said finally, her accent laced softly in her words. “Better than I expected.”

Kiyoomi looked at her, skeptical. “Thanks?”

“Don’t overthink it. Just take the compliment.”

He nodded, folding the towel neatly in his hands. “I think Rintarou’s going to quit soon.”

“Maybe,” Lotte agreed. “But that’s his decision.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Then she added, “I’m proud of you, Kiyoomi. Even if you’re acting like this job is beneath you.”

“It is,” he said without missing a beat.

She smiled faintly. “Still proud.”

That night, after dinner, Rintarou slipped out the sliding door to the back patio and let it shut softly behind him. He wore the same hoodie from earlier, now flecked with strawberry syrup and a faint trace of chocolate on the cuff. He didn’t care.

The air had cooled, though it still carried the scent of summer — damp grass, distant grilled food, and the cloying vanilla-sugar blend that seemed embedded in his skin now.

Grandma Sokolova was already outside, as usual. She sat on her favorite old wooden chair, the one that creaked every time she shifted, wearing her patterned house dress and fuzzy slippers. Her scarf knitting had changed colors again — this time a rich sunflower yellow — and it grew endlessly from her needles like magic.

“Солнце село,” she said, without looking up. (“The sun has set.”)

Rintarou dropped onto the steps beside her and hugged his knees loosely to his chest.

“Да, бабушка,” he murmured. (“Yes, Grandma.”)

They sat in silence for a bit. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

Then, she asked, “Ты устал?” (“Are you tired?”)

Rintarou blinked slowly. The stars hadn’t quite come out yet, but the sky was darkening at the edges like smudged pencil. “Да. Но не только физически.”

(“Yes. But not just physically.”)

She gave a small hum of acknowledgment. Her knitting needles clicked gently, a rhythm steadier than his own thoughts.

“My brain won’t shut up,” he said after a while. “It keeps jumping from one thing to another. Like… the machines, the bell, that kid who kept screaming about bubblegum, Kiyoomi breathing like I insulted his entire bloodline just by existing—”

He stopped, pressing his forehead to his knees.

“I can’t turn it off. It’s too much.”

Grandma Sokolova glanced at him over her glasses.

“Мозг у тебя быстрый.”

(“Your brain is fast.”)

“Too fast,” he muttered. “Like it’s sprinting all the time, and I’m just being dragged along behind it.”

“Найди свой темп,” she said softly. (“Find your pace.”)

Rintarou huffed a laugh, a shaky one. “Don’t think the ice cream shop has a speed setting that matches me.”

She paused her knitting and leaned over to pat his knee, then his cheek, gently. Her hand was warm and dry, the way it had always been.

“Ты не слабый. Просто другой.”

(“You’re not weak. Just different.”)

He didn’t answer right away. His throat was tight in that annoying way — like his feelings had piled up behind a wall he didn’t know how to lower.

“I wanted to do well,” he admitted. “I wanted to be good at it. But I feel like I’m failing at something so stupidly simple. Like… who struggles scooping ice cream?”

“Сложное — не значит глупое,” she said firmly. (“What is difficult is not stupid.”)

Rintarou closed his eyes, letting her words settle.

“You think Mama will be disappointed if I quit?”

“Нет. Она поймёт.”

(“No. She will understand.”)

He opened his eyes to see her smiling faintly.

“И если нет — скажу ей я.”

(“And if she doesn’t, I’ll tell her myself.”)

That earned a real smile from him. “Thanks, Babushka.”

She nodded once, like the matter was settled.

The scarf grew a few inches longer. The moon peeked out above the trees. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas buzzed their static lullaby.

Rintarou leaned his head against her arm and let his thoughts slow down — just for a moment.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Rintarou didn’t come downstairs until well past eleven.

No one said anything. Not Lotte, not Yulia, not even Kiyoomi, who was already dressed in his new uniform — crisp polo, black apron, and that same expression like he was gearing up for chemical warfare.

“Morning,” Rintarou muttered, scratching his head. His curls were a mess. The sleeves of his hoodie hung too long, almost covering his hands.

Yulia handed him a slice of toast, her eyes scanning him the way only moms could. “Ты в порядке?” (“You okay?”)

He nodded, chewing slowly.

Motoya popped his head in from the genkan, hair already tousled from the wind. “Ready, guys?”

Rintarou looked up.

Lotte appeared beside him, placing a hand gently on his back. “You can take today off if you need to,” she said in German.

„Du musst nicht jeden Tag stark sein.“ (“You don’t have to be strong every day.”)

“I’ll go,” Rintarou said quickly, mouth full of toast. “Just… I’ll bring my headphones this time.”

Kiyoomi glanced at him. “You’ll need both hands.”

“I have Bluetooth,” he snapped. “I’m not a caveman.”

“Debatable.”

By noon, the shop was already buzzing.

A group of schoolgirls hovered by the toppings counter, laughing too loudly. A crying toddler was demanding ramune flavored soft-serve. An old man had somehow mistaken the register for a suggestion box.

Kiyoomi stood stiff behind the freezer case, trying not to gag at the sticky syrup bottles. His eye twitched every time someone dropped a spoon into the napkin bin.

Motoya, as always, was a whirlwind of cheer.

“Okay! Kiyoomi, you’re on cones today! Rintarou, you’re float duty — soda, ice cream, the works. And don’t forget the new promo: every third order gets a punch card! Smile! This is summer fun!”

Rintarou leaned against the counter, headphones hanging around his neck. “This is what hell looks like.”

“I like to think it’s a bit warmer in hell,” Motoya chirped.

Customers came in waves. Two more cousins arrived to help around noon — a boy named Shohei and his sister Hanae, both older and infinitely more graceful behind the counter. They helped balance the rhythm, covering what Rintarou couldn’t quite keep up with, and managing the older equipment like second nature.

Still, by 2:30, Rintarou was flushed, overstimulated, and about two orders away from dumping root beer directly on the floor and walking out.

When a woman asked him — for the third time — whether their ice cream was gluten-free, he blinked at her and said, “Ma’am, it’s made of ice and cream.”

Motoya yanked him by the collar before the woman could file a complaint.

Outside, they took a break on the shop’s back step.

“You’re doing okay,” Motoya said. “Really.”

“I forgot two orders. I knocked over a jar of sprinkles. And someone’s toddler tried to bite me.”

“To be fair, you do look like a chew toy,” Motoya said, grinning.

Rintarou gave him the finger.

Motoya offered him a tiny cup of vanilla with rainbow sprinkles.

“I’m serious though. If it’s too much, you can go home.”

Rintarou stared at the melting scoop.

“…Yeah. I think I will.”

Kiyoomi watched as Rintarou packed up his bag without ceremony. He didn’t say goodbye, just tapped Moyoya’s shoulder, mumbled something about noise and sugar and his brain being “fried to hell,” and slipped out the back door.

Kiyoomi didn’t comment.

But when Shohei dropped an entire tub of mango sorbet an hour later, he muttered under his breath, “Rintarou would’ve caught that.”

That night, Rintarou sat on the roof.

He’d climbed out through the second-floor hallway window, the one just above the kitchen. He lay flat on his back, hoodie hood pulled up, stars stretching far above his head.

His ADHD was in overdrive — brain buzzing, fingers tapping against his knees, the feeling of syrup still clinging to his palms like phantom glue. His thoughts kept looping: you’re lazy, you gave up, Komori’s disappointed, you always do this.

He flinched when the window creaked open behind him.

“Was ist los?” Lotte’s voice was quiet, half-lost in the wind. (“What’s wrong?”)

“Too much,” Rintarou mumbled.

She joined him without asking.

He didn’t say anything else. But she stayed, arms wrapped around her knees, humming something German and old — a lullaby maybe. Something their father used to sing. Something soft.

Downstairs, the kitchen light blinked off one by one.

The shop would open again tomorrow. Kiyoomi would probably go alone. Komori would still be annoyingly cheerful. And Rintarou… wasn’t sure.

But tonight, at least, the stars weren’t rushing. And neither was he.

Lotte eventually stood, brushing dust from her skirt with slow, graceful movements.

“Bleib nicht zu lange wach, Schatz,” she said softly, placing a hand on Rintarou’s shoulder before slipping back through the window. (“Don’t stay up too late, sweetheart.”)

He nodded without turning, still lying on his back, fingers laced behind his head.

A few moments later, the window creaked again.

Kiyoomi stepped through with all the elegance of someone who had never climbed a damn thing in his life. He stumbled once, huffed under his breath, and sat down — far enough to keep space, close enough to share silence.

The roof tiles were still warm from the day. A breeze ruffled Kiyoomi’s black hair, the edges of his sleeves catching the wind. Neither of them said anything for a while.

Finally, Rintarou broke the silence, eyes still on the sky.

“I hate that place.”

Kiyoomi made a soft noise — not quite agreement, not quite dismissal. Just acknowledgment.

Rintarou turned his head, squinting at him. “Why are you out here?”

Kiyoomi shrugged. “You were.”

Another pause.

“…Lotte said you like the stars,” Rintarou murmured. “That when you were a kid, you used to name them. In German.”

Kiyoomi didn’t look at him. “I was a weird kid.”

“You still are.”

“I don’t hear you denying it.”

Rintarou huffed a laugh through his nose.

The wind picked up a little. Kiyoomi’s long fingers tapped once against the tiles, then stilled.

“You’re not lazy, you know,” he said abruptly. “You just… can’t make your brain listen sometimes.”

Rintarou’s heart did a strange thing in his chest — a little jump, sharp and unsteady.

“I didn’t ask for a pep talk,” he muttered.

Kiyoomi leaned back, hands behind him. “Good. That wasn’t one.”

And just like that, they fell back into silence. Two half-brothers, not talking, not needing to. The sky above them endless, the house behind them asleep.

It wasn’t comfort, exactly. But it was company. And maybe that was enough.

Chapter Text

By the end of his second shift, Rintarou had learned three things:

1. Ice cream machines were hellspawn.
   
   
2. Children had no concept of volume control.
   
   
3. ADHD and a customer service job? Not best friends.
   
   

He was halfway through serving a six-year-old a scoop of mint chip when the kid sneezed directly into the sneeze guard, then asked if they had “the rainbow one.” Rintarou blinked, covered in regret and strawberry syrup, and decided right then and there: he was done.

Yulia didn’t even blink when he walked through the front door that evening, dropped his apron on the floor, and announced, “I quit.”

She stirred her borscht calmly. “Слава Богу.” (Thank God.)

Rintarou frowned. “You’re not even gonna ask why?”

“You lasted longer than I thought you would.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

From the living room, Grandma Sokolova yelled something in Russian that vaguely sounded like “he’s soft like butter.”

Rintarou scowled. “Tell her I understood that.”

Yulia smirked. “Она знает.” (She knows.)

The next morning, Kiyoomi stood in front of the shop alone. Well — not alone. Motoya was technically there, but emotionally? Kiyoomi was in a very dark place.

“Where’s Rintarou?” Motoya asked, squinting at the time clock.

“He quit.”

“What?”

“Apparently ice cream is too loud.”

Motoya made a face. “That doesn’t even make— wait, no, I get it.”

Kiyoomi sighed, adjusted his gloves, and walked into the store like a man heading into battle.

It was a weird day without Rintarou. Calmer. Cleaner. Quieter.

But weird.

Shohei, had taken over half of Rintarou’s tasks. He was efficient, polite, and emotionally dead inside, which made him perfect for the front register. Hanae — terrifyingly pretty and deceptively sharp — handled customer complaints with a smile that made even the angriest old ladies hesitate.

Hanae wiped down tables, flirted with a group of third-year boys, and made it look effortless.

Kiyoomi stood behind the dipping counter, arms crossed.

“She’s going to get them to buy double scoops,” Motoya whispered beside him. “Watch. Her record’s seven upsells in one shift.”

“She’s terrifying.”

“She’s efficient.”

Motoya rolled his eyes at his cousin. “By the way we have a bunch of kids coming in later at 12.”

The preschoolers arrived at twelve sharp, herded in by three stressed-looking teachers and a teenage assistant who already looked like she was contemplating faking her own death.

Kiyoomi quickly learned that children under six had no understanding of “wait your turn,” “inside voice,” or “don’t lick the glass.”

Motoya, meanwhile, was in his element — spinning cones like a magician, making dinosaur sounds with every scoop, throwing in extra sprinkles “on the house” like he was some kind of hero.

Kiyoomi said nothing. But he helped. Steadily. Precisely. Quietly.

One of the kids pointed at him and said, “Why is your hair all sad?”

Kiyoomi blinked. “Because it has to deal with people like you.”

The teachers gasped. Motoya cackled.

Kiyoomi caught himself glancing at the door.

Just once. Or maybe five times.

Motoya noticed.

“You know, you could just tell him you miss him.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t lie.”

Motoya rolled his eyes.

Back home, Rintarou was sprawled across the living room floor with a bag of chips balanced on his chest. He was wearing sunglasses indoors and watching a subtitled alien documentary with Grandma Sokolova. Occasionally, they both nodded in agreement at the screen like they were in on some secret.

Lotte walked in holding a plate of cut fruit. “Kiyoomi says he’s working double now.”

“Mm,” Rintarou replied, not moving.

“Your cousin Motoya says the machine’s leaking again.”

“Yikes.”

“Your grandmother thinks you’re sulking.”

Grandma Sokolova grunted in Russian.

Rintarou threw a chip at her. She threw one back, harder.

Yulia walked by with a laundry basket. “Ты идёшь в магазин сегодня?” (“You going to the shop today?”)

He shook his head.

“Скучаешь по ним?” (“Do you miss them?”)

“Нет.” (“No.”)

Yulia smirked. “Ты врёшь, как твой отец.” (“You lie like your father.”)

Rintarou made a dramatic face and threw himself over the back of the chair. “Why do we even own a business?! Why couldn’t we be, like, boring and rich?!”

“Then you wouldn’t be interesting,” she said, walking away. “Also, you’d still complain.”

That evening, when the sun dipped and the cicadas screamed into the sky, Kiyoomi climbed onto the roof.

He found Rintarou already up there, legs dangling over the edge, can of soda sweating in one hand.

Kiyoomi didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, close but not too close.

“Did Shohei make the kid cry?” Rintarou asked after a beat.

“He stared at him until he backed out of the line.”

“Legend.”

Silence. Not awkward — just there.

“You’re still wearing the sunglasses,” Kiyoomi muttered.

“They make me look mysterious.”

“You look unemployed.”

Rintarou laughed.

They sat there until the soda cans were empty and the stars were out.

Neither said anything about the shop.

But somehow, both knew they’d be fine.

Chapter Text

Sundays in the Suna-Sakusa household operated under one sacred rule: do not speak of the shop.

Which, of course, meant it was all anyone ever whispered about in corners, like it was some cursed family heirloom.

The house smelled like fried cheese and cinnamon from sunrise, thanks to Grandma Sokolova dominating the kitchen like a war general. Her slippers slapped against the hardwood floors as she barked Russian instructions at no one in particular and demanded her ancient radio be turned up louder.

“Блины не готовятся на тишине!” she declared. (Blini don’t cook in silence!)

Yulia sighed over her mug of coffee. “Mama, you’re going to shake the foundation off the house.”

“I am the foundation,” Grandma snapped, flipping a pancake with the ferocity of a street fighter.

In the living room, Rintarou was cocooned under a soft gray blanket like some kind of anti-social caterpillar, phone held inches from his face. Kiyoomi sat across from him, rigid in posture and freshly showered, sipping tea like he was practicing for a feature in a minimalist lifestyle magazine.

“You’re up early,” Rintarou murmured, voice half-muffled by blanket and sleep.

Kiyoomi didn’t look up. “It’s 11:30.”

“Exactly. That’s barely morning.”

“You’ve been in the same spot since yesterday.”

“That’s a bold assumption,” Rintarou said, turning his phone. “I went to the kitchen once. Witness me.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “You should try breathing real air sometime.”

“I’m neurodivergent. I live on vibes and spite.”

