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ghosttotheparty · 1 year

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if you'd let me want you

also on ao3 thank u @lunaraindrop for the help <3 cw: angst <3 arguing, brief panic attacks

“I’m just saying, man,” Eddie says lightly, leaning against the counter, watching Steve lift a box and set it on a cart. He lets himself watch. Steve isn’t looking at him. He can practically feel the ground shake as Steve rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “You guys make sense together.”

“Just because something makes sense doesn’t mean it…” Steve rips the box open. Eddie wills his face not to flush with heat. “Make sense.”

“That didn’t make sense.”

Steve shoots him a look.

“I don’t like Nancy like that anymore,” he says, almost grumbling. His mood shifted as soon as Eddie brought her up a few minutes ago. He smiled when Eddie showed up at Family Video, greeting him with a bright, “Hey!” but the second Eddie asked if he’s seen Nancy recently, the perpetual soft smile that lingered on his face faded and he looked away. His cheeks flushed pink. So Eddie doesn’t really believe him.

“You know I don’t believe you, right?”

Steve sends a look over at him. But it’s not really a look. He glares at him.

Eddie’s eyebrows raise as Steve looks away again, his stomach twisting.

“You don’t have to believe me, Eddie,” Steve says, his voice twinged with annoyance. “It doesn’t make it… not true.”

“Well, you get all uptight and stiff every time I bring her up,” Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s defending himself.

“Yeah, maybe I just don’t wanna talk about my ex with you,” Steve says, his voice firmer, annoyed and slightly louder. Eddie’s chest tightens, and he furrows his brows, his breath caught in his chest.

“This is the kind of thing friends talk about,” he says defensively.

“Maybe I just wanna hang out with you without talking about my fucking love life,” Steve snaps, putting a tape up on a shelf a little too hard. Eddie blinks.

“Why are you pissed?”

“I’m not pissed.”

“You sound pissed. You look pissed.”

“I’m fine, Eddie,” Steve says, sounding even more pissed. “I just don’t wanna talk about it.”

Eddie has a problem. He’s had this problem his whole life.

“Why don’t you wanna talk about it?”

It’s gotten him in trouble before. Many times. At home, at school, with his friends, the assholes that shoved him around in the hallways, against lockers.

“You talk about it with Robin,” he says. “Why is it such a big deal to talk about it with me? What’s your problem?”

He pushes. And prods. And pokes. And annoys the fuck out of whoever he’s talking to, until—

“Jesus, Eddie, I don’t fucking know, just fuck off.”

Eddie stares at him as he looks up at him. His eyes are gleaming, his brows are furrowed, and his cheeks are red, and he looks angry, and for some fucking reason it just pisses Eddie off.

“I wanna help you,” he snaps. “I know you like her, and you guys would be perfect for each other, fuckin’ mister and missus America—”

“I don’t fucking like her,” Steve almost shouts, and Eddie almost flinches back, the volume making its way under his skin, pulling at him and making him ache.

“What’s your fucking deal, Harrington?” He matches his volume.

Steve recoils like Eddie’s slapped him across the face, his eyes wide, and he blinks, his shoulders falling.

“Don’t call me Harrington,” he says weakly. Eddie exhales, staring at him. “You never call me Harrington.”

The door opens across the store, the bell shoving it dinging brightly, and Robin greets them with a cheerful, “Hey, dinguses.”

Neither of them look away, their eyes locked, and Eddie barely even heard Robin’s tentative, “What’s going on?” Steve looks like he might cry, his cheeks still flushed, his eyes shining, and Eddie scoffs, shaking his head and tearing his eyes away from Steve, ignoring Robin and heading to the door. It slams shut behind him.

His hands are shaking as he fumbles with his keys, biting his trembling lip as he slides into the driver's seat, and he looks up into the store as he starts the van. Robin is looking at Steve, confused, still holding her bag in her hands, and Steve is covering his face, holding a tape before he shouts something Eddie can’t hear and throws the tape across the store.

Eddie’s vision swims and he pulls out of the parking lot without buckling his seat belt.

———————

He doesn’t see Steve for another four days.

He doesn’t really have to. It’s not like they tend to hang out every day. (Every other day, maybe. Sometimes more. But they don’t have a strict schedule, and Steve doesn’t come inside when he drops the kids off at Eddie’s for Hellfire on Thursday.)

Four whole days.

Is it pathetic that he misses him? Probably. It’s only four days, but Eddie feels hollow, like something is missing just because he hasn’t heard Steve’s voice.

Steve seems to feel the same way, which doesn’t really make Eddie feel better, even though his heart fucking soars when he opens the door to his apartment to find Steve standing there, his hair damp from the rain. He’s somehow looking up at Eddie despite being almost the exact same height as him.

“Hi,” Eddie says quietly, holding the door open. Steve rocks up onto his toes, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, and he glances past Eddie into the apartment.

“Is Wayne here?”

Eddie blinks, his heart falling, and Steve seems to notice it, because he hurriedly says, “I’m not— I just wanna talk to you, like, alone. I just… wanna make sure.”

“Oh.” Eddie blinks again. “No, he’s— he’s at work.”

“Okay.” Steve pauses, swallowing, swaying. “Can I… Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says after staring at him for a moment. “Yeah, come in.”

Steve exhales as he enters, pushing his hair back. His jacket is spotted with rain. Eddie forgot it was raining at all. He can’t hear rain much in this apartment. Unless it’s pouring.

“Talk,” Eddie says, heading into the kitchen. The kettle isn’t boiling yet, and he feels underdressed next to Steve, who’s wearing jeans and a tucked-in button-down, his jacket neatly pressed except for the rain. Eddie’s just in sweatpants and a grey sweater that’s two sizes too big.

“I, uhm.” Steve hesitates, taking a breath.

Eddie leans against the counter next to the stove, crossing his arms, looking up at him.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Steve says, leaning against the wall across from Eddie. It’s a small kitchen. Their feet are almost touching.

Eddie doesn’t say anything.

“I was…” Steve pauses, swallowing anxiously, his hands shifting in his pockets. “I was upset, and I lashed out at you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

Eddie looks into his eyes. They’re shining again. They always are.

“I don’t get why you were upset,” Eddie says quietly, feeling like he’s confessing something. He often doesn’t get why people feel certain things. Why people get annoyed at him for the things he does when he isn’t hurting anyone. Why people laugh when there’s nothing to laugh about. Why people get upset when he tries to help them.

Especially with something like all this with Steve. He and Nancy would be perfect together. Nancy Wheeler and Steve Harrington. White picket fence and a soccer team of children and yearly vacations and everything someone like Eddie Munson could never have.

He hasn’t told anyone that he doesn’t understand what they’re feeling in a long time. The last few times he told them they’ve scoffed and rolled their eyes and accused him of lying to get away with being an asshole, even when he was so adamant he worked himself to tears.

But Steve doesn’t do any of those things. He looks at Eddie and believes him.

“I don’t like Nancy anymore,” Steve says. He sounds close to tears. “And it just… pissed me off that you just didn’t believe me.”

He must see the doubt on Eddie’s face.

“I don't like her anymore,” Steve says. “I swear.”

Eddie looks back and forth between his eyes.

