No copyright infringement intended.
—
lemon boy
—
It's happened every few weeks since they first signed their lease last summer, but December brings out the worst of them.
Guests assume that rules against cuddling no longer apply if several snow storms sweep through the city and frost from the casement turns the flat into a cryogenic chamber (despite the heater hiking up an already abysmal electricity bill). Of course, the kind of people Miya Atsumu takes home accept the invitation not because of his manners, and more often than not, he sleeps soundly beneath his blankets without another bare body by his side.
Kiyoomi still considers changing the locks three days into their arrangement, because it's not like germs spread exclusively at nighttime, but the two of them had agreed to compromise on a short list of grievances. To trade-off for a spotless space, Miya's room remains off-limits, save for the case of emergencies, like, hypothetically, if his bed burns as a result of a highly flammable cleaning solution coming into contact with a fortuitous fire.
Hypothetically, Kiyoomi insists.
He grows accustomed to seeing a different pair of shoes by the front door whenever they have a break from practice. To his credit, Miya makes sure to clean up after every visit, but it doesn't hurt to mop the floors and wipe down surfaces along the hallway leading to the blond's bedroom. Not that Kiyoomi has a reason to stay within three feet of the restricted zone. Or any feet, at that. His personal life has nothing to do with Miya's except for the fact that they were roommates.
Oh, God, they were roommates.
"Did you get a raise?"
"No."
"Why're you looking at houses you can't afford?"
"Because if I looked at places in my price range, I might actually move," Kiyoomi mutters, scrolling through the specs of a penthouse on the east side.
Motoya raises a brow at his acerbic tone. "Does Atsumu have someone back at the apartment right now?"
"Yes," Kiyoomi says, rolling his eyes. "It's the third time this week."
"It's Monday."
"Precisely."
"Damn," Moyota whistles.
Kiyoomi gestures at his screen. "This one has a pool."
"You hate swimming," Motoya reminds him, squinting at the page. "And that house is in America?"
"8,818.24 kilometers away," Kiyoomi sighs wistfully.
Motoya frowns, brows furrowed. "I figured it might get a little out of hand, what with the Bublé in the air, but I didn't think it was this bad."
"He just has more time on his hands than he knows what to do with since we have the week off."
"No," Motoya says, shaking his head. "I mean, the thing between you two."
Kiyoomi stares at him. "What thing?"
"You know, the 'will they or won't they?' thing."
"There is no thing," Kiyoomi says, eyes narrowing. "Much less between us."
"Well, how else do you explain why you always get so jealous when he brings people over?"
Kiyoomi slams his laptop shut. Had he gone out with Hinata or Bokuto, they might have cowered, or at least believed that the temperature inside the café dropped a few degrees, but Motoya looks largely unaffected, if not nominally amused.
"I am not jealous," Kiyoomi says.
Motoya nods. "Okay."
"Seriously."
"I believe you."
"I'm leaving," Kiyoomi says, shoving his stuff into his bag. "Don't ever speak to me again."
He heads for the door, ignoring the burst of laughter from behind him, but Kiyoomi realizes he can't return to his apartment. Not yet, at least. It doesn't take much for Miya's "just a couple of hours" to turn into strangers staying past sunset, and he still has a lot of time to kill before confrontation becomes an impossibility.
"Do you want to head to the gym?"
Kiyoomi whirls around to find Motoya standing there, iced coffee in hand, and relents with a begrudging nod. "Just for a little while."
"You should invite Atsumu," Motoya suggests, snickering at the glare thrown his way. "What? It's volleyball versus someone he probably met two days ago. I doubt the choice puts him in between a rock and a hard place."
"I don't want him there."
Motoya shrugs. "That's fine."
"… you texted him, didn't you?"
"He'll meet us there in fifteen," Motoya says, his grin stretching. "Don't make that face at me. 'Tis the season!"
Ah, yes, Kiyoomi gripes, once again contemplating spending his savings on a humble house in the suburbs. December, the most despicable time of the year.
Caffeine, Kiyoomi decides, is the only agreeable aspect of 'tis season. It had become something of a social transgression to order anything other than an iced americano at all times throughout the year, but he receives far fewer and less suspicious stares sipping on hot coffee in such a subnivean climate.
"Ya couldn't even put a lil' bit of milk in there?"
As an added benefit, Miya loathes the smell of black coffee, and having a freshly brewed cup on hand keeps the blond at least six feet away. Kiyoomi refrains from responding to his rhetorical question with a caustic comment, but he pointedly takes a sip of his drink without breaking eye contact.
"'ve got no idea how ya can stand that stuff," Miya mutters, trying to distract himself by spinning the volleyball in his hands.
Kiyoomi continues to say nothing, idly blowing on the steam that escaped the lid. It doesn't burn his tongue, but the action magnifies the scent, and from the corner of his eye, he notices the blond rush to the other side of the court. His speed, at least, hadn't deteriorated during their short break.
"C'mon, Omi-kun!" Miya calls out. "Put the bean shit down and let me set one to ya!"
Kiyoomi puts it down, but not because Miya Atsumu tells him to put it down, and not because Miya Atsumu offers to set him a ball. He agrees because he's a professional volleyball player in need of respite from the next nameless face frolicking in his apartment, except Kiyoomi doesn't have to worry about that anymore, which means he can focus on showing Miya a spike that might make him think twice about picking up two different people in one day.
"Whenever you're ready," Kiyoomi drawls.