Lotte entered, setting down a small plate of sliced apples in front of Kiyoomi. “Kinder, du musst etwas Gesundes essen.” (Sweetheart, you have to eat something healthy.)

Kiyoomi accepted it without argument, while Rintarou raised a hand dramatically.

“Where’s my fruit plate, Frau Lotte?”

“Get it yourself,” she said sweetly, kissing Kiyoomi’s head as she passed.

“Foul play.”

By lunch, the cousins had arrived—Hanae bouncing on her heels with contagious energy, Shohei trying to hide the evidence of whatever street ramen he’d sneakily eaten ten minutes before showing up.

“We have festival news!” Hanae announced, flopping onto the floor next to Rintarou, who groaned in protest.

“I literally just got comfortable.”

“You’re always comfortable.”

“Incorrect. I have joint pain and emotional instability.”

“You’re 17.”

“Which is basically 80 in blanket years.”

Shohei tossed a cushion at him. “Anyway, the neighborhood festival is on the 20th. We need ice cream soldiers. You two are drafted.”

Kiyoomi looked up. “I already work at the shop.”

“You’re family. So… double work,” Shohei replied brightly.

“I reject this system.”

“Too bad. The council has spoken.”

“What council?”

“Me and Hanae.”

Lotte peeked her head in from the kitchen, where she and Yulia were already sorting canned goods. “If you boys don’t help with the festival, you can stay home with us and deep clean the pantry.”

Yulia leaned out, smiling too sweetly. “And organize grandma’s sewing supplies.”

Kiyoomi visibly cringed. “Fine.”

“Traitor,” Rintarou muttered.

“Would you rather vacuum behind grandma’s bookshelf?”

Rintarou made a strangled noise. “Okay, okay, okay. I’ll… think about it.”

That evening, dinner turned into a quiet affair. The table was full, the food was warm, and the chaotic energy had slowly melted into something sleepy and soft.

Later, after dishes were done and everyone had retreated to their rooms or their hobbies, Rintarou wandered out to the back steps. He carried a small tub of leftover ice cream in one hand and a spoon tucked behind his ear like some kind of dessert mechanic.

Kiyoomi was already there, arms folded over his knees, staring out at the small garden patch Grandma insisted on keeping alive.

Rintarou plopped down beside him, letting their shoulders brush just slightly. It wasn’t often they sat like this, not without the buffer of sarcasm or passive-aggressive commentary.

“I’m not going back to the shop,” Rintarou said after a beat.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were going to.”

Kiyoomi exhaled slowly. “Only because Motoya asked me to.”

“I just… can’t do the noise sometimes. I start zoning out and then I get mad at myself for zoning out, and then I spiral.”

Kiyoomi glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “That’s valid.”

“Wow,” Rintarou said. “You’re evolving.”

“Don’t push it.”

He offered the tub of ice cream in a silent truce. Pistachio. Their grandma’s favorite.

Kiyoomi took the spoon from behind his ear and made a face. “This was on your ear?”

“Sanitized by the power of sibling love.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes but took a scoop anyway.

The sun was dipping below the edge of the roof, casting the world in gold and shadow. Somewhere inside, a familiar radio melody drifted through the walls.

“I might volunteer for the festival,” Rintarou mumbled.

“You just said—”

“One day isn’t the shop. It’s different.”

Kiyoomi didn’t say anything, but after a moment, he nudged Rintarou with his shoulder.

Rintarou smiled. “What?”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

They sat in companionable silence after that, letting the night settle around them like a blanket, the air thick with summer promise.

Chapter Text

The sun dipped low, casting the town in a soft orange glow as paper lanterns blinked to life across the festival grounds. The scent of grilled corn, yakisoba, and freshly fried taiyaki filled the air, mixing with laughter and the rhythmic thud of taiko drums.

Kiyoomi adjusted his neatly tied apron, standing in front of the family’s now temporarily outdoor ice cream booth. He squinted up at the colorful sign overhead—Sokolova Soft Serve & Co.—hand-painted by Hanae with way too many glitter stickers.

“Remind me again why I’m doing this?” he muttered.

“Because you’re the only one who won’t poison the customers with sarcasm,” Hanae chirped, slapping on her own apron. “And because Rintarou already bailed.”

“Medical reason,” Shohei piped in from behind the counter, his face barely visible behind stacks of cone wrappers. “ADHD brain said no.”

“He could’ve at least shown up for the free snacks,” Hanae sighed.

“He’s probably lurking near the goldfish scooping.”

Sure enough, somewhere behind the flurry of festivalgoers, Rintarou could be spotted sitting on the edge of a stall, popping pocky in his mouth like a smug cat, hoodie up despite the humidity.

Kiyoomi turned back to his station and began arranging the toppings with obsessive precision. Each bottle, spoon, and tray was aligned at perfect angles—until someone bumped the counter.

“Oi, watch it,” Kiyoomi snapped without looking.

“Sorry, sorry,” came a very Kansai-accented voice. “Didn’t know I was dealing with a perfectionist.”

Kiyoomi blinked and looked up, greeted by a mischievous grin and twin smirks.

Two identical boys, golden-eyed and cocky, stood on the other side of the booth. One wore a half-zipped hoodie and a backwards cap; the other had a fake festival mask perched atop his head.

“We just came for ice cream,” the more relaxed twin said, tilting his head.

“Unless you wanna fight us about it,” the other added with a sharp grin.

“Oh god,” Hanae whispered, eyes wide. “Miya twins. I’ve heard about them.”

Atsumu leaned on the counter with all the charm of a teenage delinquent in a romcom. “You must be Kiyoomi. Heard you run a tight ship.”

“You heard wrong,” Kiyoomi said flatly.

Osamu chuckled. “Heard he was a germaphobe. This is already fun.”

“Do you two want ice cream or not?” Kiyoomi snapped, grabbing a cone.

“Sure do. Surprise us.” Atsumu winked.

“You’ll get what I give you.”

The twins watched with fascination as Kiyoomi worked. His hands moved efficiently—scooping chocolate soft serve into a crisp cone, topping it with crushed almonds, a swirl of syrup, and a single cherry that landed dead-center like a target hit.

“Damn,” Osamu said. “I’d marry that cone.”

Atsumu took it, grinning. “If you don’t eat it, I will.”

Behind the counter, Hanae leaned toward Shohei. “Should we intervene? This feels like the beginning of a romcom.”

Shohei shook his head. “No no, let it happen. Let the chaos bloom.”

Elsewhere, the festival buzzed with life—and familiar faces.

Kiyoomi saw a few familiar faces around the festival.

Near the food stalls, Hinata Shouyou was dragging Yamaguchi Tadashi around, both covered in glitter from some failed omikuji booth. Kageyama trailed behind, chewing quietly on takoyaki.

“Did you see that guy working the soft serve booth?” Hinata gasped. “He looked like he could murder someone with sprinkles.”

“ Sakusa’san?” Yamaguchi said. “He does look a little mean.”

“Ohhh. So he’s that Sakusa.”

Meanwhile, Tsukishima had parked himself near the ring toss booth, arms crossed and unimpressed. Nearby, a spirited argument was unfolding between Nishinoya and Tanaka over who could eat more cotton candy before collapsing.

Even Bokuto could be seen with Akaashi near the shooting gallery, the owl-like boy already collecting stuffed prizes in his arms like trophies of war.

Back at the booth, Kiyoomi was busy giving side-eye to Atsumu, who had somehow reappeared for a second cone.

“You’re here again?”

“You think one scoop’s enough for someone like me?”

“You mean ‘obnoxious’?”

“You get me,” Atsumu said, winking.

Osamu snorted from behind him. “I think I’m in love. With the cone. And maybe the tension.”

Kiyoomi turned to Hanae. “Do we charge extra for pain in the ass?”

“Only if they tip.”

As the sun faded and lanterns lit up the street like stars, the booth was a flurry of movement. Kiyoomi worked efficiently, Hanae managed the crowd, and Shohei fended off children with alarming sugar cravings.

Rintarou finally ambled over, holding a half-won goldfish in a plastic bag. “I was emotionally preparing myself to be productive,” he announced.

“You’ve missed half the shift,” Kiyoomi said without looking up.

“Don’t worry. I’m here to supervise.”

“You’re going to eat free samples, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

Atsumu, mid-scoop, leaned over to Rintarou and said, “You’re his brother, right? Is he single?”

Rintarou blinked. “Kiyoomi?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Emotionally? Debatable. Legally? Probably.”

“Good enough for me.”

Kiyoomi let out a long sigh as Atsumu winked at him again. “I hate this place.”

“You love it,” Hanae said cheerfully.

Rintarou chuckled, stealing a spoonful of leftover ice cream. “Just wait till Grandma starts the karaoke.”

Kiyoomi went pale. “No.”

“Yes,” Rintarou whispered. “Она уже разогревается.” (She’s already warming up.)

They watched in dread as Grandma Sokolova adjusted the mic on stage with the confidence of a diva and yelled in full Russian, “Эта песня посвящается моим внукам!” (This song is dedicated to my grandsons!)

Shohei ducked. “Too late. We’re doomed.”

Kiyoomi handed Rintarou a cone. “Truce?”

“Always.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder behind the counter as their grandmother belted an off-key Russian ballad into the summer air, the Miya twins still lingering like feral cats who smelled drama.

The festival continued, wild and warm, and for a moment, everything felt like the perfect storm of chaos and found family.

bonus:

From the moment Atsumu Miya laid eyes on Kiyoomi Sakusa—cool-headed, apron-clad, and emotionally allergic—he made it his life’s mission (or at least his evening’s) to see how many times he could fluster the guy before the fireworks started.

By his third visit to the booth, Atsumu wasn’t even pretending to want ice cream anymore.

“Back again?” Kiyoomi asked, clearly exasperated but somehow still handing over a fresh cone.

Atsumu grinned, leaning on the counter again like a man with no shame. “I like the way ya scoop. It’s… intimate.”

“Leave,” Kiyoomi deadpanned.

“Or what?” Atsumu countered, eyes sparkling. “Ya gonna chase me with a waffle cone?”

“You wish I would touch you.”

“Oh-ho,” Atsumu sang, wiggling his brows. “So there’s a chance.”

Osamu, watching nearby with a grilled squid on a stick, didn’t even bother to hide his laugh. “Bro, he’s gonna snap.”

Kiyoomi sighed and looked down at the countertop. “If I had a yen for every time you’ve winked at me—”

“You’d be rich and married,” Atsumu cut in. “To me.”

Kiyoomi opened his mouth. Closed it. Glared.

Atsumu leaned in closer. “You always this pretty when you’re annoyed?”

“You always this insufferable when you’re awake?”

“So you have noticed me.” Atsumu winked again. “I knew this was destiny.”

By the time the sun dipped fully below the horizon and the fireworks crackled in the sky, Atsumu had managed:

• Three cones (two paid for, one stolen),
  
  
• Five winks,
  
  
• One “accidental” brush of fingers when reaching for napkins,
  
  
• And approximately twelve corny pick-up lines (including: Are you made of soft serve? ‘Cause you’re melting my cold, cold heart.)
  
  

Kiyoomi, somehow still alive, leaned against the booth with arms crossed and a scowl that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Go bother someone else.”

“Can’t,” Atsumu said, watching the fireworks light up the sky. “No one else here’s got eyes that sharp. You could probably murder a man with a glare.”

Kiyoomi turned to him slowly. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Atsumu shrugged. “Depends. Did it work?”

Kiyoomi turned back to the sky and muttered, “Unfortunately.”

Atsumu grinned like he’d just won a goldfish and the lottery at once. “Told ya this was destiny.”

Chapter Text

The fireworks were just the beginning.

The festival was loud, bright, and everywhere all at once. A symphony of noise, light, voices, smells. Lanterns hung overhead like soft, glowing suns, and children shrieked with glee around every corner. Rintarou had lasted longer than he thought he would.

He was even doing well—until he wasn’t.

“Oi, careful!” he shouted as someone nearly knocked into him. His grip on the goldfish bag tightened like it was a lifeline. “This is Igor. He’s survived three brush-ins with death tonight and I will not let him die to human stupidity.”

Atsumu blinked at the flailing, fuming boy in front of him. “You named your fish Igor?”

“Yes,” Rintarou snapped. “Because he’s dramatic and a little evil, like me.”

Atsumu grinned. “You’re fun.”

Rintarou rolled his eyes, still hugging the goldfish bag like it owed him rent. “You’re flirty.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a compliment.”

Their banter was cut off by Motoya tearing through the grounds with a sparkler, screaming, “I AM THE LAST SAMURAI!”

“NO YOU’RE NOT!” one of the cousins shrieked back, smacking Motoya with a rolled-up snack tube. “DIE, VILLAIN!”

Rintarou sighed. He was already starting to feel it—that scratchy static fuzz in his brain. His shirt felt itchy. His left sock felt like it was betraying him. He was hot, overstimulated, and his body was already halfway into “shut down” mode, but no one seemed to notice.

Which was fine. He was good at hiding it.

He always had been.

“You alright?” Kiyoomi asked, appearing at his side with a bottle of water.

“Peachy,” Rintarou said brightly, slapping a fake smile on his face. “Drenched in sweat, carrying a wet fish, surrounded by cousins who don’t know the difference between playfighting and actual violence—living the dream.”

“Drink the water,” Kiyoomi said flatly.

“Yes, mother.”

Grandma Sokolova muttered something sharp in Russian from her chair. Rintarou didn’t catch it, but it had the tone of he talks too much and listens too little.

Rintarou shot her a side-eye. “Я слышу тебя, бабушка.” (I hear you, Grandma.)

She snorted and offered him a dango in peace. He took it like a treaty had been signed.

Atsumu leaned against the booth with a crooked grin, eyes flicking between the goldfish and Rintarou’s frazzled state. “You’re surprisingly passionate about that little guy. Didn’t know you had a soft spot.”

Kiyoomi was sweeping. Deliberately. Precisely. Pretending he didn’t hear a thing.

“Yer brother always that focused or just when I’m lookin’ this good?” Atsumu asked.

Rintarou sighed like a man carrying the weight of a thousand siblings and turned to Kiyoomi. “He’s doing it again.”

Kiyoomi didn’t stop sweeping. “I don’t speak flirt. Must be a regional dialect.”

“Oh, he’s feisty tonight,” Atsumu chuckled.

“Don’t encourage him,” Osamu said, appearing behind Atsumu with a tray of leftover taiyaki. “He’s been like this all day.”

“I’m just full of love,” Atsumu said with a hand on his chest.

“You’re full of something,” Kiyoomi muttered.

“Okay,” Rintarou said, carefully placing Igor the Goldfish into a plastic basin near the booth. “Let’s not fight while I’m in possession of a live animal.”

Motoya tore through the festival grounds like a kid on too much sugar, waving a sparkler like it was a sword fighting yet another cousin. “HYAHHH! I CHALLENGE THEE TO BATTLE!”

One of their much younger cousins—Riku, maybe, or Rei—responded with a cardboard tube from a snack container. “PREPARE YOURSELF, NINJA SCUM!”

They clashed dramatically, sparklers and snack tubes clanging in the least effective duel of the evening.

“Komori!” Osamu yelled, dodging a flying spark. “Don’t light my yukata on fire again!”

“Only happened once!” Komori grinned before swinging again.

Behind them, Grandma Sokolova sat on a folding chair eating mochi and muttering something in Russian under her breath.

“Are they always like this?” Atsumu asked, eyes following the makeshift duel as it grew in intensity.

“Only at family events,” Rintarou said.

“…So, all the time.”

“Basically.”

Atsumu’s grin widened as he casually wandered over to Kiyoomi, who was still pretending to sweep. “Y’know, you never told me your name.”

Kiyoomi stiffened. “That’s because I didn’t want to.”

Rintarou covered his mouth to hide a laugh.

Atsumu leaned closer. “I’m Atsumu, by the way. I make a mean vanilla soft serve and even meaner small talk.”

Kiyoomi gave him a dry look. “Then please use that talent on someone else.”

“But I don’t wanna,” Atsumu said with a wink. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”

“Oh my god,” Rintarou muttered. “I’m going to throw myself into the goldfish pond.”