“I see how you look at her, Steve,” he says softly, and he wants to go throw himself out the living room window. Because he sounds so desperate, so fucking honest, and Steve can probably see right into him.

“How do I look at her?” Steve asks desperately, his head tilting forward.

“Like she’s perfect,” Eddie says, his arms uncrossing. The kettle is starting to boil, the whistle low and quiet. “Like she’s fucking flawless, like she’s… the fucking sunset or something.”

“Eddie,” Steve says weakly, his shoulders slumping.

“I don’t get it,” Eddie says adamantly. The whistle is growing in pitch. “I don’t get why you don’t like her, she’s— she is perfect, she’s the one for you—”

“No, she’s not,” Steve says angrily.

He doesn’t even seem to notice the kettle whistling loudly, screeching at them, and Eddie huffs, turning away.

“Jesus,” he mutters, turning off the burner. “What do you want from me, Steve?” he asks, pulling the kettle off the burner, feeling it vibrate as it whistles.

“I don’t want anything from you, I want you.”

The kettle falls quiet.

The kitchen is silent.

Eddie blinks at the kettle, the words washing over him like cold water, and he almost drops the kettle as he sets it down heavily. It lands loudly on the stove, clattering on the burner, and he turns around to look at Steve.

Steve’s eyes are wide as he realises what he’s just said, and Eddie isn’t breathing, and he’s trembling, and Steve takes a sharp breath before he turns away.

Eddie reaches out and grabs his shirt, pulling him back.

Except he doesn’t do that.

He yells, at the top of his lungs, as loud as he can, I want you too. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

Except he doesn’t do that either.

Steve leaves, slamming the door shut behind himself.

Eddie lets him.

———————

Six days.

Six fucking empty days.

Wayne notices that something is off, but he doesn’t ask, because he knows Eddie won’t tell. If he were to ask, Eddie would probably just burst into tears, and Wayne had never known what to do when Eddie cries. It’s not like Grandpa Munson was a touchy-feely guy. Wayne’s always just brought him tea and tissues and given him a hug if he wanted one.

Eddie covers it up when the kids come over to the apartment to hang out. Lucas tells him he asked Steve if he wanted to come up to say hi, but that Steve has errands to run. Eddie just quips that Steve is a big boy, all old and mature. The kids laugh, living in their sweet, sweet ignorance.

When the kids aren’t over, and Corroded guys aren’t over, he’s holed up in his room, staring at the ceiling with his headphones on. (He can’t use his speakers anymore because of complaints from the neighbours.) Trying to let the music drown out the words that are bouncing around his skull like a pinball.

I want you. I want you. I want you.

On the seventh day, Robin calls him.

He doesn’t want to answer the phone, but he trudges up out of bed, pushing his hair out of his face. He’s still wearing the same sweater.

She tells him the Party’s having a movie night at Steve’s.

Eddie’s chest aches at the sound of Steve’s name.

You’re gonna be there, she says, because she seems to know how his brain works better than anyone else he’s met. You’re gonna be there gets him to change his sweater.

His eyes meet Steve’s when he goes inside, but they both look away, and Eddie immediately swerves to the other side of the living room, scooping El into his arms and cackling evilly when she screams his name.

Steve sits with Robin on the sofa. Eddie can tell Robin knows something is up, but he can also tell that Steve hasn’t told her anything because she glances at Eddie, then at Steve, and Steve ignores her, his eyes trained on Dustin as he argues with Will about something.

The lights shut off when the movie starts.

Steve leans against the armrest of the sofa, Robin leans against him, and Nancy leans against her. Jonathan and Argyle are on the floor, Jonathan’s head on Argyle’s shoulder. The kids are all on the floor, tangled and piled on top of each other like a litter of puppies.

Eddie doesn’t even know which movie is playing. He keeps looking at Steve.

He feels like his veins are filled with wax, his body tense and stiff and so anxious he’s shaking a little bit.

I want you.

Eddie looks over at him again, the words echoing in his head, in the exact cadence and emphasis that Steve spoke in, adamant and angry and desperate.

Steve’s eyes meet his across the room. They’re shining. Reflecting the flashing lights of the movie.

Eddie tilts his head, gesturing silently, weakly, toward the kitchen.

Steve inhales, his jaw working, and he sighs quietly, squeezing Robin’s arm and moving to get up. She looks up at him, then at Eddie, then at Nancy, moving so Steve can get up, pulling Nancy closer.

Eddie gets up quietly, stepping behind the sofa so he doesn’t get in anyone’s view of the movie before he follows Steve down the hall to the kitchen, shutting the door behind them.

Steve crosses his arms when he enters the kitchen like he’s protecting himself, looking sulky and upset and so small it makes Eddie want to cry. He leans against the island, looking at the floor, biting his lip, and Eddie steps to be in front of him, leaning against the wall.

They're both quiet. Eddie can almost hear the movie, muffled and quiet through the door and down the endless hallway. Eddie can almost hear his own heartbeat. He listens to Steve’s breath.

“Did you mean it?” he asks softly, almost whispering.

Steve looks up at him, his eyes flicking back and forth between Eddie’s before he looks away, at the floor, his eyes moving like he’s looking for something.

“Steve,” Eddie says weakly when Steve doesn’t say anything. “Did you mean it?”

Steve takes a sharp breath, his lip trembling.

“Yes.”

Eddie exhales.

The floor is solid beneath his feet.

Holy shit.

He steps forward, looking at Steve’s face. His eyes are squeezed shut.

Eddie reaches up to his cheek, wiping away a tear, and Steve startles, his eyes flying open to look at Eddie, his eyes filled with tears, scared and desperate. He’s breathing hard, blinking.

“I want you too,” Eddie whispers.

“Don’t fuck with me right now, Eddie, please.” Steve’s voice squeaks, breaks and chokes, and Eddie reaches up to hold his face between his hands, wiping away the tears that fall from his eyes. Steve is gasping for breath, and Eddie presses a hand firmly against his chest as it rises and falls quickly.

“I’m not fucking with you, Stevie,” he murmurs. Steve’s hands grab at Eddie’s waist, gripping the fabric of his sweater. (This one is black.) He’s holding him too tightly, but Eddie doesn’t mind. “I want you, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Steve closes his eyes hard, his brows furrowing as he pants, and Eddie leans close, pressing their foreheads together, murmuring to him. Breathe, Steve, slowly. You got it.

It takes a while for his breathing to slow, and Eddie slides his hand up his chest when it does, moving it up over the collar of his sweatshirt, over his neck, to his cheek.

“Why’d you push me to go with Nancy?” Steve chokes, blinking tears out of his eyes, and Eddie’s eyes burn, aching because he can’t explain it.

“I don’t…” He hesitates, shrugging weakly, holding Steve’s cheeks carefully, tenderly. He sighs, letting his head fall forward so their foreheads meet as he thinks. “Because boys like me don’t get things like this,” he says softly, quietly.

“Yes, they do,” Steve whispers.

Eddie’s eyes squeeze shut.

They’re quiet for a moment, sharing breaths, until Eddie slowly slides his hands across Steve’s neck, hugging him tightly, and Steve’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him against himself harshly, strongly. A soft sound escapes Eddie’s throat, and his eyes burn more, and he buries his face in Steve’s neck as Steve’s shoulders shake.