The ball travels through the air in the next second, curving with an elegance before abruptly appearing on the opposite side of the net. The only indication that Kiyoomi made contact with it at all is the resounding smack still echoing around the gym.
He watches the ball roll lifelessly across the ground, reminiscent of a Roomba rearing for another run. Kiyoomi muses that a vacuum would make a nice gift for himself this holiday season, all the while ignoring the bewildered blond staring stupidly at his back.
"What the hell was that?"
"A spike."
"Obviously," Miya says, clicking his tongue. "Ain't this just for shits and giggles? Ya could've maimed a muggle with that!"
"Since when do you care about other people?" Kiyoomi asks, perhaps sneering, because Miya looks a bit taken aback.
"'m a real carin' person!"
"It doesn't count if you're only nice to Hinata."
Miya gives him a goofy grin, and Kiyoomi feels an itch at the sight of it, inwardly making a note to check WebMD for related symptoms later in the evening. "Sho-kun's an exception to a lot of things."
"Indeed," Kiyoomi agrees. "Somehow, he's immune to your idiocy."
The blond frowns, arms crossed. "Alright, 'Omi, what the hell's up with ya?"
"Me?"
"Yeah," Miya says, rolling his eyes a little. "You're grumpier than usual and it ain't even flu season."
"It's December," Kiyoomi points out.
"And?"
"This is peak flu season."
Miya rolled his eyes again. "'s called a metaphor, Omi-kun."
"That's not a metaphor," Kiyoomi says, grabbing another volleyball. "A metaphor would be something like, 'You're team's a few clowns short of a circus.'"
"If ya insult my team, you're insulting yourself!"
"I literally just said it's a metaphor, Miya."
The blond opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Guess I can't argue with that."
"Again," Kiyoomi says, throwing the ball at him. "Make it a good one or I'm telling Coach you're getting rusty in your old age."
"'m only five months older than ya, brat!"
Motoya calls him from the "bathroom" twenty minutes later, but Kiyoomi doesn't notice because he spends almost an hour practicing with Miya Atsumu. Not that he'd ever admit to that. Most definitely not to former family turned acquaintance-at-best for ditching him with his greatest enemy since dirt. No, definitely not.
"You're roommates," Motoya emphasizes in a since deleted text, capitalizing roommates and adding a slam effect for good measure.
Kiyoomi blocks his number, but not before replying. "Eat shit," sent at 7:22pm.
"Somethin' got ya all worked up today," Miya says, his breath coming out in microbial clouds. "Yer not gettin' sick're ya?"
His Kansai accent, which had faded a bit since they graduated high school some years ago, always thickens whenever he feels tired or sleepy or overly emotional, like that time Bokuto forced the team to watch Marley and Me at two in the morning and the blond broke down, bawling and blubbering like a boisterous baby.
"'e's so fuckin' cute, 'm never gonna shut up 'bout it," said at the start of the film, and then towards the end, "Fuckin' hell, th's the saddest shit 've ever seen, 'm suin' the director, and Bokkun, 'm gonna kick yer ass for makin' us watch it—"
No, Kiyoomi does not know these things about Miya Atsumu because he cares enough to remember them. It just so happens that they live together and share similar goals on their career path and play on the same professional volleyball team. A business relationship at best.
Even Hinata picks up on Miya's habits, and he never notices much of anything that is unrelated to the boy with blueberry eyes acting as starting setter for their rival team. Of said habits include asking increasingly irritating questions to those with not an ounce of patience. Kiyoomi is one of those people.
"I've already gotten my flu shot," Kiyoomi says, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets, protecting them from germs and the cold and bumbling blonds.
From his peripheral, he notices Miya giving him a bemused look. "So did I."
"No, you didn't."
"Yeah, I did," Miya says, almost defensively. "Don't ya remember tellin' us to get vaccinated after our last match? I went with 'Samu 'fore headin' back to the apartment."
Kiyoomi feels that itch again and promptly picks up his pace. He won't admit it aloud, but he had gone to get his flu shot that day, too, without bothering to ask the others for company. No one else ever went as early as he did. At least, until now.
"Good for him," Kiyoomi grumbles.
Miya, unfortunately, catches up to his footsteps. "If you're not sick, why're ya extra grumpy?"
"I'm not grumpy."
"Ya glared at a kid offerin' ya a candy cane."
"I'm allergic to mints," Kiyoomi deadpans, very obviously lying, because he brushes his teeth after every meal and uses a wintergreen toothpaste, that, in fact, contains a certain concentration of mint.
Miya takes it all in stride, if not with a strange semblance of sympathy. "'s it 'cause I invited Rin and 'Samu to come over today without askin' ya first?"
"What."
It's said like it has no question mark, and as such, it comes out more like a demand. Not "'what are you talking about," but "explain before I kick your ass." Kiyoomi doesn't know if he's hoping Miya can read between the lines.
"Ya know Rin, right? He's with 'Samu? We went to high school together," Miya says, smiling sincerely at the mere mention of such memories. "Rin's team's on break, too, and the two're visitin' for the holidays. Kicked 'em out before headin' to the gym, though."
"Oh," Kiyoomi says.
And because Miya Atsumu cannot read in between the lines and does not have an ounce of public decency the way Kiyoomi does not have the patience to simply keel over and wait to die, the blond adds, "Maybe ya didn't know they came over? Could've sworn ya saw their shoes by the front door…"
postscript
i was listening to lemon boy by cavetown at the exact moment i saw a bunch of sakuatsu fanart on my timeline and could not move on with my life until i had this written down somewhere