Osamu pulled Atsumu back by the collar. “We gotta go. Dad wants us home before midnight.”

“But I didn’t get a goodnight kiss from my festival crush!” Atsumu whined dramatically.

Kiyoomi dropped the broom.

Rintarou grabbed it and held it like a baseball bat. “You want to lose teeth or pride first?”

Osamu laughed, already dragging his brother off. “Sorry ‘bout him. He gets worse with sugar.”

As the twins disappeared into the night, Motoya jogged up to Rintarou and dropped to the ground in a sweaty heap. “I won.”

“You almost set Osamu on fire.”

“He ducked. That’s not my fault.”

“…Please hydrate,” Kiyoomi said, handing Komori a bottle.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Motoya just grins, before leaving Kiyoomi and Rintarou alone for a rare moment of quiet.

That’s when it hit.

All at once.

The colors, the noise, the texture of the air, the smells of fried food and smoke, the neon blinking of lights, the sticky sweat on his neck, the noise, the laughing, the shouting, the—

“Rin.”

He flinched.

“Hey,” Kiyoomi said again, softer now. “You with me?”

“I’m—” Rintarou’s voice cracked and he shut his mouth fast. He sat down abruptly on the ground, cross-legged, setting the fish bag gently beside him like it was more stable than he was.

Kiyoomi sat next to him without asking. Didn’t push. Just… waited.

“I was doing so good,” Rintarou muttered, fingers twitching in his lap.

“You were.”

“I held it together. I joked. I smile. I even flirted a little—” He stopped himself. “Okay, I didn’t flirt, but I verbally dodged flirting. That counts.”

“It does.”

“It’s just—” Rintarou curled his fingers into the hem of his shorts. “It’s too much. I didn’t pace myself. I knew I was pushing it, but it felt like… like if I sat out, I’d be disappointing everyone.”

Kiyoomi looked over. “Rin.”

“Don’t say it’s fine,” Rintarou said quickly. “I know it’s fine. But knowing that doesn’t make my brain stop. I feel like there’s a jackhammer in my head and no one else hears it.”

“I hear it,” Kiyoomi said.

Rintarou’s breath caught in his throat.

“You’re not broken,” Kiyoomi said. “Your brain just runs faster than everyone else’s sometimes. Like a festival that doesn’t know when to end.”

Rintarou gave him a weak smile. “That’s very poetic.”

“I’m very tired.”

“I can tell.”

They sat in silence.

Rintarou laid back in the grass, staring up at the darkening sky. “You think if I close my eyes long enough, I’ll disappear?”

“I think if you close your eyes long enough, Komori will run over you.”

Rintarou groaned. “I should’ve named that fish after myself.”

“You’re not Igor.”

“No. But I crash just as hard.”

Kiyoomi looked over and gently nudged Rintarou’s shoulder with his own. “Maybe. But you still swim.”

That made Rintarou laugh. A real one. Soft and unfiltered.

He reached for Igor’s bag and held it up like a trophy. “Fine. You live. For now.”

Chapter Text

The house was quiet when they returned.

Shoes kicked off at the door. Jackets half-on, half-off. The buzz of the festival still echoed in Rintarou’s ears—laughter, fireworks, music, footsteps—and now in the stillness of their home, every tick of the clock felt painfully loud. He stood in the hallway, motionless, a near-empty plastic bag dangling in his hand with one stubborn goldfish swirling slowly inside.

Igor, his goldfish. Who had somehow survived Rintarou’s near breakdown, a jostled ride home, and several close encounters with screaming toddlers and a guy in a mascot suit.

“I don’t like you,” Rintarou told the fish flatly. “You remind me I’m impulsive and terrible at decisions.”

Igor blinked at him through the bag.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Talking to your fish again?”

Yulia’s voice came from the darkened living room. She stepped into view, still in her festival yukata, now unbelted and draped loosely over her tank top. Her hair was piled up like always—messy but elegant, tired but graceful.

Rintarou didn’t look at her. He just shuffled into the kitchen and set Igor down in a mixing bowl. One of the nice ones. Lotte would murder him if she found out.

Yulia followed, barefoot.

He leaned his elbows on the counter, slumped forward like a kid who had run too far too fast and now realized the finish line was uphill.

“I was doing fine,” he said quietly, “until I wasn’t.”

Yulia nodded, opening the fridge and pulling out a chilled sports drink. She handed it to him wordlessly and rubbed a cool washcloth over the back of his neck. Rintarou winced but didn’t pull away.

“It hit you hard,” she said softly.

“It always does,” he snapped, then flinched. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re overstimulated.”

“I’m always overstimulated.”

They stood there in silence. The fridge hummed. Igor drifted in his bowl. Rintarou cracked open the drink and took a sip, then stared down at the counter like it had personally offended him.

“I was doing good, right?” he asked. “Before that.”

“You were brilliant.”

“I was masking.”

Yulia didn’t argue. She never did.

“That kid dropped cotton candy on my foot,” he muttered. “Do you know how sticky that is? I could feel it for hours. I still feel it. I want to sandpaper my ankle.”

Yulia chuckled softly.

“And I almost cried when Motoya made that pun about mochi,” he added.

“It was a bad pun.”

“It was an amazing pun and it made me want to cry. Why is my brain like this?”

“Because it’s yours.”

Rintarou scowled.

“You’re allowed to have meltdowns,” she said gently. “It doesn’t mean you failed.”

“It feels like failing.”

“You didn’t scream. You didn’t throw anything. You got yourself to a bench and sat down until you could breathe. You asked Kiyoomi to hold Igor, and you said, quote, ‘if I drop him, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.’ That sounds like excellent coping to me.”

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “You’re just saying that because I’m your favorite.”

“I’m not saying that,” Yulia said. “But you are my favorite.”

He snorted and wiped his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“Terrible.”

They migrated to the couch without speaking, Rintarou carrying Igor in his bowl and Yulia bringing the washcloth. The house was still quiet—Lotte had turned in, and Grandma Sokolova had fallen asleep while muttering in Russian about overpriced dango.

Rintarou curled into the corner of the couch, pulling the throw blanket over his legs. Yulia sat beside him and reached for his hand.

“I know today was a lot,” she said. “But I’m proud of you.”

“Everyone had fun. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

Rintarou turned to look at her. “What if I had?”

“Then we would’ve gone home early, watched a bad movie, and cuddled with your fish.”

“Igor hates cuddles.”

“Then I would cuddle you, and Igor could judge from his bowl.”

He smiled faintly.

“You’re not a burden, Rin,” she added. “Even when you feel like one. Especially then.”

Rintarou leaned into her shoulder with a tired groan. “Stop making me emotional, it’s gross.”

“Emotions are healthy.”

“I hope you trip tomorrow.”

“I hope you sleep well tonight.”

They stayed like that a while. No TV, no music—just breathing and soft comfort, the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty.

Upstairs, Kiyoomi paused on the staircase. He’d been heading down for a glass of water, but now he lingered, one hand on the railing. He couldn’t hear all of it. Just enough.

Rintarou’s voice, tight and tired and too sharp in places.

Yulia’s voice, soft and grounding.

Their mother and brother, but not his—not fully. Yet somehow, in that moment, he felt like he belonged.

He didn’t interrupt. Just watched through the slats, quiet as a ghost.

Maybe tomorrow, he’d sit with Rintarou on the porch again.

Maybe he’d talk next time.

Maybe they were figuring it out.

Maybe he’d be there for him. 

Chapter Text

“Wait—who said we were sleeping?” Shohei said, already stretched across two futons like a starfish, holding a bag of shrimp chips above his head.

The cousins were having their annual sleepover. 

“You’re twenty,” Kiyoomi deadpanned from the corner of the room, neatly folding his socks. “You have a full-time job. You should be in bed.”

“And yet here I am,” Shohei replied, tossing a chip into his mouth and crunching obnoxiously.

“Gross,” muttered Hanae, curling up with a pillow. “He’s gonna fall asleep with crumbs in his mouth again.”

The living room was packed. Futons lined the floor, snack bags were open, and the cousins—at least the ones close enough in age to survive the night together—were well into what Rintarou dramatically called “Chaos Hour.”

“Truth or dare!” Niko yelled suddenly, cutting off whatever Motoya was saying about a raccoon he swore he saw on the way home.

“No!” said Rintarou and Kiyoomi in unison, which only made the younger cousins laugh louder.

“Okay, but what if it’s like… Truth or Dare but ADHD edition?” Motoya proposed. “Like—no rules. You can switch halfway through. Or bark instead.”

“What—” Kiyoomi blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I like it,” Rintarou nodded solemnly. “Pure chaos. Let’s go.”

The night blurred into rounds of uno with constantly changing rules, Just Dance battles with Shohei flailing like a drunken flamingo, and debates over which cousin was the favorite (the answer was always Yuri, who denied it furiously every time).

Motoya jumped on the couch. “Let’s go to the konbini!”

“It’s literally 2AM,” Hanae muttered, but she was already pulling on a hoodie.

“I want melon pan,” said Niko, grabbing his wallet.

“You just ate sour gummies, chips, and an ice cream sandwich,” Kiyoomi said.

“…And?”

“It’s giving fat ass.” Yuri grumbled, while Hanae laughed. 

Rintarou was already at the door. “Come on, Kiyoomi, live a little.”

“I live plenty,” Kiyoomi sighed, but he followed them anyway, shoving his hands in his pockets.

The local FamilyMart was just dimly lit enough to feel like forbidden territory. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed softly as they filed in, a gang of chaotic teens in slippers and pajama pants.

Rintarou darted toward the drinks. “Energy drinks? At 2:15 AM? Who’s with me?”

“You’re not even tired, are you?” Motoya asked, grabbing a random bottle of milk tea.

“Not yet. But if I crash, I’m blaming Shohei.”

“You always do.”

Rintarou shrugged as he grabbed three cans of monster, and two cans of watermelon red bull. 

The door chimed as two boys entered the convenience store, laughing about something half-mumbled and completely annoying.

Rintarou groaned, squinting toward the entrance. “Oh, no. It’s them.”

Kiyoomi, who had been scanning the refrigerated drinks, tensed slightly.

There stood the Miya twins. Atsumu, in ripped jeans and a smug grin, cocked his head at the group. Osamu trailed behind him with an onigiri in one hand and no interest in the chaos unfolding.

Atsumu’s eyes found Kiyoomi immediately.

“Hey, it’s you,” he said, leaning against a shelf with far too much swagger for a convenience store. “Didn’t know you were a night owl.”

“I’m not,” Kiyoomi said flatly. “This is a hostage situation.”

Rintarou wheezed.

Atsumu laughed. “Aw, you wound me.”

“Try deeper,” Kiyoomi replied without blinking, brushing past him toward the bread aisle.

“Oooh,” Osamu said mildly, “he got you there.”

Rintarou snorted, catching Atsumu’s stunned face. “He’s not kidding, by the way.”

But Atsumu wasn’t deterred. He followed Kiyoomi anyway, watching as he grabbed a plain anpan.

“You like sweet things, huh?” Atsumu asked, tone far too flirty for this late at night.

Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow. “I like silence.”

“Bold of you to come out dressed like that if you didn’t want attention.”

“I’m wearing sweatpants.”

“Exactly.”

From across the store, Hanae whispered to Yuri, “Is he flirting or trying to get punched?”

Yuri grinned. “Little of both, probably.”

Rintarou, observing all this while sipping his melon soda, gave Osamu a look. “Is he always like this?”

Osamu took a bite of his onigiri. “Worse.”

Eventually, purchases made and banter exchanged, both groups filtered out into the quiet of the street, lit only by vending machines and the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp.

Atsumu turned to Rintarou.

“You—uh, you were at the goldfish scooping stand. And then the yakisoba. You helped that little girl who dropped her cotton candy.”

“I didn’t help anyone.”

“Yes, you did!” Atsumu jabbed a finger. “You just shoved the vendor some cash and walked away like some cool mysterious ice prince.”

Kiyoomi turned to Rintarou, deadpan. “Is he having a stroke?”

“Nope. This is his default setting.”

Atsumu ignored them, grinning wide. “Man, I’ve been tryin’ to figure out who you were since that night. Told Samu you were a myth. I was so upset because Samu dragged me away before I could get your name.”

Kiyoomi gave him a long, disinterested look. “…I like it better that way.”

Osamu appeared behind him, dragging him by the collar. “He’s been callin’ you ‘Festival Crush’ for two days. Please don’t feed this.”

Rintarou doubled over laughing, while Kiyoomi just turned away, muttering something in German that definitely wasn’t flattering.

Atsumu, undeterred, called over his shoulder, “See you around, Festival Crush!”

Kiyoomi didn’t reply. But the tips of his ears were red.

“Regrettably,” Kiyoomi murmured.

But maybe… just maybe… there was a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.

Back at home, as they dumped their snacks onto the living room floor, Rintarou sighed dramatically.

“Why do we never have normal nights?”

Shohei flopped back onto a futon. “Because we’re related. That’s why.”

Motoya cackled, opening his drink. “Let’s make popcorn and pretend to sleep.”

Hanae, already dozing, waved a hand. “Five more minutes of chaos. Then peace.”

Kiyoomi stared at the ceiling, still hearing Atsumu’s voice in his head.

Rintarou elbowed him. “He likes you, y’know.”

“He’s a menace,” Kiyoomi replied.

“Menace with nice arms, though.”

“Go to sleep, Rintarou.”

“Fine. But if you dream about him, I want royalties.”

Chapter Text

The sun was already ruthless when Rintarou woke up, his cheeks stuck to the pillow and the back of his neck damp with sweat. Somewhere in the house, someone was yelling in Russian. Someone else was laughing in German. A baby was crying. It was 9:43 a.m., and chaos had clocked in early.

“Was zum Teufel ist das für ein Lärm?” Lotte groaned, dragging herself into the hallway in a long linen robe, clutching her coffee like it was sacred. (“What the hell is that noise?”)

From downstairs, Yulia’s voice responded with a cheery, “It’s a pool day, Lotte! Stop being so dramatic.”

Rintarou rolled out of bed, swiping a pillow across the room toward Kiyoomi, who hadn’t stirred. “Oi. Pool day. Get up.”

Kiyoomi groaned from beneath the covers. “It’s too hot to move.”

“Exactly why you’re getting dunked.”

In the backyard, the massive pool was already bubbling with energy. Plastic floaties bobbed around like lazy sea creatures while kids cannonballed from the deck. Someone had strung up fairy lights between trees, though it was still broad daylight. A Bluetooth speaker blared summer pop hits, occasionally switching to old-school Russian disco courtesy of Babushka Sokolova.

“Держи, малышка!” (“Hold this, baby!”) she yelled, passing a dripping otter floatie to one of the younger grandkids—four-year-old Mila, who wore her goggles upside down and was chewing on a pool noodle.

Aunts and uncles milled around with plates of sliced watermelon, grilled yakitori, and too many variations of cold pasta salad. Uncle Pavel was trying to fix a busted water gun with a screwdriver, while Aunt Helga had taken over the grill.

“I swear, the kids are gonna turn into pickles,” she muttered in German. “They’ve been in there for three hours.”

Rintarou sat on a pool chair, hair dripping and shirt clinging to his chest, watching cousins whip pool noodles at each other. Niko was arguing with Yuri over whether or not pushing people in without warning was a federal offense. Hanae sat by the edge with her feet in the water, a baby on her hip and a Capri-Sun in the other.

Shohei lounged on a towel, sunglasses on, headphones in, not helping at all.

“Hey, can someone tell your baby to stop kicking me?” Kiyoomi grumbled from where he was crouched beside a kiddie pool that somehow had real fish in it now.

“That’s Aleksei,” said Hanae, unfazed. “And he’s expressing himself.”

Aleksei, two years old and full of determination, kicked again.

By midday, the food table was a disaster zone—half-eaten popsicles, a watermelon carved into a bowl, open chip bags, cookies that had been suspiciously licked and then abandoned. Yulia passed around homemade honey cake, wiping her forehead with the edge of her apron.