Their friends are down the hall. Anyone could come in for chips or soda or water, and find them here, crying in each other’s arms, and the thought of the absurdity of it makes Eddie laugh. Steve’s hand slides over his back, holding him so tightly Eddie can barely breathe.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, burying a hand in Steve’s hair. “Holy shit, holy shit.”

“Eddie,” Steve says softly, pulling away and looking at him, and he lifts his hands to Eddie’s face, wiping his tears away so tenderly it just makes Eddie cry more.

Eddie’s eyes flutter shut when Steve pulls at his face, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to his mouth, and when they part, Eddie gasps, opening his mouth for him and pulling him closer until Steve kisses him again.

Steve’s hands reach down and pull at Eddie’s legs, picking him up with unfair ease, and Eddie clutches at him desperately as Steve turns to set him on the counter. Eddie’s legs wrap around him tightly, whimpering when Steve’s hands press to his back and waist and his hips.

“‘M sorry,” Steve breathes between frenzied kisses. “‘M so sorry.”

“Me too,” Eddie says, panting. “I’m sorry, Stevie, just… I need…”

“Breathe,” Steve says weakly. Eddie closes his eyes. He didn’t even realise it, but he’s gasping for breath, each one getting caught in his throat, hiccupping and choking, and he grips Steve’s shoulders tightly, so hard it probably hurts, but he can’t let go, and Steve doesn’t say anything except, “Breathe.”

Eddie hugs him tightly, desperately, and Steve hugs him back just the same, pressing a hand to the small of his back. Eddie is swaying back and forth, which he doesn't realise until after a few seconds, and he stops himself. It makes people seasick, distracts them, he's heard it all, and he's just gotten Steve's arms around him. He doesn't want to mess this up.

But Steve tugs at his back, stepping closer to the island so his chest is pressed to Eddie, and he starts to sway. Eddie buries his face in Steve's neck, his eyes stinging, and he lets Steve move him, weight dropping off his shoulders, his breaths coming out easier and easier until he's breathing normally. They don't stop swaying together, rocking back and forth slowly, carefully, until Eddie lifts his head and touches his face. His skin is tacky with drying tears, the streaks shining in the dim light of the kitchen. Eddie wipes them away before he leans in and kisses him softly.

"Do you wanna go finish the movie?" Steve asks when they part, his lips still brushing Eddie's as he speaks.

"I don't even know what movie it is."

"Me either. Do you wanna go be confused together?"

"Yeah. That sounds nice."

They pause to sip at a glass of water together before they head back to the living room, their fingers laced. No one pays them any mind except Robin, whose eyes catch their hands, and she raises an eyebrow, smiling up at Steve as he sits next to her again. Robin moves, nudging Nancy so she shifts to lean against the opposite armrest, and Eddie squeezes in between Steve and Robin. Steves's arm makes its way around Eddie's shoulders as they look at the television. (Eddie can't even guess what's happening in the movie.)

Eddie closes his eyes, leaning against Steve, pressing his face into his chest, and he pulls one of his legs up, setting it across Steve's. Steve pulls him in closer, tighter, his cheek resting on Eddie's head.

Eddie shifts to face him, nuzzling into his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist, cuddling as closely and as tightly as he can as he takes a long, deep breath and exhales slowly. Steve smells like his cologne. Eddie wants to keep the smell. Maybe find it on his pillows.

He falls asleep to the sound of Steve's heartbeat.

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amjustagirl · 3 years

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Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi's heart has always pointed north. He wonders if it's broken when it starts to point inexorably towards her.

Set in the aftermath of The Astrophile, in the same universe as Storm Chaser.

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi / f! reader

Genre: Fluff, angst, romance

Wordcount: 7.8k

Masterlist link here

A/N: Dedicated first and foremost to Ami @softsakusa, one of the first people to convince that my writing isn’t shit and that I should keep creating fics.

This fic is also for all the readers who wanted a happy ending for the reader in The Astrophile (which sets out the backstory of the reader, Iwaizumi and Oikawa), and also follows the events of Storm Chaser (which follows the turbulent relationship of Miya Atsumu and now wife - I named her Kaiyo in this fic to avoid confusion!).

Hope you like it - reblogs and comments are always dearly appreciated <3

It must be the worst meet cute of all time.

That is – if he’s using that phrase correctly. It keeps appearing in the god-awful English movies Bokuto and Miya keep playing during team movie nights that makes him want to tear his hair out.

But yes, he meets her at Miya Shino’s seventh birthday party, the birthday girl the apple of Miya Atsumu’s eye, the princess of his castle, the most perfect angel in the entire heavens - the list of pet names growing longer and longer the more the obnoxious setter prattles on about his daughter.

And apparently Miya Shino is a chip off the old block, and is as obsessed with volleyball as her father. Which means that he, one Sakusa Kiyoomi, is forced to turn up on a Saturday afternoon for a birthday party to teach a group of children roughly about the same height as his kneecaps how to play volleyball.

There are plenty of other MSBY players that Miya Atsumu could have rounded up to fritter away a Saturday afternoon. Hinata, for instance - the sunny, fiery headed opposite hitter a perennial favourite with young fans. Or Inunaki - the liberio has an amiable personality that he certainly wouldn’t mind snot nosed children hanging off his arms like a walking, talking monkey bar. But no, Hinata is apparently busy on a weekend meditation retreat, and Inunaki is at his sister’s wedding party, so both of them managed to escape this travesty of a birthday party.

That leaves him with Bokuto who’s practically a child himself, beaming, bumping balls at screaming children with one hand, the other hand lifting another child above his head. Meian’s here too but his own kid is somewhere in this gaggle of monsters anyway, so he’s here to carry out his parental duties – hopefully his presence might balance the sheer chaos he’s sure he’s about to face.

‘Omi-omi you made it!’ Atsumu greets him with a slap to the back.

Sakusa resists the urge to bare his teeth. Is this what hell is? Screeching gremlins underfoot, the nauseating smell of fried food permeating the air.

And it’s probably because he’s still in a horrified daze at the situation he’s put himself in (which Atsumu is either too dense to pick up on or already immune due to the series of similar expressions he pulls at him on a daily basis), Atsumu manages to snap a party hat on his head, before he prances off in victory.

Sakusa snarls, ripping off the red paper hat off his head.

Why on earth did he agree to this again?

‘Sakusa-san! Thank you so much for coming!’

His glare softens by a fraction.

Miya Kaiyo, Atsumu’s long suffering wife approaches him, careful not to touch him, waving at him instead. He appreciates her thoughtfulness, so he thaws a little, giving her a slight nod in greeting.

Right, she’s the reason why he’s here.

He’s always been fond of her - competent, patient, intelligent, far too good for her idiot of a husband. Approximately a year ago, he sought her professional help with his accounts. He graduated with a business degree from Chuo University, so he can tell there is obviously something fishy that his manager is pulling with his finances, but the accounting courses he took weren’t in depth to pinpoint the problem. Miya Kaiyo, on the other hand, a trained forensic accountant with a nose like a bloodhound for fraudulent accounts, nailed down the problem within a week. So when she asked him after a game whether he’d be free to attend her daughter's birthday party, he hadn’t been able to turn her down.

‘It was no problem’, he says stiffly, already itching to spray the whole place down with disinfectant. ‘I’m glad to be here.’

Kaiyo laughs at his obvious lie, tugging at his sleeve to seat him in a corner. ‘You don’t have to go play with the kids if you didn’t want to! I invited you so we could catch up, and besides, I did want to introduce you to someone.’

‘Hm.’

He doesn’t try to mask his reluctance this time. Kaiyo means well, he knows, but between her and his mother, he’s tired of having to fend off match making attempts. It’s not like he can’t get a date – he can and he has, it’s just difficult to find someone willing to put up with his prickly personality and busy schedule.

‘Well she’s not here yet, so you’ll have to wait. And while we’re waiting, tell me how’ve things been, Sakusa-san?’

Grateful that he’s not going to be forced into shepherding children into playing anything remotely resembling an actual volleyball match (he suspects he might have more luck teaching cats how to do the conga), he settles into his seat, mouth stretching into something resembling a smile. He lets her chatter about work, and they’re deep in a discussion about his plans post-volleyball (because he can feel the countdown on his career in his creaking bones, his aching sinews) when Atsumu swoops in on him again, like a vulture seeking easy prey.

‘What’cha doin’ with my wife, Omi-omi’, he slips a hand around Kaiyo’s waist mock possessively.

She swats at him. He ducks, raising his hands in surrender.

‘I enjoy talking to an actual adult sometimes, ‘Tsumu!’

‘Oh come on, I already have to share you with ‘Samu most of the time, now you’re leaving me for Omi-kun?!’

‘Dramatic ass.’

‘Please, you chose to marry me.’ He crows, flipping his hair. He looks ridiculous, he always does. Kaiyo seems to agree -

‘And I wonder why sometimes.’ She retorts, Atsumu squawking indignantly at her response, hair ruffling like an offended chick. But Kaiyo ruins the effect of her words by laughing, leaning over to affectionately peck her husband on the cheek.

Sakusa should be annoyed by this display of childishness, but for some inexplicable reason, a frisson of longing bubbles in his chest instead. It’s strange. Marriage or even serious relationships have never been something he’s actively sought. After all, it always seemed horrendously illogical to put all your eggs in one basket and hope nothing trips up – but his heart pays his mind no mind, and the strange sensation continues to trickle down his throat into his chest.

He makes up an excuse to slip to the bathroom for a tactical retreat from this madness.

Then he takes a breath.

Rinse. Lather hands with soap. Rinse. Repeat again .

Familiar motions, bred out of a desire to do things right, transformed into an unbreakable habit. Cold water, washing away soap bubbles.

Right. Now he’s ready for another plunge off the deep end .

He’s a foot past the threshold of the community hall where the party is being held when Miya Shino darts towards him. She’s very clearly her father’s daughter with his penchant for mischief because she dives between his legs, making him stumble in confusion. Then Meian Shugo’s eldest son Makoto barrels towards him, intent on reaching the ball held aloft in Shino’s hands.

Athletic reflexes be damned in the face of a pair of hell-spawn.

‘Shino!’. Kaiyo shouts.

‘Makoto!’ Meian thunders.

Sakusa flails, decidedly without grace, and in his attempt at not squashing the two little devils, he manages to do something even worse .

Much, much worse.

He manages to trip over his feet and bump right into the woman Miya Kaiyo wanted to introduce him to (this, he finds out later). It’s a lost cause – he’s six foot two of pure muscle, dwarfing her by a mile, and she’s carrying a huge box in her hand.

He ends up face planting directly into her chest.

His brain short circuits at the feeling of plush softness and vanilla and – ,

‘Woah - Omi-omi, never thought I’d have to defend the honour of my cousin in law’, Atsumu laughs.

The sudden flare of irritation at Atsumu’s words kickstarts his brain back into gear. Rearing back in alarm, he promptly topples over onto his butt.

‘Uncle ‘kusa, I’m sorry’ Shino screeches, distraught. Makoto merely snivels. Kaiyo is evidently the only one with working brain cells, because she rushes over to help them up.

The-woman-with-the-mysterious-box makes Kaiyo take the box first. It holds precious cargo - Shino’s birthday cake, he later finds out, but because she manages to cling on to it with admirable tenacity, it emerges more or less intact. Then she turns to him, still sprawled on the floor. He scoots away, still dazed.

She offers him a steady hand. ‘Hello’, she says. ‘It seems we’ve gotten off to rather a bad start.’

There is a hint of mirth in her voice, but her eyes are kind.

He takes her hand with a rare smile.

Miya Kaiyo grins behind the cake box. It turns out her daughter is a better matchmaker than either her or (heaven forbid) her husband.

It turns out that Miya Kaiyo wanted to introduce him to her cousin, newly moved to Osaka from Tokyo. She’s a sports journalist, used to cover volleyball even, but for some reason their paths never crossed. She too, is tired of her cousin’s well intentioned meddling, but asks him if he’d like to meet her for dinner one day ‘if only to get Kaiyo off her back, because she’s persistent’, and funnily enough, he agrees.

He doesn’t mind making a new friend, he reasons. She seems decent enough.

They go out for dinner on a Tuesday night. She doesn’t complain when he tells her that due to his diet planned by MSBY’s nutritionist, most restaurants are off limits. Instead, she asks intelligent questions about whether the sources of protein and fibre he’s relying on are varied enough, even suggesting alternatives like tempeh, a Southeast Asian soy product.

He appreciates that.

She doesn’t also fawn over the fact that he’s a professional athlete. That makes sense, considering she’s probably interviewed dozens, if not hundreds of individuals who are just like him. It’s nice - he’s tired of groupies who start dates off by staring at him starry eyed, but ending it with disappointment in their eyes when they discover that he’s just a guy who practices hitting balls enough to do it for a living. And best of all, she doesn’t mind that their conversation sometimes wanes into silence. She doesn’t seem to feel the need to fill empty spaces with inane drivel, nor expect him to entertain her like a circus animal.

He likes that.

So when the night ends, he asks her whether she’d like to have dinner with him again. ‘Just as friends’, he’s quick to clarify.

‘Sure’, she nods, and they bid each other goodnight.

They start having dinner every Tuesday night, subject to their erratic schedules.

He enjoys her company. She’s thoughtful, bringing him home made baked goods like zucchini cake (low sugar, of course), sneaking him chocolate scones for his cheat days after she discovers his hidden sweet tooth. She’s considerate too, never blinking an eye at his compulsive need to make sure everything is just in order, even if the waitress stands behind them aghast when he insists on using disinfectant to wipe down their table. She doesn’t even call him paranoid when he passes her a bottle of sanitizer.

Slowly, he finds himself confiding in her about things he’d maybe only tell his cousin, Motoya. Or at least, the things he would tell Motoya if the guy would only pick up his calls.

‘Sorry’, Motoya texts back after a couple of missed calls. ‘ Practice has been brutal recently.

In a remarkable display of restraint, Sakusa does not point out that EJP Raijin is below MSBY in this season’s rankings.