“Everyone hydrate! No dying allowed on my watch!”

Uncle Sergei accidentally stepped on a juice box and got ambushed by five of the younger cousins armed with pool noodles.

Meanwhile, Rintarou stood dripping beside the snack table, barely holding it together.

Too many conversations at once. Loud. Wet. Sticky. The grill smoke. Someone’s kid was shrieking. He could feel the buzzing in his brain ramping up.

Kiyoomi appeared beside him with two ice-cold ramunes. “Breathe,” he said simply.

Rintarou took one, twisted it open, and pressed the bottle against his cheek. “Thanks.”

“You need to sit down.”

“No, I need to scream into a towel. Then sit down.”

“Acceptable.”

They sat side by side on a shaded bench, sipping drinks while kids darted around them. For a moment, it was quiet. Even if it was still chaotic, it felt distant.

“I love them all, but they are so freaking loud,” Rintarou mumbled, eyes closed. “My brain is a frying pan.”

“You should’ve seen you as a toddler,” Kiyoomi said dryly. “You were the chaos.”

“I am the chaos,” Rintarou shot back. “But chaos deserves a break.”

Later that evening, after the sun dipped lower and bug spray had been liberally applied to all exposed limbs, someone pulled out sparklers. The kids waved them around like mini fireworks, while the adults gathered for tea and cake.

Babushka Sokolova sat in a chair wrapped in a blanket, speaking softly in Russian to Kiyoomi, who nodded politely even if he understood about half of it.

“Ты хороший мальчик, как твой отец,” she said, patting his hand. (“You’re a good boy, like your father.”)

Kiyoomi flushed and looked away, sipping his barley tea.

Meanwhile, Rintarou helped Niko braid his hair, the two of them giggling over how Shohei snored like a motorcycle.

Eventually, people began to drift off—kids carried inside, others collapsing on towels. The sun was gone, and the fairy lights had finally kicked in.

Yulia and Lotte stood side by side, watching their sea of children and grandchildren with tired eyes but soft smiles.

“They’re going to remember this,” Lotte murmured in German. “Even if it’s loud.”

“They’d better,” Yulia replied, tossing a towel over her shoulder. “This much laundry deserves respect.”

As the night deepened, the backyard dimmed into a hazy glow under string lights and the hum of cicadas. Most of the younger kids had already been carried inside, changed into pajamas, and tucked away in guest rooms, while the older cousins sprawled across lawn chairs, towels, and bean bags dragged outside from the rec room.

The pool shimmered dark and still now, only occasionally rippling when someone dipped in a toe or tossed in a rogue floatie.

Inside, Babushka Sokolova had fallen asleep on the couch with a fluffy white cat curled on her chest, a soft Russian lullaby still murmuring from her cracked tablet. Uncle Pavel was snoring in a recliner, his arm slung over his face. Aunt Helga had commandeered the kitchen, reorganizing the fridge with terrifying precision and muttering to herself in German about “übermäßiger Eiskonsum” (“excessive ice cream consumption”).

Out back, the “older crew” had gathered around a fire pit that Shohei insisted on building—even though it was 27°C and no one needed a fire.

“It’s about vibes,” he explained, chucking a marshmallow into the flames like a pagan offering. “And tradition.”

“That’s not tradition. That’s a sugar sacrifice,” Motoya snorted, shoving a full s’more into his mouth.

Rintarou flopped sideways on a bean bag, one foot hanging off the edge, hair damp and messy, shirt wrinkled. “I swear, if someone plays a ukulele, I’m walking into the ocean.”

“There’s no ocean here,” Kiyoomi replied flatly, nibbling the edge of a marshmallow with surgical precision.

“I’ll find one.”

Shohei offered him a soda. “Drink this instead. It’ll help with the dramatic episode you’re having.”

“I’m not dramatic,” Rintarou sniffed, taking it anyway.

“You threw yourself across the table earlier because someone took the last grape soda,” Hanae reminded him.

“It was the last one! That’s an emotional crisis.”

Yuri and Niko, still slightly damp from the pool and now wearing matching cartoon pajamas, had stolen an entire blanket and were curled up like gremlins beside Motoya. Occasionally, they whispered and giggled about absolutely nothing, tossing potato chips into each other’s mouths.

Chapter Text

The house was quieter than usual.

Not silent—never that, not with three generations of family crammed into one large house with too many opinions and not enough bathrooms—but quieter. The kind of stillness that follows the chaos of a long day filled with sun, sugar, and small children with pool floaties shaped like aquatic dinosaurs.

Kiyoomi sat on the edge of the engawa, one leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched out lazily. His towel-dried curls were still damp from his morning shower, and he was nursing a glass of cold barley tea like it held all the answers to life.

He needed this silence.

Yesterday had been… intense. There’d been toddlers throwing watermelon slices, great-aunt Vera telling everyone she used to model for Soviet magazines, and at one point Rintarou got into a deep philosophical debate with four-year-old Lena about why ducks exist. Loud, messy, and weirdly beautiful.

But Kiyoomi’s social meter had been drained. His limbs still felt heavy from sensory overload.

“Du siehst müde aus,” Lotte murmured as she stepped outside with her own cup of coffee. Her voice was soft, maternal in the way only his mother knew how to be.

“You look tired,” she repeated in broken Japanese when Kiyoomi didn’t respond right away.

He blinked, slowly. “It was a long day.”

“I could hear you sighing from the kitchen.”

“That was Rintarou. I haven’t sighed once today.”

Lotte laughed quietly. “Lügenkind.”

Liar.

He gave her a sharp look. “You can’t just say that.”

“I can. I did.” She kissed his forehead in passing and returned inside, the screen door sliding shut behind her.

Moments later, Rintarou emerged. His hair was sticking up in three directions, and he was wearing socks with sandals—deliberately.

Kiyoomi didn’t say anything. That was the nature of their brotherhood: insult each other only when necessary.

Although in his mind, Kiyoomi was flaming Rintarou and his choice of style. 

Rintarou dropped down beside him, cradling a leftover taiyaki wrapped in a paper towel like it was a priceless relic.

“I found this behind the juice boxes,” he announced. “Someone tried to hide it. I respect the hustle.”

“Eating day-old fish pastry is not a hustle.”

Rintarou took a bite and closed his eyes in bliss. “You’re just mad you didn’t find it first.”

They sat like that for a while, watching one of their younger cousins, Maksim, chase bubbles across the yard. Somewhere inside, the family was still stirring—dishes clinking, someone shouting about a missing phone, someone else claiming they saw it in the laundry basket.

“Do you think we’re normal?” Rintarou asked out of nowhere.

Kiyoomi’s brow lifted. “No.”

Rintarou laughed. “Yeah. Me neither.”

He leaned back on his elbows, expression soft.

“But I like it.”

Kiyoomi glanced over, his lips twitching at the corners. “Me too.”

Before the moment could grow too sincere, Yuri burst out of the house holding an inflatable banana and shouting about revenge for some injustice committed by Niko the night before. Shohei followed after him, clearly not awake enough for whatever was happening.

“You guys aren’t playing fair.” Motoya followed from behind, “If I die, hide my phone.”

“Chaos round two,” Rintarou said with a sigh.

Kiyoomi stood, brushing off his pants. “I’m going for a walk.”

Rintarou tilted his head. “You want me to come?”

Kiyoomi thought about it for a beat.

“Sure why not.”

They walked through the residential streets side by side, not talking much, not needing to. The morning air was warm and sticky, the buzz of cicadas undercutting every step. Kiyoomi found it strangely peaceful, like a quiet summer scene out of an old film.

Kiyoomi sighs, he knows he has to get back to the store soon.

And then…

“Hey! You guys again!”

A voice—bright, familiar, and undeniably smug—cut through the air like a firecracker.

Both brothers turned in unison.

Atsumu and Osamu Miya were walking toward them, each holding conbini popsicles and wearing matching tank tops that should’ve been illegal. Atsumu looked especially pleased with himself, as if he’d just won a bet he made with the universe.

Osamu looked like he didn’t even want to be there. 

“I told ya we’d see them again,” Atsumu grinned, nudging his twin.

Osamu shrugged. “That wasn’t even a bet.”

“Still counts.”

Rintarou blinked slowly. “Are you following us?”

“No, but if we were, would that be creepy or flattering?” Atsumu grinned, eyes flicking to Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi, ever the picture of restraint, merely said, “It would be concerning.”

“I like ‘mysterious,’ personally,” Atsumu said, then extended a hand. “Well you already know my name’s Miya Atsumu. Figured it was time I learned your actual name instead of calling you ‘Festival Boy’ in my head.”

Rintarou snorted. Kiyoomi stared at the offered hand for a moment too long before reluctantly shaking it.

“…Kiyoomi.”

Osamu offered his hand next. “Osamu. Nice to meet ya properly.”

“Rintarou,” Rintarou said, mouth quirking. “Suna Rintarou.”

“No way,” Atsumu said, eyes lighting up. “Now that’s a cool name.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Rude.”

“What are you two doing here?” Osamu asked.

“Walking,” Kiyoomi replied dryly. “It’s a public street.”

Rintarou, amused, added, “We’re recovering from cousin-induced PTSD.”

“Been there,” Atsumu said. “We’ve got a nephew who stuck gum in my hair last summer.”

“It was funny, you should’ve seen it.” Osamu laughed. 

“Shut up Samu!” 

They all stood there for a beat, and something easy settled between them—like a puzzle piece sliding into place without too much force.

“You guys want to grab a drink at the café down the street?” Osamu asked. “Our treat.”

Atsumu elbowed him. “You mean my treat.”

“Same thing.”

Kiyoomi hesitated—but Rintarou was already walking ahead with a breezy, “Sure, why not. I want to see what other weird things you call mysterious.”

Chapter Text

They didn’t even make it five steps before Atsumu started talking again.

“Y’know, I wasn’t sure if you were real.”

Kiyoomi gave him a glance.

Atsumu grinned. “At the festival. You were all glittery skin and silent judgment. I thought maybe I dreamed you up.”

“You have strange dreams.”

“Yeah, well, it’s summer. The heat does things.”

“I think that’s called heatstroke.”

Atsumu laughed, loud and unbothered. “God, you’re prickly. I like it.”

Osamu, walking slightly ahead with Rintarou, looked over his shoulder. “Stop harassing people before we even sit down.”

“I’m not harassing him! I’m being friendly.”

“You’re being intense,” Rintarou supplied.

“Same thing,” Atsumu chirped.

Kiyoomi exhaled slowly through his nose, already wondering if it was too late to pretend he had a dentist appointment. Or appendicitis.

The café had mismatched chairs, creaky fans, and a menu that smelled like it had been around since 2005. Still, it was air-conditioned and quiet. Two wins in Kiyoomi’s book.

They all slid into a booth. Osamu and Rintarou on one side, Atsumu and Kiyoomi on the other. Kiyoomi sat with his arms folded, very much aware of the zero inches of personal space Atsumu seemed to require.

“So,” Atsumu leaned closer, chin in hand, “what do you do for fun?”

Kiyoomi blinked. “Read.”

“Okay, okay. What kind of books?”

“Non-fiction.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“That’s so hot.”

Kiyoomi stared at him. “You think nonfiction is hot?”

“I think you reading nonfiction is hot.”

“Do you flirt like this with everyone?”

“No. Just you.” Atsumu smiled, and for a brief second, it was quieter—sincere. “You’ve got a… cool vibe. Like, mysterious loner with a tragic backstory kinda thing.”

“I’m not mysterious.”

“Sure, and I’m not devastatingly charming.”

Osamu snorted into his drink.

“Anyway,” Atsumu went on, “you’ve got this face that says ‘don’t talk to me,’ and I think that’s kind of unfair, because now I really want to.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“But in a lovable way?”

“In a very avoidable way.”

Rintarou was watching the whole thing with open amusement. “You know, I thought I was the dramatic one in this family.”

“You still are,” Kiyoomi muttered.

“Fair.”

They ordered drinks—iced teas for the twins, a cold brew for Rintarou, and a green tea for Kiyoomi, which prompted another round of commentary from Atsumu.

“Green tea? You’re so refined.”

“It’s just tea.”

“Yeah, but it’s your tea. Probably hand-selected by monks on a mountain somewhere.”

“It came from the convenience store fridge.”

“I still think you drink it like a prince.”

“Do you ever turn off?”

“Only when I sleep. Which I’d be happy to demonstrate—”

“Stop,” Osamu said, not even looking up from his menu.

“—if anyone’s curious,” Atsumu finished smugly.

Kiyoomi pressed a hand to his temple. His brain was a fine mix of overstimulation and secondhand embarrassment. And maybe, just a touch of amusement. But he’d sooner die than admit that out loud.

Half an hour in, the table had fully settled into a rhythm.

Osamu and Rintarou were talking quietly about food again—some local yakitori stand they wanted to try. Atsumu was now attempting to get Kiyoomi to rate random things on a scale from 1 to 10.

“Okay. Rainy days.”

“7.”

“Cats.”

“6.”

“Me.”

Kiyoomi looked at him flatly. “…Negative 4.”

“Ouch,” Atsumu clutched his chest. “Right in the self-esteem.”

“You still have some left?”

“You wound me, Omi.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But it’s cute.”

“It’s two syllables shorter than my name.”

“All the better to shout across a crowded street,” Atsumu winked. “Omiii~!”

Kiyoomi contemplated climbing out the window.

Eventually, Kiyoomi excused himself to the bathroom. He needed a break. A minute. Just to breathe.

The bathroom was cool and quiet, with soft lighting and a shelf of tiny succulents by the sink. He stared at his reflection, water droplets clinging to his jaw. He looked calm. But inside, he felt like a loaded spring.

He didn’t like unpredictability. Didn’t like loud, bright people who made space in every room they walked into.

And yet…

Something about Atsumu kept curling around the edges of his nerves—not annoying, not exactly charming, just… intriguing.

He dried his hands slowly.

When he returned, Atsumu was doodling on a napkin. A truly awful drawing of a curly-haired stick figure that looked suspiciously like Kiyoomi.

“You draw like a toddler,” Kiyoomi said, sitting back down.

“I’m better at performance art,” Atsumu replied. “Want me to serenade you?”

“No.”

“Too late.”

He cleared his throat dramatically and began, off-key: “🎵 You’re so mysterious and mean to me—like a cat with trauma and a PhD 🎵”

“Please stop.”

“🎵 But I think you’re secretly sweet inside—like a hedgehog wearing a suit and tie 🎵”

Osamu was halfway to throwing a napkin at his head. Rintarou was wheezing.

“I will walk out of here,” Kiyoomi said.

“You won’t,” Atsumu smiled, easy. “You’re curious.”

He wasn’t wrong. And that was the most frustrating part.

When they finally got up to leave, Atsumu walked beside Kiyoomi again, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“You’re interesting, y’know,” he said, softer this time.

Kiyoomi looked over.

“And I want to get to know you more. But only if you want.”

Kiyoomi stared at him for a moment, considering. Then, in his usual tone—cool, unreadable:

“I’ll think about it.”

Atsumu beamed. “I can work with that.”

bonus:

“So, Osamu,” Rintarou said, voice low so it wouldn’t cut through the constant flirtation happening next to them, “is your brother always like this?”

Osamu didn’t even look up. “You mean loud, shameless, and emotionally overinvested? Yep. Every day. Like clockwork.”

Rintarou laughed, head tilting back. “Doesn’t it ever get old?”

“Oh, constantly. But I signed a lifelong contract. Twinhood isn’t optional.”

Rintarou stirred his drink with the straw. “You’re the calm one.”

“I’m the sane one.”

“Must be exhausting.”

Osamu finally looked up, one brow raised. “You say that like you’re not carrying your whole family’s emotional trauma like a backpack full of bricks.”

Rintarou blinked. “…Wow. Coming in hot, huh?”

“I work in a kitchen. I specialize in heat.”

There was a beat, then both of them broke into quiet laughter.

“I like you,” Rintarou said, nudging Osamu’s foot under the table. “You’re blunt. But like, in a comforting way.”