So he tells her instead about how he’s contemplating retirement, how he’s trying to chart out his next steps career wise. She surprises him by listening to him gravely, pointing out that he can lean on his business degree to possibly land an office job in event management or with sports associations, putting him in touch with one overly excited Kuroo Tetsuro. He tucks her suggestions away carefully at the back of his mind.

It’s nice to have a friend, he tells himself, his lips quirking ever so slightly when her hand grazes his as they walk down the street together.

He invites her to the monthly gatherings that the MSBY players take turns to host for their family and friends, making the excuse that he needs a human shield in any event hosted by Miya Atsumu. She agrees easily, perking up at the chance to spend a Sunday afternoon with her cousin and niece - ‘ and Kaiyo’ll need help, especially since she’s pregnant’, bringing far too many cupcakes topped with the lightest, fluffiest cream cheese frosting he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. Even Miya Osamu gives her a nod of respect after stuffing his face full of her cupcakes. He, unlike his twin, has good taste.

Her brow furls into a concerned frown when he quietly sneaks himself a second cupcake. ‘You don’t have to force yourself to eat it just to be polite! I made it, so I know it has so much sugar and butter it would make your nutritionist weep. If you want, I snuck some zucchini cake in my handbag for you instead.’

He stubbornly shovels a large bite into his mouth. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

She bursts into laughter, leaning forward to wipe away the smudge of frosting on the tip of his nose with her thumb.

Miya Kaiyo shoots him a knowing look across the room, waggling her eyebrows in an eerie imitation of her husband. He fights to keep his face blank, refusing to feed her satisfaction, but fails, a hot flush rising in his cheeks.

‘Traitor’ he mouths at her. Her smirk only deepens.

Fortunately, the gathering ends with no further mishaps, either to his physical well-being or his dignity. Makoto is packed off with Meian, the little boy whining for more time to play with Shino. Hinata and Bokuto prance off for some ridiculous buffet on the other side of town.

As for himself, he hangs back with her to help the Miyas put their house back in order, expelling an amused puff of a laugh from his nose when she forces the very pregnant Kaiyo to ‘stay still, for goodness sake!’ on the couch, dancing around the house with a mop, Shino trailing after her waving a feather duster with gusto. He refrains from telling the little girl that she’s more likely to spread the dust than to actually clear it – at least she’s not causing more havoc this way.

‘I can’t believe I could’ve ever taken this for granted, y’know’, Atsumu comments from behind him, mouth wide in a tender smile. ‘It’s the best feeling in the world to have a wife and kid who loves ya to the moon and back, welcoming ya home after a long day at work. They make everything worth it.’

He’s thrown for a loop at this rare display of emotional vulnerability from the usually obnoxious setter and for once, does not resort to hostility, choosing instead to acknowledge the blonde setter’s words with a tacticum nod.

The Miyas’ apartment is far too chaotic for his tastes, with colourful toys scattered on the floor, mismatched picture frames of the little family on the walls, but laughter hangs in the air, and light spills from the windows, illuminating the warmth and love and fondness in every look and word the Miyas gift each other.

His father gave him a compass when he was a child, as a present to celebrate his first match. His mother clucked her tongue because it’s a strange gift for a child - delicate, fiddly, its gold exterior tarnished with age. But his father chuckled and told him that he’s old enough to appreciate that the compass is his father’s, and his father’s father before that, an heirloom to remind their sons to work hard at everything they do, and to keep their hearts on course, pointing north.

And Sakusa thinks he’s done that. He’s worked and worked and worked at perfecting his skills in his chosen sport. He’s accepted his solo course, so laser focused on carving out a career in professional sports leaves little time or space for intimate relationships. Not to mention the fact that watching the disaster of Atsumu’s early years of marriage from the sidelines, made him swear off similar heartbreak for himself.

But there are times when he can’t help but feel a little lonely - when he has to struggle to find a date for MSBY events, when he has no one to celebrate the holidays with, when he goes home every day to his neat, cold apartment with space for only one occupant.

The compass in his heart creaks. It starts to turn a few degrees just off-course.

‘Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to get married?’ he asks her as he’s walking her home that night.

‘I did, once upon a time’, she shrugs carelessly. He misses the sudden strain in her smile. ‘Why do you ask?’

He stays silent for a while, the length of the quiet street giving him time to properly ferment his response. He considers the effects of adding splashes of colour to his dull life, weighs it against his long cultivated instinct to avoid the potential chaos of any emotional entanglements. He finds himself suddenly craving the sweetness of cream cheese frosting, and wonders how it’d be like to come home to light, fluffy cakes baked by her hands.

When they reach her apartment block, she tilts her head at him curiously, obviously awaiting his answer. He tugs his words together, strings his swirling thoughts into a decipherable sentence.

‘Because Atsumu and Kaiyo seem happy together. And I wondered if we’d be happy together too.’

He watches her puzzle over his words, her brow furling into a confused frown. ‘And I wasn’t proposing, by the way’, he feels the need to clarify.

She snorts. ‘I didn’t think so.’ With a directness that he very much appreciates, she looks at him squarely and asks - ‘Are you asking me out, Sakusa Kiyoomi?’

He meets her gaze. ‘Yes, I am. We’ve known each other for a decently long time for me to conclude our personalities are well matched, and we’re both mature adults who respect each other’s work schedules and commitments. And if you don’t mind that I can be overly blunt and quiet sometimes - ‘

‘ - which I don’t’, she interjects, with a chuckle.

‘I think we might be happy together’, he concludes, with a small smile that’s becoming more common in her presence.

He allows her the space to turn his proposition over in her mind.

‘Alright’, she finally says. ‘I guess we can give it a go’.

So much for Atsumu accusing him of having a heart made out of tin. Flesh and muscle works overtime to pump blood into his cheeks as she slots her fingers between his and gives his hand a squeeze.

Being in a relationship isn’t too different from what they had before.

They still keep to their standing date to meet every Tuesday (schedules permitting, of course). But now he doesn’t have to make up excuses to ask her out on outings that aren’t food related. At first he tries his best to adhere to dating norms, arranging for romantic dates at candlelit restaurants, buying her massive bouquets that make her sneeze.

‘It’s fine, Omi’, she tells him gently after they spend another uncomfortable evening in a dimly lit restaurant eating off plates too large for the laughably tiny food portions. ‘I’m happy just hanging out with you. You don’t have to go out of your way to impress me, I’m not holding on to any ridiculous expectations of you’. He stops after that, glad he doesn’t have to suffer another night trying to decipher which utensil to be used at which course, or having to put on starched formal wear to yet another stuffy restaurant.

She’s noticeably happier when they accompany each other on trips to the supermarket, each holding a stack of coupons to take advantage of the latest deals. She shields him from any overly zealous obaa-sans with gusto, throwing elbows and using her grocery basket as a makeshift battering ram before they crowd close enough to him to trigger his anxiety. He helps her reach for things on the top shelf ‘to prevent her from scaling the grocery shelves like an overgrown teenager’ , he snarks. He’s worried his attempt at teasing lands wrong, but she snorts and thanks him good naturedly anyways.