“Yeah? You’re not bad yourself,” Osamu replied. “You keep up with my brother better than anyone I’ve seen.”

“That’s not a compliment. That’s a survival tactic.”

“Still impressive.”

They both paused to sip their drinks. The sound of Atsumu belting out a terrible song floated over the table.

“God, he’s so embarrassing,” Osamu muttered.

“I dunno,” Rintarou said, watching Kiyoomi visibly restrain himself from committing murder, “it’s kind of charming.”

“Please don’t encourage him.”

“Too late.”

There was a moment of companionable silence. Then Rintarou said, quieter, “He’s good for Kiyoomi, though. I think.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Kiyoomi’s… closed off. You can’t force people like that open. But you can leave the door unlocked. Atsumu’s a walking open door.”

“That’s surprisingly poetic.”

Rintarou smiled, lips quirking. “I’m a surprisingly poetic guy.”

“Uh-huh. You gonna write a haiku about my brother now?”

“Only if it includes the words loud, sparkly, and menace.”

“You forgot golden retriever energy.”

“Perfect. I’ll add that to the last line.”

They both grinned, sipping their drinks like old friends, despite having only known each other for a few days.

Outside the window, summer carried on—bright, blazing, relentless.

Inside, it felt kind of okay.

Chapter Text

The bell above the shop door jingled like an ominous warning.

Kiyoomi didn’t need to look up from the register to know it was him. That annoyingly bright presence—the kind that burned like the sun even when it was cloudy.

“Ohayooo~,” Atsumu sing-songed, sauntering inside like this was his place now. “Thought I’d stop by for a scoop. Or two.”

Kiyoomi glanced up just in time to see the smug smile curling at Atsumu’s mouth. Great. It was going to be that kind of shift.

“Menu’s on the wall,” Kiyoomi said flatly, gesturing toward the large chalkboard behind him.

“Yeah, yeah, but I prefer recommendations,” Atsumu leaned against the counter, eyebrows raised. “Whatcha think suits me? Somethin’ sweet? Bold? A lil’ spicy?”

“Something loud and hard to get rid of,” Rintarou muttered from his seat in the corner, flipping through a manga.

Atsumu whipped around. “Hey! You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” Rintarou replied without looking up. “Barely.”

Motoya was behind the counter beside Kiyoomi, casually wiping down surfaces that were already clean, doing nothing to hide the grin on his face. He nudged Kiyoomi with his elbow and murmured, “He’s back for you, you know.”

“I know,” Kiyoomi hissed under his breath, already feeling the heat crawl up his neck.

Atsumu turned back to him, chin propped on his hand now. “C’mon, don’t make me beg.”

“Please don’t,” Kiyoomi said, monotone, reaching into the freezer. “You look like a mango sorbet type.”

Atsumu squinted at him. “You just callin’ me fruity?”

Kiyoomi blinked slowly. “If the scoop fits.”

Rintarou cackled from the corner. “God, that was good. Who are you lately?”

Kiyoomi didn’t answer. He scooped the mango sorbet and handed it over, avoiding Atsumu’s gaze. The boy paid with a flourish—way too many coins just to be difficult—and then stayed right where he was, licking his spoon dramatically.

“You don’t have any free tables,” Atsumu said casually. “Mind if I hang here?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi said. “I mind.”

“I don’t,” Motoya chirped. “Be my guest!”

Kiyoomi sent him a murderous glare. Motoya only shrugged and whispered, “You need the practice. Socially.”

Atsumu leaned against the counter, watching Kiyoomi like he was studying an exotic animal. “So. What’s a guy gotta do to get your number?”

“Try being someone else,” Kiyoomi muttered.

“Oof.” Atsumu clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. “Cold. Ice cold. Good thing I’m already in a shop full of it.”

Kiyoomi took a deep breath and turned to clean the counter, again. He heard Rintarou get up and walk over.

“I’m gonna go,” Rintarou announced. “Before I witness anything I can’t unsee. Like flirting. Or feelings.”

“Coward,” Motoya called after him.

“Survivor,” Rintarou corrected.

Atsumu turned to watch Rintarou leave, then back to Kiyoomi. “Y’know, I could come here every day.”

“Please don’t.”

“I might,” Atsumu said, grinning around his spoon. “Depends on the company.”

Kiyoomi wiped the same spot on the counter for the fifth time. “You’re annoying.”

“Yet… you haven’t kicked me out.”

“I’m working.”

“Sure,” Atsumu said. “But I don’t see you tellin’ me to go.”

Kiyoomi set the rag down. “Go.”

Atsumu smiled even wider. “Nah. I like it here.”

Motoya snorted.

The shift dragged on like molasses. Atsumu stayed the entire time, chatting with customers like he worked there, helping some kid decide between bubblegum and vanilla, and complimenting Kiyoomi every ten minutes like it was part of his breathing pattern.

“You look real good in that apron,” he said once.

“It’s regulation,” Kiyoomi replied.

“Yeah, but it’s really working for you.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Only if you ask nice,” Atsumu winked.

Later, when it was finally time to close, Kiyoomi was restocking napkins when Motoya leaned against the counter beside him, biting into a taiyaki.

“So,” he said with his mouth full. “Your boyfriend’s persistent.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Mmm.” Motoya nodded, chewing. “But he wants to be.”

Kiyoomi didn’t reply. But his ears were pink.

Atsumu passed by the counter, licking the last of his second scoop—strawberry this time—and said, “Same time tomorrow?”

Kiyoomi looked up, deadpan. “You don’t have a job?”

“Volleyball training’s in the evening. Mornings are all yours.”

“Tragic.”

“I know,” Atsumu said brightly. “For you.”

When the bell finally jingled again and Atsumu stepped out into the fading heat of the late afternoon, Kiyoomi let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The silence left in his wake was deafening.

Motoya was already back behind the counter, leaning against the freezer like he lived there, watching Kiyoomi with a slow, amused blink.

“You know,” Motoya started, “for someone who claims to hate attention, you sure attract a lot of it.”

Kiyoomi shot him a flat look as he finished wiping down the counter—this time for a valid reason.

“He’s loud,” Kiyoomi muttered.

“He’s into you,” Motoya corrected, tossing a cloth over his shoulder. “And he’s not being subtle about it.”

Kiyoomi didn’t respond. He moved to restock spoons, but his hands paused for a second. Motoya caught it.

“You don’t hate it,” he said casually.

Kiyoomi closed the drawer with a soft click. “I don’t like being… the center of things.”

“Yeah, but Atsumu doesn’t make you the center,” Motoya said thoughtfully, stepping beside him. “He just… kind of orbits around you. Loudly. With sparkles.”

Kiyoomi huffed out a tired breath that might’ve been a laugh.

Motoya tapped the counter once. “You blushed. Multiple times.”

“Because he’s annoying.”

“Because you like him.”

“I don’t know him.”

Motoya leaned closer. “Then get to know him.”

Kiyoomi met his gaze. There was something soft in Motoya’s expression—something that made Kiyoomi’s chest tighten. Not judgment. Not teasing. Just… familiarity.

“Hey,” Motoya added, his voice quieter now. “You don’t have to rush anything. But you also don’t have to hide from it.”

Kiyoomi looked away, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of a napkin. “…I’m not good at this.”

Motoya nudged his shoulder. “You don’t have to be. You just have to be you. Apparently, that’s already working.”

Kiyoomi snorted. “I’ll think about it.”

“Again?” Motoya laughed. “You’re always thinking. You ever just do something without overanalyzing it?”

“I’m friends with you, aren’t I?”

“Ouch,” Motoya clutched his chest, mock-wounded. “That’s cold. I’m telling Grandma.”

Kiyoomi allowed himself the smallest smile.

The two of them finished closing the shop in comfortable silence, the sky outside painted in streaks of rose and gold. When they finally stepped outside and locked the door behind them, Kiyoomi glanced down the street, half-expecting Atsumu to be waiting on the curb with another bad line.

He wasn’t.

And yet, the lingering warmth stayed with him.

He didn’t say anything as they walked home, but when they passed a vending machine, Kiyoomi stopped and bought two bottles of tea.

He handed one to Motoya without looking.

Motoya raised a brow. “Bribing me for silence?”

“Appreciating your restraint.”

Motoya smirked. “So, when you finally kiss him, am I invited to the wedding, or—”

Kiyoomi shoved him lightly with the tea bottle, and Motoya stumbled dramatically into the nearest fence.

“Rude!” he cackled. “But I am right.”

Kiyoomi didn’t say yes.

He also didn’t say no.

Chapter Text

The ice cream shop was a buzz of activity—bells ringing as customers came and went, toddlers screaming about cone sizes, and the ever-present hum of the freezer cases.

the ice cream boy has a secret admirer (unfortunately, it’s Miya Atsumu)

Kiyoomi did not sign up for this.

Kiyoomi stood behind the counter, meticulously restocking the napkin holders. His hair was pulled back into a loose bun, apron tied tight, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Focused. Controlled.

Until Atsumu Miya swaggered through the front door.

“Oh no,” Rintarou muttered under his breath. He was seated on a stool near the back, lazily flipping through a magazine that hadn’t been updated since 2018. “He’s back.”

Motoya, who was wiping down a table nearby, leaned in. “Oh yes. Lover boy returns.”

Kiyoomi didn’t look up. He felt Atsumu before he even saw him—the shift in atmosphere, like the air changed temperature just for him.

“’Afternoon,” Atsumu said brightly, leaning against the counter. “Guess what?”

“No,” Kiyoomi said automatically.

Atsumu beamed. “I missed you.”

“I was here yesterday,” Kiyoomi replied without missing a beat.

“Exactly. That’s twenty-four hours of longing.” Atsumu clutched his heart theatrically. “It was brutal.”

Motoya let out a sharp wheeze from the dining area. Rintarou didn’t even pretend to read anymore. His eyes were locked on the scene like it was live theater.

“I have work to do,” Kiyoomi mumbled, stepping aside to rearrange some spoons. It was a pointless task. The spoons were already perfectly lined. He just needed to move.

But Atsumu moved with him. “Don’t worry, I’m here to support the local economy. One scoop of you—and one of mint chocolate.”

Kiyoomi’s head snapped up, mouth parting. “Did you just say—”

Atsumu winked. “I’m not even sorry.”

Rintarou coughed from the back. “That’s vile.”

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi muttered. “I needed the validation.”

“I can change your mind, y’know,” Atsumu said, tapping his chin. “Love is a powerful flavor.”

Kiyoomi stared at him, genuinely baffled. “Are you comparing yourself to ice cream now?”

“I’m full of surprises. And sugar.”

“You’re full of something,” Rintarou added, flipping a page dramatically.

Aunt Nadya—one of the older Russian aunts—walked by with a tray of samples and patted Rintarou on the head. “Flirting again, hmm?” she asked in Russian.

“He is,” Rintarou replied with a smirk. “Aggressively.”

Kiyoomi shot him a look. Rintarou only shrugged and went back to his magazine. “Don’t blame me, I’m just the emotional support sibling.”

“Do you guys ever sell anything here or is this just a stage for slow-burn romance?” Atsumu asked.

“Anyway, say ice cream boy.”

Kiyoomi didn’t even look up. “Please don’t call me that.”

“But it suits ya,” Atsumu said, ignoring the very pointed sigh that came next. “Sweet and cold and… kind of irresistible.”

Kiyoomi set the last cone down with a little more force than necessary. “We’re open for customers. Not flirts.”

“Then put a price on that smile,” Atsumu shot back, and Rintarou—sitting on a stool behind the counter, quietly nursing a soda—choked.

“Are you serious?” Rintarou wheezed, wiping his mouth. “You rehearsed that?”

Atsumu smirked, leaning in closer to Kiyoomi. “Who says I need rehearsal?”

Kiyoomi finally looked up, eyes narrow. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Nope,” Atsumu chirped. “Especially not when you look like you’re about to melt from secondhand embarrassment. It’s adorable.”

Motoya looks at Atsumu. “I told you we should’ve made a ‘No Flirting With The Staff’ sign.”

Atsumu held up his hands innocently. “I’m not flirting. I’m admiring. There’s a difference.”

“Oh yeah?” Rintarou said, sliding over. “Then what would you call yesterday when you winked at him in the middle of the popsicle freezer?”

“Effective,” Atsumu said, beaming. “He dropped the popsicle. It was dramatic. Cinematic, even.”

Kiyoomi turned, glaring at Rintarou. “You said you wouldn’t bring that up.”

“Oops,” Rintarou said, entirely unrepentant.

Kiyoomi ignored him and started scooping mint chocolate with passive-aggressive intensity.

Atsumu leaned on the counter again, watching him work with an oddly soft look in his eyes.

“You’re good at this,” he said.

“I’m aware.”

“Good with your hands too.”

Kiyoomi froze.

Motoya outright choked. “Oh my god.”

“You’re banned,” Kiyoomi said flatly.

Atsumu grinned. “From the shop?”

“From breathing near me.”

“That’s fair,” Atsumu said easily. “But you didn’t say I was banned from liking you.”

Kiyoomi blinked, thrown off by the sincerity hiding in that sentence. “That wasn’t part of the rule, no.”

“Then I’ll keep showing up,” Atsumu said. “Until you’re sick of me.”

“Too late,” Kiyoomi said.

“You’re cute when you lie.”

Rintarou stood up. “Alright, I need air before I get a cavity from this conversation.”

Motoya followed him out, whistling. “This is better than any drama I’ve ever watched.”

Once they were gone, the shop quieted just a bit. Kiyoomi leaned on the counter, arms folded.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“Nope,” Atsumu replied. “But I know when to go slow. I just… wanna get to know you, Omi.”

Kiyoomi frowned at the nickname.

Atsumu raised both hands. “I’ll stop if you hate it.”

Kiyoomi considered. “…Don’t call me that in public.”

“But that means I can call you that in private?” Atsumu asked, eyes gleaming.

Kiyoomi paused. “I never said that.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

Kiyoomi groaned. “This was a mistake.”

Atsumu grinned, licking the side of his ice cream cone with a smirk. “Sweet, sweet mistake.”

Chapter Text

By the time Kiyoomi made it downstairs, the house was already buzzing. Not the usual morning buzz of breakfast clinking and low chatter, but something electric—like everyone had collectively decided it was a national holiday.

He barely had time to adjust his glasses before Motoya nearly crashed into him.

“They’re coming. They’re coming.” Motoya hissed, gripping Kiyoomi’s arm like they were preparing for battle.

“Who’s coming?” Kiyoomi muttered, yawning into his hand.

Motoya gave him a look. “Who do you think? HIM. He’s coming.”

Kiyoomi blinked. “You mean…?”

It started with the roar of a sleek black convertible engine pulling into the driveway like it was rolling onto a movie set. The family pool day had left everyone wiped, sprawled across various couches, floors, and beanbags. The moment the sound hit their ears, though, everyone looked up—alert. Excited.

Motoya was the first to leap to his feet. “Oh my god. He’s here.”

“Wait, wait—Zhenya?” Hanae bolted upright and nearly tripped over Niko, who was busy attempting to perfect a TikTok dance. “Did anyone brush their hair?!”

“I’m literally in pajamas,” Rintarou deadpanned from the floor, not moving an inch.

Shohei, already up and adjusting his shirt collar, glanced toward the front door. “Too late. He’s coming in.”

The door swung open before anyone could make a run for it.

And there he stood—Zhenya Sokolov.

Tall, broad-shouldered, in a crisp cream-colored linen suit, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a silk scarf tied loosely at his throat. His hair looked freshly cut, styled in a way no one could replicate no matter how many inspo boards they made.

“Привет, семе́йство,” Zhenya said with a dazzling smile, arms wide.

“Zhenya!” Yuri and Niko chorused, scrambling toward him like he was a celebrity. Honestly, he kind of was.

He dropped his designer overnight bag with a practiced ease, scooping up both cousins into a dramatic hug. “Ah, look at how tall you’ve gotten! And Hanae—your curls are stunning.”

“Stop, you’re gonna make me cry,” Hanae sniffled, already fanning her face. “How do you look this good after flying from France?”

“I didn’t fly,” Zhenya winked, pulling off his sunglasses with flair. “I took a helicopter. Much faster.”

“You’re joking,” Kiyoomi muttered from behind Rintarou.

“No, he’s not,” Rintarou whispered. “He’s literally not. One time he came to Motoya’s birthday in a gold suit and rented a butler to follow him around.”

Zhenya turned to them next. “Kiyoomi. Rintarou.” He gave them each a cheek kiss. “Still heartbreakers, I see.”

Kiyoomi blinked, expression unreadable. “…Thank you?”

“I’ll take it,” Rintarou shrugged. “Your bag smells like money.”

“Louis Vuitton exclusive,” Zhenya replied easily, ruffling Rintarou’s hair before turning to Shohei. “And you’re looking more like Uncle Kazimir every day. That’s a compliment. He was the hottest back in the ‘80s.”

Shohei smiled, giving him a one-armed hug. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m fashionable,” Zhenya corrected. “There’s a difference.”

The room practically sparkled in his presence. Even the younger kids poked their heads out from behind corners, giggling and whispering. The baby cousins were wriggling in their mothers’ arms, trying to get a look at the walking legend.

“Are you staying long?” Motoya asked, eyes practically sparkling.

“Long enough to cause chaos,” Zhenya answered, tugging off his blazer. “Now—someone point me to the kitchen. I brought macarons.”

“You brought what?” Niko followed after him eagerly. “From where?!”

“From Paris.”

“Naturally,” Rintarou mumbled under his breath.

They migrated into the kitchen like ducklings following their glamorous mother. Zhenya leaned against the counter while Niko and Yuri unwrapped the box like it was a national treasure. The treats were colorful and delicate.

“You’re gonna ruin us,” Hanae muttered, biting into a rose petal one. “These taste like wealth.”

“I’d die for one of these,” Motoya said dramatically.

“You won’t need to,” Zhenya winked. “I brought extra.”

Later that afternoon, the cousins gathered in the living room, where Zhenya told stories of business meetings in Dubai, falling off a yacht in Monaco (“drunk, of course”), and a party with someone who may or may not have been a retired K-pop idol.

“You’re lying,” Rintarou said flatly.

“I never lie,” Zhenya said, crossing his legs. “I embellish. Big difference.”

“Are you really thirty?” Kiyoomi asked suddenly, watching him from his corner seat.

“Thirty and thriving,” Zhenya said, clinking his water glass against Motoya’s. “The best part of being this age is that no one can tell me what to do. Except my babushka. She still threatens me with a slipper.”

“You’re so cool,” Yuri whispered under her breath.

“Damn right I am,” Zhenya replied, catching it anyway.

As the evening wore on, Zhenya didn’t just exist in the room—he owned it. Every cousin wanted to sit closer, get a reaction out of him, impress him just a little.

When Motoya casually mentioned the twins from the festival, Zhenya raised an eyebrow. “Twins? I saw them on your story Toya. One of them has great eyebrows.”

“Oh my god.. He just called me toya..” Motoya squealed happily. 

“Oh god, not you too,” Kiyoomi muttered.

“What?” Zhenya said. “I have eyes.”

Later that night, the cousins collapsed into various soft surfaces again, full of sugar, admiration, and starstruck energy.

“Do you think he’d adopt me?” Niko asked.

“You’re already family,” Hanae reminded them.

“Yeah, but like, rich family.”

“I’m gonna name my firstborn Zhenya,” Motoya decided.

“You better tell your future wife,” Rintarou snorted.

Kiyoomi, silent most of the night, simply watched the door Zhenya had vanished through.

He didn’t say anything, but there was something like a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Chapter Text

It started with a group text.

Shohei: Sleepover at mine. No excuses.

Motoya: HELL yeah 😎 snacks are on me

Hanae: I’m bringing Uno. Prepare to cry.

Yuri: You cry first, traitor.

Niko: Are we actually sleeping though?

Rintarou: Do we ever?

Kiyoomi: …Fine.

That’s how it began. And by 7 PM, the living room of Shohei’s sleek apartment was chaos.

Shohei, being 20 and perpetually the “cool cousin,” had the biggest place and no parental supervision. Naturally, everyone migrated there with sleeping bags, snacks, and varying degrees of excitement.

There were twelve of them in total—Kiyoomi, Rintarou, Motoya, Shohei, Hanae, Niko, Yuri, plus cousins:

Ren, Reo, and Rui triplets and impossible to tell apart if you didn’t look at their piercings, Katsuya who works in design and always dressed like he was stepping off a runway and the youngest Mari who is a goth in Rintarou eyes.

Not including Zhenya who declined going to the sleepover, because in his words, “I’m not a peasant.”

“Why do the triplets get the floor couch?” Niko whined as he dumped a bag of chips on the table.

“Because we claimed it first,” Ren said with a grin, legs already draped over Rui’s lap.

Reo looked up from his phone. “Also, we’ll fight for it if we have to.”

“You always say that,” Hanae muttered. “And then cry when Rintarou actually fights back.”

“Because Rintarou fights dirty!” Rui groaned. “He bit me last time!”

“It was one time,” Rintarou said coolly from where he was squished between Kiyoomi and a beanbag. “And you were asking for it.”

“Guys,” Shohei interrupted, waving his arms, “the important thing is: snacks are here, and no one’s allowed to talk about adult responsibilities. Katsuya, this means you.”

Katsuya raised a well-manicured brow. “I literally said nothing.”

“You radiate taxes and job interviews,” Motoya teased.

“Not wrong,” Rintarou added.

Kiyoomi, meanwhile, sat with his arms crossed, quietly observing the storm of personalities. He didn’t usually do sleepovers—too much noise, too many people. But something about this mix felt… okay. Maybe because Rintarou was next to him, Motoya was keeping the energy high but manageable, and there was an unspoken rule about not overwhelming Kiyoomi unless he gave the okay.

The chaos peaked when Uno came out.

“You’re all going to suffer,” Hanae declared, shuffling the cards.

“No alliances this time,” Yuri warned, eyeing Niko.

“You stabbed me with a Draw Four last round!” Niko shouted.

“It’s the rules!”

“THE RULES ARE FAKE.”

Time: 9:14 PM. Location: Shohei’s living room. Situation: Unstable.

“You know what? No. We’re shuffling again. Someone rigged this.”

Hanae sat cross-legged with a stack of cards, glaring at everyone like she was a Vegas dealer betrayed by her own table.

“I didn’t even get to go yet,” Yuri groaned, clutching four Draw Twos like cursed talismans.

“Cry about it,” Motoya said, slapping down a Reverse and grinning with every tooth in his mouth.

“It’s always Motoya,” Rui muttered. “He plays Uno like it’s psychological warfare.”

“I play Uno like it’s meant to be played,” Motoya replied, placing another Reverse.

“It’s literally been my turn for fifteen minutes!” Reo shrieked.

Rintarou was on the floor, chin on his arm, fanning himself with his hand of twelve cards. “This is the most alive I’ve felt all summer.”

“Okay but why does Kiyoomi only have three cards?” Niko narrowed his eyes.

Kiyoomi blinked slowly. “I’m minding my business.”

“YOU HAVE A STACK OF WILD CARDS!” Ren accused.

“I’m still minding my business,” Kiyoomi said coolly, placing a Skip with zero remorse.

“Oh my god.” Shohei leaned forward like he was watching the stock market crash. “He’s playing Uno like a Bond villain.”

Mari, sitting quietly beside the coffee table, calmly drew four cards. “I hope all your ramen boils over tonight.”

“Guys, guys,” Katsuya said, reaching for a nearby cup of tea. “Let’s not—”

“DRAW FOUR,” shouted Hanae, slapping the card down with the wrath of a Greek god.

Katsuya blinked, betrayed. “I was literally being the voice of peace.”

“Peace died when Motoya stacked the second Draw Two,” Yuri mumbled, her own hand looking more like a novel than a deck.

“Hey, it was strategic.” Motoya didn’t even flinch as another Reverse hit the table.

“Strategic?!” Niko launched a pillow across the room. It hit Reo instead.

“WHY ME?”

“You looked smug!”

Ren began humming a funeral dirge. “This game has lasted longer than my last relationship.”

Shohei had given up entirely and was using his cards to build a small house of shame.

Rintarou, finally breaking, shoved his hand into the air and shouted, “UNO—”

But Hanae was faster. “Nope. Draw two. Uno, my ass.”

“I hope you trip over your socks in the hallway tonight,” he snapped.

Kiyoomi, who had been silently adding to his private pile of color-matching destruction, finally placed his final card with surgical precision.

“Uno,” he said softly. “Uno… out.”

Dead silence.

“HE WON?” Ren gasped.

“HOW?” Reo cried.

“HE SAID NOTHING THE WHOLE GAME,” Rui wailed.

Motoya just fell back on the beanbag in awe. “We’ve been Uno’d by a minimalist.”

Kiyoomi shrugged. “You were all distracted.”

There was a long pause. Then Hanae pointed at him and said, “He’s not allowed to sit out next round.”

“I’m never playing Uno again,” Niko whispered.

But they all knew they would. Because in this family, Uno wasn’t just a game.

It was war.

The Uno war lasted an hour, ending with Ren being declared “a war criminal” and Kiyoomi mysteriously having five wild cards he never played.

“You scare me,” Reo told him solemnly. “And I like that.”

By midnight, they were all slumped around the living room. Rintarou lay on his stomach, chin propped on a pillow, idly flicking through a manga. Kiyoomi sat cross-legged, reading something on his phone. Motoya and Niko were stacking cups, trying to build a tower on Shohei’s sleeping back.

Katsuya was calmly applying face masks to Hanae and Yuri while Mari sketched in the corner.

“This is my Roman Empire,” Rintarou mumbled when Motoya stacked a cup on Shohei’s head.

Then, from the pile of sleeping bags:

“Convenience store run?”

It was Yuri who suggested it. The room went still.

“Now?” Shohei asked, groggy.

“It’s 2 AM,” Mari said flatly, without looking up from her sketchbook.

“Exactly. Peak snack hour.”

“I want ice cream,” Rui said.

“Same,” Reo echoed.

“Let’s do it,” Motoya stood up, dramatically, like a knight declaring war.

At the Convenience Store

The parking lot was quiet, the fluorescent lights humming above them. They spilled inside in groups, still joking and laughing—until they almost collided with two very familiar blondes near the drink fridges.

Atsumu blinked. “Oh? Look who it is.”

Osamu grinned. “Sleepover chaos?”

Kiyoomi gave a small nod, standing stiffly in front of the drinks.

Rintarou leaned on the freezer. “More like ADHD chaos. I haven’t stopped moving in hours.”

Atsumu’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Kiyoomi. “Fancy meeting you here, handsome.”

Motoya choked on a laugh and turned around to look at the ramen aisle instead.

Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow. “You’re everywhere.”

Atsumu placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “You wound me. I’m just following fate.”

Osamu rolled his eyes and handed Rintarou a canned coffee. “Ignore him. He’s been insufferable all day.”

“No, no, keep going,” Rintarou said, amused, nudging Kiyoomi with his elbow. “This is like watching a train wreck.”

Kiyoomi shot him a look but didn’t walk away. “You just happen to be here at 2 AM again?”

“Could say the same to you,” Atsumu grinned.

There was a pause—charged, but soft.

Behind them, the rest of the cousins were busy loading up on instant noodles and mochi. Motoya was whispering furiously with Yuri, probably about Kiyoomi’s very obvious blush.

“You gonna get something?” Kiyoomi asked finally.

Atsumu leaned closer, voice lower. “Only if you recommend it.”

Kiyoomi grabbed a mango popsicle from the freezer and tossed it at him.

Atsumu caught it, smile wide. “You spoilin’ me already, omii?”

“Don’t push it.”

Later, back at Shohei’s, the group curled into their sleeping bags, ramen in their laps, cups of tea balanced precariously on the coffee table.

“I think Atsumu likes you,” Rintarou said under his breath.

Kiyoomi didn’t look away from the TV. “You think?”

Motoya cackled. “Man’s about to propose in the parking lot.”

Kiyoomi smirked. Just a little.

And across the room, while the rest of the cousins argued over the next movie, everything felt—warm. Bright. Like a perfect kind of chaos.

A night worth remembering.

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi had barely adjusted to the blinding brightness of the sun when it hit him—this wasn’t just a beach day. This was a family beach day.

Which meant: noise. Sand in places it didn’t belong. Overdressed uncles with belly laughs. Plastic coolers. Little cousins shrieking with water guns. Aunts sunbathing like queens on towels the size of bedsheets.

And, of course, Lotte.

[“Beach day mandatory. Sunscreen or disownment.” — Lotte, 7:03 AM.]

He’d woken up groggy at Shohei’s apartment and now stood near the edge of the crowd, towel over one shoulder, already regretting being upright.

Next to him, Rintarou had just launched a volleyball into the sun and was now being tackled by Motoya for missing the pass.

Kiyoomi had just finished rubbing sunscreen onto his arms when he spotted the telltale blur of platinum-blond and dark brown approaching from the dunes. Great. Like sand in your shoes, the Miya twins always showed up when you least expected them.

Osamu looked like he had sense—cooler bag slung over his shoulder, neutral expression in place. Atsumu, meanwhile, wore an unbuttoned linen shirt, shades perched dramatically on his nose, and the kind of swagger that should be illegal before 10 AM.

They weaved through the maze of umbrellas and towels until they stopped in front of a sunhat-shaded lounge chair—where Lotte, radiant and timeless as ever, was sipping iced tea and chatting with Katsuya.

“Hey,” Atsumu said, grinning down at her, “you must be Kiyoomi’s sister.”

Kiyoomi’s entire soul left his body.

Lotte’s head tilted, amused. “His mother, actually.”

Osamu inhaled sharply. “Bro.”

“Oh..” Rintarou’s face fell. 

Atsumu paled. “I—I mean—you look like you could be his sister? Cousin?—I’m just gonna shut up.”

Kiyoomi stormed over, grabbed Atsumu by the wrist like he was removing a dangerous object from a child, and muttered, “We’re leaving.”

“But I—”

“No.”

He dragged Atsumu halfway down the beach, past discarded towels and umbrellas and an aggressively competitive paddle-ball match between Reo and Rui, until they were behind a cluster of beach chairs, mostly hidden from view.

Kiyoomi turned, arms crossed, eyes blazing. “What the hell was that?”

Atsumu threw his hands up. “Okay, okay. Yes. I flirted with your mom. But! In my defense—”

“There is no defense.”

“She has really nice bone structure! And those sunglasses were throwing me off!”

Kiyoomi stared at him.

“She looks twenty-five!” Atsumu added, voice cracking under pressure. “I panicked!”

Kiyoomi sat down on the sand like he physically couldn’t process the idiocy anymore. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot who thinks your mom is hot.”

Kiyoomi groaned. “Stop talking.”

Atsumu plopped down beside him, kicking sand up onto both their feet. “Okay. Fine. I get it. I’m the worst. But for the record, I wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone else today.”

Kiyoomi glanced at him.

Atsumu gave a crooked little smile, the sun catching on his lashes. “Just you.”

Kiyoomi looked away so fast he got whiplash. “You’re exhausting.”

“You like me a little, though.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. You do. You dragged me out of a potentially life-ruining situation. That’s practically romance.”

“Or a court-mandated rescue.”

Atsumu grinned wider. “Nah. That was personal.”

There was a pause. The wind rustled the edges of the towel Kiyoomi was still half-sitting on. From somewhere down the beach came the muffled sounds of Rui yelling “UNO REVERSE!” and chaos exploding in response.

Kiyoomi leaned his head back against the chair behind him. “I can’t believe you flirted with my mom.”

“Okay, but hear me out—she flirted back.”

“She laughed because she was horrified.”

“Potato, potahto.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Kiyoomi turned to look at him—really look. Atsumu’s hair was wind-tossed, his sunglasses slightly crooked from the earlier wrist-snatching, and he had this open, lopsided grin that softened all the sharp edges of his usual cockiness.