On the weekends, they develop a habit of meal prepping for the rest of the week at her apartment. His kitchen lacks the fancy mixers and blenders that she has, and in all honesty, his dark, spartan apartment lacks the sunlight and warmth that spills into her apartment from the windows, so it’s only logical that they should spend the bulk of their time there. It’s an oasis of calm for him, chopping vegetables and chicken into small cubes, sautéing them for the week ahead, while she bustles around whipping eggs and flour and milk together to form another delectable cake that they always end up sharing at the end of the day.

He starts to dread matches away from home a little more than he used to. While hotel rooms are as spartan as his own apartment, he doesn’t have the option of heading over to her apartment to bask in her quiet warmth. His meals come in styrofoam boxes instead of the glass tupperware she stacks on her kitchen counter, and he turns up his nose at store bought cakes that his teammates offer him, only craving for those baked in her oven. He even starts looking up to the stands for a glimpse of her, only to remember that she can’t be there to cheer the team on.

‘Cheer up, Omi-omi! We’ll have a home match next week’, Atsumu tells him jovially.

‘It doesn’t matter either way to me’, he mutters resentfully, but the setter only grins.

‘Trust me, it matters a great deal to have the girl ya love cheering ya on, y’know?’

He stalks off to the changing room, ignoring the peals of laughter from the blonde annoyance he leaves in his wake.

The tight coil of loneliness only loosens when he sees her waiting for him at the station when he returns. She ignores his protests to snag his suitcase away from him, the case looking comically large against her small frame, but she uses it effectively as a tank to force a path through the crowd, and drag him back to her apartment in no time.

‘You need a home cooked dinner to make up for all those industrially prepared food you must’ve been eating this entire week’, she tells him, bustling around the kitchen, only stilling when he takes her shoulders in his hands.

‘Are you happy?’ he asks, when he cups her face to carefully brush the dusting of flour on her cheek away.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ She laughs, the sound fond.

‘Just checking in’, he tells her, closing his eyes as she pulls him down towards her for a kiss.

All in all, it’s a happy, uncomplicated relationship. He likes it that way.

If his heart were a compass, he’d suspect it’s broken because instead of pointing north, it starts to inch inexorably towards her.

But there are strange quirks he notices about her that niggles at his brain.

She refuses point blank to check out the planetarium when she attends an event held at the adjacent Art Museum as his date, professing to have an irrational dislike for stars.

‘They’re just balls of burning gas and light ’ , he points out. ‘What could you possibly have against them?’

There’s a flicker of irritation in her eyes that he does not miss. ‘I know it’s stupid but just humour me, ok?’ Her tone verges on a snarl, before she storms away, ostensibly to the bathroom to freshen herself up.

She returns later with an apology for her behaviour. Though he’s confused, he respects her privacy and does not push for an answer.

He’s at her apartment preparing meals for the week ahead when the doorbell rings and an enormous bouquet of white lilies are deposited into her arms. She stares dumbly at the flowers, their sickly sweet scent permeating the air.

His brow furls. ‘Today isn’t your birthday, is it?’

His words jolt her out of her trance. ‘No’, she answers, before inexplicably storming to the living room and dumping the bouquet with a vengeance on the coffee table. Pollen flutters to the floor, delicate white petals crushed in her hands.

‘It’s nothing’, she tells him as he shoots her a questioning look.

When she disappears to the washroom, he peeks at the card. There’s no name on it, just a simple message - ‘consider it, please?’

He doesn’t question her about it when she returns to the kitchen. She doesn’t offer him any answers either.

He finds himself wondering about them.

It was refreshing at first to have a relationship free of any expectations. She never asks for more than he’s willing to give, seems happy enough to slot herself into the pockets of time he offers, only attends his games when he gives her tickets, doesn’t get upset with him when he inevitably forgets to text.

But therein lies the issue, doesn’t it?

If she truly likes him, wants to pursue a relationship seriously with him, shouldn’t she be demanding more than the crumbs of affection and attention he shows her? They’re both past the age of thirty, shouldn’t she be looking to get married and settle down, maybe spawn a demon child or two?

He’s tried raising it with her once, but she responded with confusion.

‘I don’t have any expectations of you, Omi’, she’d replied. ‘We both have busy lives, so whatever you’re willing to give, I’m happy to take’.

There’s technically nothing wrong about her answer. It’s wholly considerate and kind - very much her.

Still, it makes him wonder - if her heart were a compass, would it point towards him?

He manages to hold his tongue until she gets another delivery of flowers.

This time he opens the door when the doorbell rings, assaulted by the heady scent of lillies, pollen smeared on his sleeves. This time, there’s a name on the card.

Oikawa Tooru .

It takes a couple of seconds for him to realise why the name is so familiar. It’s the same name Hinata and Kageyama used to buzz about every Olympics - the famous Argentinian setter who started his career as a schoolboy from Miyagi, a prodigious setter who never made it to Nationals in high school, refused to give up and forged his way to success in a whole new land, continents away.

‘How do you know Oikawa’? He asks her. ‘And why does he keep sending your flowers?’

‘He’s just an old acquaintance,’ she admits. ‘He’s just sending the flowers to persuade me to attend his wedding.’

His forehead crinkles in confusion, and he tries his best not to leap to conclusions, but since she doesn’t seem to be forthcoming with further clarification, he presses her further.

‘And why won’t you attend his wedding?’

Her shoulders slouch in obvious reluctance as she turns away, focusing her attention on the mixing bowl. But Kiyoomi isn’t easily deterred, so he firmly takes the mixing bowl from her and sets it on the countertop. He raises an eyebrow at her, clearly seeking an answer.

She huffs a sigh through her nose. ‘Because he’s getting married to my ex-boyfriend, ok?’

He blinks. That was unexpected.

‘It happened half a decade ago. Ancient history. I’m over it.’ She mutters to the floor.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

‘Because it’s none of your business’, she snaps, grabbing the mixing bowl again, beating the batter with a vengeance.

‘You’re going to ruin the texture if you whisk it too hard’, he tugs the bowl away from her again. She refuses to relinquish her grip.

‘Leave me alone!’ she snarls, yanking the bowl back. Confused by her sudden fury, he lets go of the bowl, only for her to stumble back, eyes wide as she loses her balance, knocking her head against the countertop.

He drops down onto his knees, not even noticing the batter soaking into his pants, combing through her hair, scouring the back of her neck for any sign of injury. It’s only when he’s satisfied that her fall has resulted in nothing more than a bruise that should go away by tomorrow that he notices her tears soaking the front of his shirt.

‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’ he asks, wiping her tears away with a batter splattered thumb.

She hangs her head, body still shaking from her sobs. ‘I’ve already made such a mess of things – don’t want you to have to listen to my nonsense – am just bein’ stupid, that’s all - ’.

He patiently waits until her sobs dissolves into mere sniffles before speaking. ‘I want you to tell me what’s wrong. If you’re up to it.’

So through more broken sobs and hiccups, he listens to the tale of Iwaizumi Hajime, a boy who was her world, who only realised he was always in love with Oikawa Tooru, a fortnight before she and he were to wed. Her voice wavers as she tells him the full story of the white lilies, explains that her irrational dislike for stars stems from the reminder that she chose to give her world up to a boy-king burning brighter than the stars in the night sky combined.

He waits until her words run out, and she’s leaning against him, broken and pliant in a way that makes his heart ache.