He was…actually trying. Not just to be charming. But to be seen. And more than that—to be liked. By Kiyoomi. By his family.

“You’re seriously trying to impress my family,” Kiyoomi said, voice low.

Atsumu’s expression shifted. “I am.”

“Why?”

Atsumu nudged his foot in the sand. “Because I like you.”

Kiyoomi blinked.

“And because you’re not like anyone else I’ve met,” Atsumu continued. “You’re sharp, and quiet, and you see everything. You call me out when I’m being an idiot. And you don’t pretend. I like that.”

Silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward—just full.

Then, Kiyoomi mumbled, “You can’t flirt with my family if you want to keep trying.”

“Understood. Strict no-flirting policy.”

“Even if my cousin flirts with you.”

“Exception made for emergencies only.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes.

Atsumu laughed—low and a little breathless. Then he bumped his shoulder lightly against Kiyoomi’s. “So… are we gonna sit here hiding all day, or can I go back and pretend I didn’t mortify myself?”

“You can go,” Kiyoomi said, “but I’m staying here until I’m sure Lotte’s not still talking about you.”

“Fair.”

Another pause. Then—

“Hey, Omi?”

Kiyoomi gave him a side-glance.

Atsumu leaned in, close enough that Kiyoomi could feel the warmth of his breath. “You look good today. Just sayin’.”

Kiyoomi flushed, smacked him lightly on the arm, and muttered, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Still better than being forgettable.”

Kiyoomi didn’t respond. But his lips twitched—just a little.

When they finally made their way back up the beach, the wind had picked up. Lila’s towel was halfway up a palm tree, and Take was standing on a cooler, using a beach umbrella as a lance.

“Is that… a duel?” Atsumu asked.

Kiyoomi didn’t respond. He was watching Lotte.

She caught sight of them immediately—well, of Atsumu. Her lips twitched as she raised a delicate brow. Kiyoomi braced for impact.

But she simply lifted her glass, took a slow sip, and turned back to her conversation with Katsuya, murmuring something that made her cousin nearly spit out his drink.

Kiyoomi muttered, “You’re never living this down.”

Atsumu sighed. “I can take it. If she didn’t slap me on the spot, I figure I passed… maybe a little.”

“Passed what? The humiliation threshold?”

“Nope,” Atsumu said, giving him a sidelong glance. “The ‘Mom of my crush’ test.”

Kiyoomi stiffened. “Don’t call her that.”

“What, ‘Mom’?”

Kiyoomi shot him a look so cold it could’ve frozen the sea. Atsumu smirked.

They reached the cousins’ setup—an explosion of towels, snacks, tangled limbs, and someone’s playlist trying its best against the sound of waves. The triplets—Rui, Rei, and Reo—were arguing over who had actually won the Uno game. Mari was painting Niko’s nails while Shohei dozed under an umbrella, his shirt over his face. Zhenya was scrolling on his phone, sunglasses reflecting the sky.

Rintarou spotted them first. “Well, well, look who survived.”

Shohei looked up with a mischievous grin. “How was your walk of shame?”

Kiyoomi sat down on a towel and buried his face in a water bottle. “Not what that was.”

Atsumu sprawled beside him, one arm casually brushing against Kiyoomi’s as he leaned back. “I flirted with his mom.”

“What—” Motoya choked on his juice.

“I didn’t know!” Atsumu defended himself. “And then I died a little. But it’s okay. I’ve been reborn as a guy who only flirts with age-appropriate people.”

“I give him five minutes,” Reo muttered.

“I give him two,” said Rui.

Osamu, finally catching up, dropped the cooler with a heavy sigh and slumped next to Niko. “Why am I related to him again?”

“God’s punishment,” Motoya offered.

“Harsh,” Atsumu grinned, undeterred. He turned to Kiyoomi, eyes softening beneath the sunglasses. “I still think it’s worth it.”

Kiyoomi blinked. “What?”

“This,” Atsumu said. “All of it. Your family. Your chaos. You. Totally worth the accidental flirting.”

A pause.

Then Kiyoomi—deadpan—murmured, “I should’ve let Lotte destroy you.”

Atsumu laughed. “She totally could’ve.”

They stayed like that—Kiyoomi leaning just a little into Atsumu’s shoulder, the warmth of sun and skin and summer washing over them. Around them, the cousins bickered and played and shouted. But for a moment, it all blurred into the background.

Atsumu whispered, just for Kiyoomi to hear, “You smiled.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes but didn’t move away.

He didn’t have to say anything else. The look on his face—half-exasperated, half-something else—said enough.

Chapter Text

The sun had started its descent, casting a lazy golden hue across the sand. Most of the younger cousins were still splashing around in the shallows or throwing seaweed at each other, while the older ones sprawled across beach towels, half-asleep or gossiping.

Kiyoomi stood at the edge of the water, watching the horizon. His curls were damp from a recent swim, salt clinging to his skin in a thin layer that he hadn’t yet bothered to wash off. The breeze was warm, heavy with the smell of the ocean and grilled meat from the portable barbecue Lotte and Yuliya had insisted on bringing.

“You always this dramatic when you’re thinking?” a voice drawled from beside him.

Kiyoomi didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Atsumu.

He stood there, shirt damp from the ocean, speckled with sand, hair pushed back from his forehead. He looked far too confident for someone who’d just tried to flirt with Kiyoomi’s mom ten minutes ago.

“You really flirted with my mom,” Kiyoomi said flatly.

“I did not know she was your mom,” Atsumu whined, holding both hands up. “She looked young!”

Kiyoomi gave him a sideways glare.

“She had your eyes! That should’ve been my first clue. So technically it’s your fault for not warning me.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Atsumu grinned, walking closer, toes sinking into the sand. “You dragged me away before I could even recover. Thought you were gonna throw me in the ocean.”

“I should have.”

“You still can. But only if you come in after me.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “You’re exhausting.”

“I’ve been told I’m charming.”

“By who?”

“By my brother. And me. Mostly me.”

Kiyoomi snorted under his breath. Atsumu caught it and beamed like he’d won a prize.

“C’mon,” Atsumu nudged him lightly with his shoulder. “You’ve gotta admit it was kinda funny.”

Kiyoomi sighed, long and theatrical. “Only a little.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the waves lap against the shore.

“Hey,” Atsumu said more quietly now, “you okay with me being here?”

Kiyoomi blinked. “At the beach?”

“No—I mean, yeah, but also… in this. Around your family. You.”

Kiyoomi hesitated. There was a lot bundled in that question. He glanced over to where Motoya was watching from a distance with a smirk, and Rintarou was lazily half-burying Niko in the sand.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“Just fine?”

He turned, face level, close enough that Atsumu could see the faint freckles across his nose. “You’re trying. I noticed.”

Atsumu’s smile was slower this time. “Trying real hard. Kinda nervous.”

“You? Nervous?”

“You’re hard to read,Omi~kun.”

“Good.”

“I’m serious. You’re like… one of those puzzle boxes. Really pretty, really complicated. I just wanna open you up and see how you work.”

Kiyoomi turned away again, ears pink. “You’re a menace.”

“You like it.”

Kiyoomi didn’t reply, but he didn’t move away either.

Atsumu shifted closer, close enough that their shoulders touched again.

“You know,” Atsumu said, voice lower now, “you’re kinda ruining my whole ‘flirt and disappear’ routine.”

Kiyoomi raised a brow. “That a real routine?”

“Worked just fine before you. Then you had to go and have a whole extended family and a brain I can’t stop thinking about.”

Kiyoomi turned to him slowly. “You think about my brain?”

“I think about all of you, sweetheart.”

Kiyoomi’s stomach twisted in a weird, not-unpleasant way. “That’s new.”

Atsumu grinned like a wolf. “I can be serious too, y’know.”

Kiyoomi stared at him for a moment longer, then finally said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll… let you keep trying.”

Atsumu looked like he might explode. “You will?”

“I said trying. That’s not a yes.”

“It’s not a no either!”

Kiyoomi let out a quiet laugh. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“You won’t.”

They stood there a while longer, shoulder to shoulder, as the tide moved in and the sky darkened to a warm, dusky violet.

And for once, Kiyoomi didn’t mind staying in someone’s presence without needing to escape.

bonus:

The sun was beginning its descent, casting a warm golden hue over the beach. Rintarou sat cross-legged near the shoreline, a wide-brimmed bucket hat pulled low over his eyes, and a dripping popsicle stick hanging from his lips. His mouth was stained bright blue.

Osamu approached, holding a can of iced coffee. He shook it lightly before cracking it open with a soft hiss. He didn’t sit immediately—just stood there for a moment, casting a long shadow over Rintarou.

“You look like a cryptid,” Osamu remarked dryly. “Hat, popsicle, sitting like that.”

Rintarou looked up, deadpan. “You’re standing in my sun.”

Osamu finally sat down beside him, knees drawn up. “You missed a spot.” He pointed to the corner of Rintarou’s mouth, where the popsicle had smudged blue all over his cheek.

“No, I didn’t,” Rintarou said.

“You absolutely did.”

Rintarou licked the corner of his mouth in the most exaggerated, nonchalant way possible. Osamu stared.

“That was the least effective thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You want to clean it for me?” Rintarou teased, eyes glinting under the shade of his hat.

Osamu leaned in just slightly. “You want me to?”

There was a beat.

Rintarou blinked.

“…No,” he said, coolly, but he scooted maybe an inch away. Just an inch.

Osamu smirked and took a sip of his coffee. “Didn’t think so.”

They sat in silence for a bit, the kind that buzzed slightly at the edges.

“I saw Atsumu trying to flirt with Kiyoomi earlier,” Rintarou said, shifting his weight back onto his palms. “It was painful.”

“He thinks he’s being smooth.”

“He’s not.”

“He’s really not.”

They both burst out laughing.

Then Osamu said, more casually, “You’re not exactly subtle either, by the way.”

Rintarou turned his head. “Excuse me?”

“Your eyes get all weird when you look at me.”

“Weird?”

“Like you’re trying not to smile. Or like you’re analyzing me for a thesis.”

“I am analyzing you,” Rintarou said. “I’m trying to figure out how someone so attractive can be so annoying.”

“Oh, so I am attractive.”

Rintarou looked away, pretending to be very interested in a passing crab. “…I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Osamu leaned back beside him, and for a while, they just watched the waves in companionable silence.

Then, out of nowhere, Osamu murmured, “You can keep looking at me like that, though.”

Rintarou’s face went a little pink—but he didn’t deny it this time.

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi wasn’t expecting Atsumu to text him.

And yet, there it was, glowing on his screen at 10:03 AM:

Atsumu: if ur free, come meet me at the riverside. the quiet part near the docks. i’ll bring iced coffee.

Atsumu: unless u hate caffeine and sunshine and me. then i guess stay home 🥲

Kiyoomi stared at the message for a long time. His thumb hovered over the reply button. He didn’t press it.

But thirty minutes later, he was putting on sunscreen and tying his shoes.

The riverside wasn’t crowded, the air warm with the hum of summer. He spotted Atsumu immediately—sitting on the railing by the docks, blonde hair ruffled by the wind, sunglasses on, sipping from one of two identical iced coffees at his side.

When Atsumu saw him approach, his whole face lit up.

“You came.”

Kiyoomi stopped a few steps away. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Well, I was ninety percent sure you’d leave me on read.”

“I did leave you on read.”

“But you showed up, so I’m calling it a win.”

Kiyoomi took the coffee from beside him and sat down, setting a polite amount of space between them. Atsumu didn’t comment—just sipped his own drink with a satisfied hum.

“I remembered you like black coffee, but that felt depressing for a picnic, so I got you cold brew. Slightly sweetened. Like your personality.”

Kiyoomi gave him a side glance. “You’ve never tasted my personality.”

“Oh, I’ve gotten a sip,” Atsumu said with a wink. “Sharp. Dry. A little nutty.”

Kiyoomi resisted the urge to dump the coffee in his lap.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Kiyoomi watched the water, his hands cool from the condensation on the cup. Atsumu’s presence was annoyingly relaxing. Like sunlight through a window he didn’t want open—but couldn’t bring himself to shut.

“…So,” Atsumu said, breaking the silence, “can I ask you something?”

“No.”

Atsumu grinned. “Great. So what was it like, growing up with that whole extended family of yours? Like—so many cousins. Is it loud all the time?”

“Usually,” Kiyoomi said. “Loud. Dramatic. Emotional.”

“You sound like you enjoy it.”

“I don’t.”

A beat.

“…But?”

Kiyoomi looked at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re fishing.”

“I’m curious.”

Kiyoomi stared ahead, the breeze brushing strands of hair against his cheek.

“I like it more than I admit,” he said quietly. “They’re… always there. Annoying, but dependable. There’s noise, but not judgment. Even if I don’t talk, I still belong.”

Atsumu was quiet for a moment. “That sounds… really nice, actually.”

Kiyoomi glanced sideways. Atsumu wasn’t grinning now. He looked thoughtful.

“What about you?” Kiyoomi asked.

Atsumu blinked, then gave a half-smile. “Ah, well, it’s just me and Osamu. And our parents, but they’re kinda scattered. We mostly raised each other. Samu’s the quiet smart one, and I’m the one who did dumb stuff and learned the hard way.”

“That sounds… chaotic.”

“Oh, it was. But he kept me grounded. Still does.” Atsumu looked at him. “Guess that’s why I like seeing you and Rintarou. You’ve got that same… balance.”

Kiyoomi flushed slightly at the comparison and took a sip of his drink to hide it.

“Anyway,” Atsumu went on, more lightly now, “I’m glad you guys invited me to that beach thing. Even if I embarrassed myself.”

“You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

“You mean aside from calling your mom pretty and flirting with her before realizing she was your mom?”

“She thought it was funny.”

“I died, Kiyoomi. I went home and literally buried my dignity in the sand.”

“You don’t have dignity.”

Atsumu gasped. “Ouch! Cold brew and cruelty in the same sitting?”

Kiyoomi snorted—actually snorted—and Atsumu froze like he’d just witnessed a miracle.

“Oh my god,” Atsumu whispered, eyes wide. “Was that a laugh? Did I make the great Sakusa Kiyoomi laugh?”

“It was a snort. And you’re annoying.”

“I’ll take it.”

Another pause. This time, it stretched longer. There was a different kind of silence now—softer. Not awkward. Just… aware.

Atsumu cleared his throat. “You know, I like being around you.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“No, I mean it,” Atsumu said, watching him. “You make me want to slow down. Not in a boring way. Just in a… real way.”

Kiyoomi shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t even know me.”

“I want to. That’s the point.”

He was too close now. Not physically, but emotionally. He kept doing this—chipping away at Kiyoomi’s walls without trying too hard. It was infuriating. And a little terrifying.

Kiyoomi looked down at his coffee cup. “I don’t know what you expect from me.”

“Nothing,” Atsumu said immediately. “Just… your time. And maybe, eventually, a little honesty.”

“I’m not good at feelings.”

“That’s okay,” Atsumu said, voice soft. “I’ve got enough for both of us.”

Kiyoomi looked at him, caught between sarcasm and sincerity. Atsumu’s grin faded a little as he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Atsumu added. “Just… maybe keep letting me sit next to you. Keep texting back. Keep showing up.”

Kiyoomi stared at him.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

Atsumu blinked. “What are you—?”

He held the screen out.

Atsumu’s number, newly renamed, stared back at him.

Atsumu 😒☕

Atsumu beamed. “Is that… an emoji?”

“It’s accurate.”

“You gave me a name in your phone. I feel like we just got married.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m cherishing it.”

Kiyoomi stood up. “Come on. It’s getting hot.”

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere. I’m just walking.”

“I’m just walking too, then.”

They walked along the path slowly, sipping coffee and occasionally brushing shoulders. Atsumu didn’t push. He didn’t fill the silence with noise. And Kiyoomi found himself—reluctantly, grudgingly—enjoying that.

Before they parted, Atsumu stopped him with a hand on his sleeve.

“Hey,” he said, tone different now. “Just so you know—I really like this version of you.”