‘I wish you told me about it earlier’, he tells her, tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ear. ‘That you would trust me enough to tell me about the things that hurt you in the past. And I wonder about the state of our relationship if you don’t even trust me enough for that’.

‘That’s unfair. You never asked - ‘

‘How could I ask about something I didn’t even know about?’ He takes hold of her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. Hurt and anger and shock simmer in her eyes, each swirl of emotion fighting for dominance.

‘I didn’t want to expect anything more from this relationship than you were willing to give’, she admits after a pause.

She’s scared of being hurt again. He doesn’t miss the subtext.

‘Shall I tell you what I want from you then? I have a list, if you’re willing to hear me out’ he asks, with a smile that’s growing more common the more time he spends around her.

She nods, but keeps her gaze stubbornly on the ground.

He takes his time to choose his words. He’s never been verbose - not like Atsumu or Bokuto or even easygoing Motoya, choosing to only say what is strictly necessary, using the precise amount of words, nothing more, nothing less. But this is a situation that requires more emotion rather than precision, so he inhales a shaky breath, letting it fuel the sentiment in his heart as he exhales.

‘First. I want you to trust that I’ll never hurt you like he did’, he says, and with a self-deprecating smile he adds - ‘I don’t have any childhood friends to be secretly in love with besides Motoya, and I’m hardly going to be pining after my flake of a cousin’.

That triggers the corners of her lips to tilt upwards, and encouraged, he carries on.

‘Second. I want you to be open with me about what you want - your dreams, your expectations of me. I want to hear them all because you’re important to me.’

That makes her flush pink, and she sneaks a glance up towards him.

‘Third. I want to wake up each morning with you by my side and come home to you every night. I want to watch you fight cranky old ladies in the supermarket in my honour, be the first person to taste test all your baking experiments - even the failed ones that are only fit to feed Atsumu. I want us to be happy together. Forever, if possible.’

He lifts her bodily into his lap, brushes his nose against her cheek. ‘Now that I’ve told you what I’m willing to give, is that too much for you to take?’ he murmurs against her lips.

Her blush blossoms into a deep scarlet, but her eyes are iridescent pools of startled delight. She doesn’t speak, sealing her answer instead with her lips.

His heart’s compass is irretrievably broken, the needle melted into place. It doesn’t point north any longer, no – it’s always going to point towards her.

They move in together after that.

He gives up his apartment, professing to prefer the warmth and light of hers. The Miyas help him move in even when he tries to refuse their help, Atsumu helping him to lug cardboard boxes up the stairs, Kaiyo helping him sort out his belongings, sorting them into his allocated cupboards.

When they’re done, they order pizza and she bakes a cake to celebrate. ‘An impromptu housewarming’ she says, toasting Miya Kaiyo with a slice of pepperoni pizza with a laugh.

Kiyoomi shares a slice of chocolate cake with Atsumu in complete defiance of their nutritionist’s advice, jostling forks over the very last bite. She and Kaiyo scold them teasingly, telling them to behave like they’re actually thirty and not teenagers on the cusp of adulthood. Atsumu pulls at Kaiyo’s ponytail in retaliation. He refuses to engage in similar tomfoolery, reddening instead when she reaches over to ruffle his curls.

‘This is nice’, he remarks to Atsumu later, when their significant others are out of earshot, gossiping and giggling about something or other.

‘It is, isn’t it’, Atsumu replies, a dopey smile on his face as he stares at his wife.

It truly is , Kiyoomi thinks, staring at her.

He takes over most of the cleaning, it clears his mind, he tells her. So to split the chores evenly, she insists on doing their laundry and cooking, and he doesn’t even nag her too much when she forgets to split the white and coloured clothes and stains some of his shirts once in a while.

Wedding invites printed on expensive cream paper and bouquets of white lilies start to litter their doorstep every day. He tries his best to dispose of them before they reach her sight, but every so often, he comes home too late, catches her wilt as she brushes white petals from their doorstep.

‘I don’t blame either of them’, she tells him, after he asks if she’d like him to call Iwaizumi and tell him to drown himself in a vat of batter, thank you very much.

‘You’re too kind to both of them’ he says plainly, as they share a pot of tea, his head pillowed in her lap. ‘I would’ve just set them both on fire and left them to rot.’

‘Hajime loved Tooru for almost all his life - I just wanted to see him happy in the end. Argh - I sound so stupid and sentimental like an old grandma, just laugh at me already’ she complains, hiding her burning cheeks in her hands.

‘You aren’t stupid for being kind.’ He hums, quiet and low. ‘It’s why I love you so.’

He relishes the soft light dawning in her eyes, captures her whispered affection with careful fingers, spins them into gold.

He has to turn off the stove to answer the door when some rude lout bangs on their front door far too early on a Sunday morning.

With his coldest sneer and thinking resentfully about his breakfast, Kiyoomi swings the door open, fully intent on looming over the disturbance with his full height, but takes a step back instead when he finds one Iwaizumi Hajime hanging off the door knob.

‘Hello’, Iwaizumi looks up at him confusedly.

‘Hi’, he nods a greeting back at his old Olympic team trainer. They stare at each other.

‘Eh - I think I’ve got the wrong house’, Iwaizumi scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Sorry about that, Sakusa-san.’

He’s about to close the door in Iwaizumi’s face when her voice chimes in, clear as a bell.

‘Who’s at the door, Omi?’

The shorter man shoots him a look of barely contained rage as he uses his bulk to push his way through the doorway towards her. Kiyoomi tries to stop him, protesting that he can’t barge into someone’s private property without an invitation like that, but it’s as futile an endeavour as trying to block the path of a raging storm.

Iwaizumi reaches her first, raising a hand as if to cup her face by instinct, before letting it fall back limply by his side. ‘You weren’t answering any of my messages or calls’, he says. ‘I was worried about you.’

She stares at him blankly for a moment. Then fire sparks in her eyes.

‘Well, as you can see, I’m completely fine’, she replies, jaw and fists clenched. ‘You don’t need to do a welfare check on me, we’re not involved anymore.’

The scorching pain in Iwaizumi’s eyes is evident, even from a distance away. ‘Yeah. Well. I thought we were friends. You didn’t even tell me you were dating again’. He shoves his hands in his pockets, tossing another heated glance in Kiyoomi’s way.

‘I didn’t think I needed to update my ex-fiance about my love life, especially not when he’s trying to drag me to attend his wedding that I already said I’m not going to attend’, she bites back.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth, then closes it with a resounding snap. ‘I’m sorry’, he says, with heartbreaking honesty. ‘I told Tooru that you probably didn’t want to hear from us, but he insisted and I got worried when I didn’t hear from you for months’.

Kiyoomi can see her glare soften into molten sympathy. The tension in the air crackles with electricity. He’s neither blind nor stupid – he can sense the years of longing and love not quite lost between them.

He thinks she loves him, Sakusa Kiyoomi – weird habits, cold disposition and all, but the doubt clogging up his arteries and veins is enough to make his heart seize – and if she’s going to break his heart, he’d much rather she not do it in front of Iwaizumi.

‘Hajime - ‘ she begins to say, and at this point he jumps in -

‘I’ll excuse myself so you both have the chance to catch up’, he says, waving aside her protests as he slips on his shoes. Even in his haste to leave the house, he clicks his tongue at the mess Iwaizumi left behind at their genkan , kneeling down to arrange their shoes, only standing up when he’s satisfied they’re neatly arranged back in place.

‘Omi, you don’t have to leave’, she says, holding the door open.

He shrugs his shoulders at her, nose and mouth already obscured by his usual face mask. ‘Let me know when you’d like me to come back’.

If she’d like him to come back. She doesn’t chase after him, after all.

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, but the golden sunshine feels more like a taunt rather than a balm to his mood. His stomach growls, making him long for the scrambled eggs he was in the middle of frying before he was so rudely interrupted, but his growing sense of nausea keeps him from seeking out an alternative meal.

Instead, he makes his way to the park, sits on a relatively clean bench. There are couples a-plenty, strolling around hand in hand, families picnicking merrily around him, compounding the growing chasm of loneliness in his chest. He tries to count the seconds by his breaths, tries not to let the minutes expand the insecurities crawling, inch by inch up his throat.

He sits alone. Poised, yet short of breath.

He wonders if Iwaizumi Hajime has finally figured out that stars, for all their brilliance, cannot compensate for their lack of human kindness. And if so, he wonders which direction her heart would point towards if it were a compass - whether it’s as broken as his, and whether it points towards Iwaizumi or him.

He waits.

Then his phone buzzes.

Ah.

She’s asking him to come home. He does not dare to overthink the meaning of that single word. But he does not hide that his steps back home are lighter than when he left, though the key in his hand shakes so hard it takes him three tries to fit it into the keyhole. He does not try to suffocate the seed of hope budding in the soft earth of his heart when he realises Iwaizumi’s shoes have vanished without a trace.

“Omi?”

She’s waiting for him, slipping warm arms around his waist, tangling her fingers in his curls, ignoring his complaints about letting himself wash his hands first.

‘Am I silly for missing you, even though it’s only been an hour?’

He refuses to be distracted by the affection in her voice.

‘But what about Iwaizumi?’ he frowns, hesitation still poisoning the well of thoughts in his mind.

Perhaps it’s a testament to how well they’ve grown to know each other that she doesn’t need to read the silent subtext of his statement. She smiles, bringing his palm flat against her chest, does not answer until his pulse matches the steady beat of her heart.

‘I love you , Omi’, she tells him. Her heartbeat does not quicken, her smile does not waver. ‘You told me not to long ago to always be upfront with you about what I want so I’m going to be honest with you now - Iwaizumi is only ever going to be my past, and I want you from now on’.

If her heart were a compass, the steady beat of her heart tells him, it would point only towards him.

‘That is – if you’ll have me’, she adds, a shadow of doubt suddenly appearing on her face.

‘Don’t be ridiculous’, he scoffs, burying his nose to breathe in the familiar scent of vanilla in her hair. ‘Who else would I rather have than you?’

Who else would he be lucky enough to call his home – a woman with a heart large enough to fit a whole ocean within its depths, with kindness in her eyes and mirth in her smiles.

She laughs in spite of the salt in her throat and water in her eyes, leaning on her toes in a vain attempt to reach his face. He lifts her into her arms, laughs when she squeals indignantly as her feet only find air, toppling them both onto the couch where he can seat her between his legs, press kisses to her cheeks.

She’ll tell him later that Iwaizumi came looking for her because he’s never outgrown his overprotective streak, and he’s truly happy for her - for them, because they’ve both moved on with their separate lives. And she ended up agreeing to attend his and Oikawa’s wedding on one condition – that an invitation is extended to him, Sakusa Kiyoomi, to attend with her as his date.

He’ll tell her later that he’s happy to attend the wedding with her, just not to expect him to smile in any wedding pictures. And more importantly, he’ll tell her in his plain way that the list of expectations he has of their relationship has expanded yet again.

He’ll lay out his dreams of a pair of matching golden rings to bind them to lifelong companionship, of hellspawn of their own and a dog, maybe two.

He’ll ask her if it’s too much for him to ask of her.

She’ll tell him that she’s willing to give him everything he asks for and more.

It’s Miya Shino’s ninth birthday party.

He’s retired from volleyball proper, and is thankful he insisted on getting a business degree from Chuo University before going pro, because it comes in handy working alongside Kuroo Tetsuro at the volleyball association.

Miya Atsumu insists on inviting him to the party, though he supposes he’s invited not by virtue of being a former teammate, but because he’s also Shino’s uncle by marriage now. The thought that he’s related to Miya Atsumu, however distant and most definitely not by blood, still fills him with dread.

The birthday girl is a little less imbued with her father’s chaotic energy this time, though she still squeals when her birthday cake is unveiled – though to be fair it’s less a cake, more a tower of cupcakes with cream cheese frosting spelling out her name.

‘Thank you Auntie!’ Shino cries, flinging her arms around her. Kiyoomi flinches at the sight of anyone, even his nine year old niece, coming in close contact with his extremely pregnant wife, but a sharp glare from her subdues any complaint he dares to make.

He fusses over her the minute he has the chance to corral her away from the clutches of Miya Shino. ‘Are your feet hurting? What about your back? I don’t know why you insist on walking so much when you know the doctor said you should be on bed rest soon’.

‘Stop fussing, Omi! The baby and I will be fine’, she replies, exasperated. ‘This is the last social event scheduled before I pop and I’m determined to enjoy it while I can.’ Then she scuttles off faster than he imagines her frame allows, leaving him floundering in her wake.

‘Just let her be’, Miya Atsumu laughs, slapping his back. Kiyoomi is on the verge of pointing out - pot, meet kettle, reminding Atsumu that the last time Kaiyo was pregnant, Atsumu didn’t stop fretting until she went into labour and delivered a healthy baby boy. But then he remembers the grief etched into Atsumu’s face when Kaiyo miscarried in the stands during a game, so he holds his tongue and rolls his eyes instead.

‘I’m just worried she’s pushing herself too hard’, he admits in a rare bout of vulnerability.

Atsumu smiles, genuine for once. ‘Those crazy women, eh? They’re always gonna drive us up the wall, but they’re worth every minute of it.’

He looks at her, belly swollen with their first child, peach blossoms blooming in her cheeks. His past self would never imagine that he’d find this much joy and contentment in being a husband and a father, but then again his past self was satisfied coming home alone day after day to a cold apartment. He knows better now - life is so better when he has her, sharing stories of their day of over steaming mugs of tea at their kitchen countertop, listening to her hum as she bakes treats for the weekend, warmth and laughter and love abound in their cosy apartment for two, soon to be three.

So feeling vaguely drunk though he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in the months since she whispered during their anniversary dinner that they were expecting, Kiyoomi laughs aloud.

Atsumu lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

‘She really, really is’, Kiyoomi says, breaking into an unguarded smile.

If you wanna know more about the backstory of the reader - check out The Astrophile, and if you wanna know more about Miya Atsumu’s relationship with his wife, check out Storm Chaser.

As always, reblogs and/or comments are so very appreciated <3

Taglist:

@snoozless @softsakusa @moondaius (yeon i’ll be shameless and tag you cos I know you’re an Omi stan!)

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