Kiyoomi blinked. “What version?”

“The one who shows up.”

Kiyoomi stared at him.

Then, softly, so soft it could’ve been missed:

“…Then maybe I’ll keep showing up.”

Atsumu smiled like the sun.

Bonus:

Rintarou: sooo how was your romantic riverside rendezvous?

Kiyoomi: shut up.

Rintarou: that’s not a no 😏

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi stared at the ceiling of his bedroom that night, arms folded behind his head, his fan spinning quietly above.

He had replayed that moment—“Then maybe I’ll keep showing up”—at least eight times since they’d parted.

It had slipped out before he could stop it.

He didn’t regret it. Not entirely. But still… he’d said it. And Atsumu had looked at him like he’d just won a gold medal in the Olympics of Emotional Vulnerability.

God. He was going to think about it for days.

His phone buzzed again.

Atsumu: are you thinking about me rn?

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes and typed back quickly.

Kiyoomi: no.

Atsumu: rude. try again.

Kiyoomi: maybe.

There was a pause.

Then:

Atsumu: 🙂

Atsumu: i was thinking abt u too. just sayin.

Kiyoomi’s heart did a very annoying little thud against his ribs. He turned his phone face down and groaned into his pillow.

The next day, Atsumu showed up at the ice cream shop.

Again.

He didn’t even pretend to be subtle about it this time. Just walked in, waved at Rintarou behind the counter, and made a beeline for Kiyoomi like he belonged there.

“You’ve got a problem,” Rintarou muttered, not looking up from the register.

“I’m aware,” Kiyoomi replied grimly as Atsumu leaned dramatically across the counter.

“Hey,” Atsumu said, grinning. “Miss me?”

“You were just texting me.”

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

Kiyoomi gave him a long, flat look.

Rintarou stepped aside, arms crossed, watching like it was free theater.

Motoya wandered in from the back, blinked at the sight of Atsumu, and immediately whispered to Rintarou, “Place your bets. How long until Kiyoomi combusts?”

“I give it five minutes,” Rintarou said.

Atsumu, oblivious or uncaring, tapped the glass over the freezer. “So what’s the flavor of the day? Besides you?”

Motoya wheezed.

Kiyoomi did not combust. But his ears turned pink.

“You’re not funny.”

“I don’t have to be,” Atsumu said smugly. “I’m charming.”

“You’re something.”

“Something you think about at night, maybe?”

Rintarou made a choking sound and turned away. Motoya had physically doubled over.

Kiyoomi grabbed the scooper with more force than necessary. “Do you want ice cream or not?”

“I want whatever gets me your number in your own handwriting.”

“You already have my number.”

“Yeah, but not the cute handwritten version I can frame.”

“You’re not real.”

“I’m very real. And really into you.”

Kiyoomi stared at him, hand on his hip.

“Do you flirt with everyone like this?”

Atsumu’s grin dropped, just slightly.

“No,” he said honestly. “Just you.”

That shut Kiyoomi up.

Motoya mouthed oh my god in the background. Rintarou leaned against the freezer like he was watching a soap opera.

“You’re going to be a problem,” Kiyoomi muttered finally.

“Hopefully a good one.”

They ended up taking their break at the same time. Atsumu followed Kiyoomi out behind the shop, where a little shaded alley opened onto a quiet street. It was cooler there, the hum of traffic distant.

They sat side by side on the curb, eating from a single cup of gelato that Kiyoomi hadn’t technically approved.

“I still think you should’ve let me pay,” Atsumu said, stealing a spoonful.

“You’re the reason I needed a break in the first place.”

“See? I’m enhancing your work-life balance.”

“You’re enhancing my migraines.”

Atsumu nudged him with his shoulder. “But you don’t hate it.”

Kiyoomi was quiet for a moment, then replied—softly, reluctantly:

“…I don’t.”

Atsumu turned to face him more fully. “Good. Because I meant what I said yesterday.”

“I know.”

“And I want to keep seeing you. Like, really seeing you. Not just when I drop in to flirt while you’re mid-shift.”

“You’re not asking me on a date, are you?”

Atsumu grinned. “Not yet. I’m just making sure you know I want one.”

Kiyoomi looked at him, expression unreadable.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Atsumu lit up like he’d just won a prize.

“I can work with that.”

Later That Night, Rintarou found Kiyoomi in the back, wiping down the same counter for the third time.

“You like him,” he said casually.

Kiyoomi didn’t look up. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Motoya popped his head in. “We’re all taking bets. I give you two weeks.”

“Until what?”

“Until you two kiss.”

Kiyoomi dropped the cloth.

Rintarou laughed at Kiyoomi, they continued to clean the ice cream shop.

”You should invite him to the next family gathering.” 

Kiyoomi stopped and stared at Rintarou.

”Absolutely not. He flirted with my mom. do you remember that?”

Ignoring the older, Rintarou continued to walk home. 

The house was quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the refrigerator. Kiyoomi sat curled on the edge of the couch, legs tucked under him, one arm around a pillow. His phone lit up again.

Atsumu: you up?

He stared at it.

Then, slowly, he typed:

Kiyoomi: you just saw me six hours ago.

Atsumu: 🥺 and yet it already feels like a lifetime

Kiyoomi sighed. Smiled, barely.

Kiyoomi: dramatic.

Atsumu: romantic*

Atsumu: anyway, just wanted to say u looked really good today

Atsumu: even when u were threatening to dump gelato on my head

Kiyoomi’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He stared at the message too long, heart ticking a little faster.

Kiyoomi: you make it difficult to stay calm.

Atsumu: 😳

Atsumu: so ur saying i fluster u??

Kiyoomi almost threw his phone across the room.

He was not flustered. He was composed. Collected. Unbothered.

Still, his face was warm.

Kiyoomi: i’m saying you’re annoying.

Atsumu: ur annoying too

Atsumu: annoyingly handsome. goodnight, omi 💛

Kiyoomi stared at the message. His thumb hovered again.

Then he typed—fast, barely breathing:

Kiyoomi: goodnight, idiot.

And then he turned his phone over on the couch cushion, heart slamming harder than it had any right to.

But he was smiling.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

The sun was just starting to dip when Kiyoomi stepped out of the house, tugging the sleeves of his lightweight hoodie over his hands. Early evening in late summer always felt like the world was exhaling—a little slower, a little softer. It was warm, but the kind of warm that brushed your skin like a memory, not a demand. He hated how poetic he felt about it.

A message buzzed his phone.

Atsumu: 

waiting for u 😎

Atsumu:

i brought snacks

and water bc i care about ur hydration

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes and texted back:

Kiyoomi: 

don’t make this weird.

Atsumu:

u say that every time

and yet here u are 👀

He didn’t bother replying to that. He walked.

They’d agreed—well, Atsumu had suggested and Kiyoomi had very begrudgingly accepted—to meet halfway and walk to the park. Nothing big. Just “hanging out.” Kiyoomi didn’t really do hangouts. He didn’t like not knowing how long things would last, or what the unspoken expectations were. But Atsumu had said it would be chill.

And Atsumu had smiled when he said it.

So here he was.

The blond was already waiting by the vending machines, sunglasses pushed into his hair and a paper bag of snacks tucked under his arm. When he saw Kiyoomi approaching, he grinned like they hadn’t seen each other every day for the past week.

“You showed up,” Atsumu said, dramatically clutching his chest. “Be still my heart.”

“I’m already regretting this,” Kiyoomi muttered, but he didn’t walk away.

Instead, he stopped beside him, hands still in his sleeves, gaze flicking to the bag.

“What’s in there?”

Atsumu held it up proudly. “Water bottles, strawberry mochi, weird European cookies with a name I can’t pronounce, and those chili-flavored chips you were eating at the beach.”

Kiyoomi blinked. “You noticed that?”

“Of course I noticed. I notice everything about you.” Atsumu leaned in with a smug little tilt to his smile. “Even when you try to be all mysterious and brooding.”

Kiyoomi stared at him.

“Are you flirting?”

“I’m always flirting,” Atsumu said, without shame.

They started walking.

The park was only a few blocks away, past a quiet neighborhood lined with hydrangeas and the scent of summer barbecue clinging to the air. Kids zipped by on bikes. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Atsumu talked, mostly nonsense, the kind that filled the space without making it feel crowded.

Kiyoomi listened. He didn’t say much—but he didn’t mind it. And that was the problem.

“So,” Atsumu said after a while, glancing at him sideways. “What made you say yes?”

“To this?”

“Yeah. I mean, you clearly think I’m a menace.”

“You are a menace.”

“And yet you’re still here.” Atsumu nudged him gently with his elbow. “Admit it. You like me.”

Kiyoomi looked straight ahead. “I tolerate you.”

“Wow. I’m blushing.”

“You should be.”

They reached the park entrance, where the trees opened into wide fields and curved trails lined with tall grass. A few families were packing up picnics. Some kids were chasing each other with bubbles. It was peaceful, for the most part.

Atsumu led them to a shaded spot near a wooden bench, plopped down on the grass like he did this every day, and started unpacking the bag. Kiyoomi sat a little more carefully beside him, keeping his legs crossed and his arms close.

He watched as Atsumu pulled out the mochi and offered one.

“Here. For my favorite germaphobe.”

Kiyoomi took it, slowly. “You washed your hands, right?”

“I brought sanitizer,” Atsumu said, already tossing him a bottle. “Knew you’d ask.”

Kiyoomi caught it and blinked. “You… actually thought ahead?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m thoughtful and handsome. It’s exhausting, honestly.”

Kiyoomi tried not to smile. Failed.

They sat in silence for a bit, eating mochi and letting the breeze tangle through their hair. Atsumu leaned back on his elbows, face turned up to the sky.

“I used to come here a lot when I was a kid,” he said after a beat. “Before Osamu and I got too busy with school and volleyball. We’d ride bikes around the whole trail and race until one of us ate dirt.”

“You probably lost.”

“I definitely won. But I did fall dramatically. For attention.”

Kiyoomi huffed a laugh.

Then, quieter, Atsumu added, “It’s nice being back. And… with you, too. I like this.”

Kiyoomi didn’t say anything for a moment. He focused on the way the sun hit the edge of Atsumu’s profile. Too golden. Too soft. Too much.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally.

“Good at what?”

“Whatever this is.”

Atsumu sat up. “You mean talking? Hanging out? Being adored by someone devastatingly charming?”

“I mean—” Kiyoomi stopped, exhaled. “Letting people close.”

“Oh.” Atsumu was quiet for a second. Then: “You don’t have to be good at it. Like i said I’m good enough for both of us.”

Kiyoomi looked at him.

“I’ll go slow,” Atsumu added, a little softer this time. “If you want.”

Something twisted in Kiyoomi’s chest. He didn’t know what it was. Didn’t want to name it.

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet…”

Kiyoomi sighed. “And yet I’m still here.”

“Exactly.” Atsumu grinned. “You’re hooked.”

“Not even close.”

“Then let me try harder.”

Atsumu scooted just a bit closer, their shoulders almost touching now. He looked smug and unbothered, but there was a gentleness to it. A patience Kiyoomi hadn’t expected from someone so loud and shameless.

“You like me more than you want to admit,” Atsumu said.

Kiyoomi didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Atsumu reached into the bag again and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “Also—I brought something for you.”

“…What is that.”

“A contract,” Atsumu said, totally serious.

Kiyoomi stared.

“It’s an official document of our tentative almost-dating agreement. Clause one: you let me hang out with you like this again. Clause two: I keep flirting with you until you admit you’re into it. Clause three: if I die of heartbreak because you reject me, you gotta speak at my funeral.”

Kiyoomi blinked. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Romantic,” Atsumu corrected.

Kiyoomi took the paper anyway. “This is a receipt from a convenience store.”

“Details.”

They sat there until the sun dipped lower, gold bleeding into the clouds. The world felt too big sometimes. But in that moment, Kiyoomi could focus on something smaller—someone grinning beside him, full of light, and just a little too close.

And maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning arrived with the scent of coffee and the muffled sound of arguing downstairs.

Kiyoomi sat at the kitchen island, hair still damp from his shower, a single piece of buttered toast balanced on his plate, untouched. He stared at it with quiet determination, as if sheer willpower could make it more appealing.

Rintarou wandered in wearing mismatched socks and carrying a carton of juice like it was a prized artifact. “You look like you’re about to declare war on that toast.”

“I’m thinking,” Kiyoomi said flatly.

“About what? Whether or not to text your little boyfriend?”

“He’s not—” Kiyoomi cut himself off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t start.”

Before Rintarou could retort, a familiar voice rang out from the hallway.

“Boys!”

Lotte swept in like a gust of wind, holding her tablet in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other. Her long cardigan billowed like she was on a runway.

“We need to talk about tomorrow,” she said.

Kiyoomi braced himself. “What about it?”

“The gathering,” she said, enunciating each word like it was sacred. “Traditional family gathering. You know, the one your great-grandmother throws every year, where we all wear something that doesn’t smell like it’s been on the floor, and we eat food that isn’t microwaveable?”

“That’s tomorrow?” Rintarou asked, halfway through pouring juice.

“Yes,” Lotte said. “And this year, we’re doing it at the main house. Outdoor tables, dress code—smart casual. No jeans, Rintarou.”

“I hate this already,” Rintarou muttered.

Kiyoomi sighed. “Why are you telling us this now?”

“Because,” Lotte said, setting her tea down with purpose, “you two are in charge of inviting guests.”

Rintarou blinked. “Guests?”

She looked at them like it was obvious. “The Miya twins.”

There was a beat of silence.

Kiyoomi stared at her, deadpan. “No.”

“Yes,” she countered sweetly. “You’ve both gotten to know them. They were lovely at the beach. Polite. Friendly. Tall. We need tall genes in this family.”

“That’s not—” Kiyoomi started, voice strangled.

“You like Atsumu, don’t you?” she added casually.

“I don’t—” His voice cracked. “It’s not relevant.”

Lotte waved a hand like she was swatting a fly. “You do. I’ve seen the way you look at him. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s practically offensive how adorable it is.”

Rintarou snorted juice out of his nose.

“Fantastic,” Kiyoomi muttered, burying his face in his hands.

“Tell them it’s mandatory,” Lotte said. “Tell them it’s tradition. Tell them I’ll personally hunt them down if they don’t show.”

“I feel like threats aren’t how you get people to attend things,” Rintarou said.

“They are if you do them with a smile,” Lotte replied brightly.

“Also, do you know when ma is coming back?” Rintarou switched to german. 

“Tomorrow before the gathering starts. you know whe’lk never miss that.” Lotte smiled giving Rintarou a kiss on the cheek.

“Kiyoomi, invite the twins, okay.” Lotte smiled. 

Kiyoomi’s phone buzzed on the counter.

Atsumu:

good morning 🌞

dream abt me?

He stared at it.

Rintarou leaned over his shoulder. “Perfect timing.”

“I hate everything,” Kiyoomi muttered.

“You love him,” Rintarou teased.

“Die.”

Lotte sipped her tea. “Tell him to bring a dessert. And his charming smile.”

Kiyoomi groaned. “If I have to do this, so do you.”

“Oh, Osamu’s already invited,” Rintarou said, scrolling through his own messages. “We’re talking about smoked meats.”

“Of course you are,” Kiyoomi muttered.

He picked up his phone, scowling at the screen.

Kiyoomi:

are you free tomorrow?

Atsumu’s reply was almost immediate.

Atsumu:

for u? always 😘

what’s up?

Kiyoomi clenched his jaw.

Kiyoomi:

family gathering. formal. lotte says you’re invited. bring dessert. 

Atsumu:

oh? 👀

are u gonna wear something fancy?

Kiyoomi paused.

Kiyoomi:

yes.

Atsumu:

bet.

i’ll bring a tie. and dessert.

ur mom likes me right?

Kiyoomi stared at the screen.

Kiyoomi:

she says you have tall genes.

Atsumu:

tell her i also have great taste in men 😏

Kiyoomi turned off his phone and thunked his forehead against the table.

Rintarou patted his back. “You brought this on yourself.”