Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are many places Kiyoomi wants to be right now. His room, for one, sat behind his desk with a plate of pickled plums and a good book. Outside in the courtyard with his rapier for another, sparring with his brother or his cousin until his arms are aching and his hands are chafing beneath his gloves. Despite the fact that he and his horse mutually despise each other, he’d even take an unsatisfactory ride around the grounds over where he is now, because the very last place on earth that he wants to be is on this godforsaken ship.

It nauseates him; the terrible swaying, the stench of sea water and the permanent lack of light. It must be what being buried alive feels like, he surmises, because he has not been able to take his handkerchief from his mouth and nose long enough to get a decent lungful of air in three whole days. The only reason he is enduring this torture at all – because there is no question that is what it is – is because it is the only alternative to attending his grandmother’s fortnight-long birthday celebration.

Either he puts on a suit and gets passed around social function after social function, answering impossible questions about his future and the prospects of courtship until he feels the need to drown himself in the garden fountain, or he travels across the country to attend a mind-numbingly boring science lecture for two weeks.

Ultimately, Kiyoomi chooses the least dramatic of the two evils because it means he’s able to lock himself away from the crew in a room below deck and encounter minimal disturbance. The room is large enough to fit a bed, a desk, and his suitcase, but not much else. He can barely even stretch his arms wide without his fingers threatening to touch the wooden planks of a wall. It’s nothing like his room at home, with its king-sized bed and open windows; he’d give anything to stretch out across the silk sheets and nap right now.

Twice a day the crew bring him trays of bland food. They knock on his door and leave it in the walkway outside, well accustomed to Kiyoomi’s fastidious habits after the last few times they’ve travelled together – the chef even makes Kiyoomi’s separately, wearing gloves and using ingredients his father procured especially for the occasion.

The only member of the crew he talks to is the captain; he stops by in the evenings with a glass of wine and informs Kiyoomi of how well the journey is going, what the weather is like above deck, and how many more days it’ll be before they finally dock in the city port. It’ll be a few more, the captain tells him, but they’re due to stop in the port of a nearby town to restock some supplies and for the crew to run a few of Kiyoomi’s father’s errands.

To distract himself until the moment his feet can touch solid ground, Kiyoomi plugs his ears to block the shouts of sailors and reads the days away. The book he’s flicking through now is one he’s read before, detailing various poisons and venoms and their natural antidotes. A section of the lecture he’s due to attend will be about something similar –  according to his father, the professor speaking has recently returned from an expedition and has revolutionary updates to regale the community with. Kiyoomi doesn’t really care. He’s never really been interested in science – he’s far more interested in the art of the sword - but his family have always favoured the academics over all else, and Kiyoomi would rather die than embarrass himself by being unlearned.

When the ship docks early in the afternoon on the fourth day, Kiyoomi is more than glad to seize the opportunity to stretch his legs and get some fresh air without the ground swaying beneath him. The town they’ve docked in is one Kiyoomi is unfamiliar with; the harbour is lined with stalls and taverns, and the streets beyond are cobbled and caged by tall brick buildings.

It is nothing like what he is used to. It stinks so badly of rotting fish and stagnant water that he has to hold his handkerchief to his mouth again just to peruse the stalls, but even that is insufficient in abating his nausea.

There are vendors shouting, horns blaring, and children screeching in a cacophony of noise. Kiyoomi wants to go back to the ship to prevent the headache creeping any further behind his eyes, turns on his heel to do so, but then a member of the crew he doesn’t remember the name of clears his throat behind him and says, “I heard there’s a bladesmith that way, Sakusa-san.”

He’s small and ferrety-looking, with large, round eyes that always seem to be nervously searching Kiyoomi for something he can’t quite work out. Kiyoomi vaguely recognises his voice as the one that brings him dinner most mornings and evenings, but that is the extent of what he knows of him.

“I, uh,”—he clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck— “I can show you the way if you’d like, sir.”

Kiyoomi frowns. Visiting the bladesmith sounds like a good idea; it’ll most likely be quieter than the marketplace and he’s been meaning to purchase new whetstone for a while, but he cannot think of a single conceivable reason as to why this man should go with him. He doesn’t look like he knows the next thing about swords; the red flush to his face makes him look more like he might be coming down with something.

“I can find it myself,” Kiyoomi tells him, taking what he hopes is a subtle step backward.

“O-of course, sir! But, I mean, company would be nice, right?”

Kiyoomi makes a face. “No.”

The man’s shoulders drop and his watery smile falters. “Oh, OK. Then I’ll, uh—I guess I’ll see you at the inn later?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says again. “I’ll be staying on the boat.”

The man nods weakly and gives up after that. He weaves back through the crowd and shuffles over to his friends on the crew drinking at benches outside a tavern. Kiyoomi watches in confusion as they pat his back and laugh at him pitifully. It’s then Kiyoomi realises, he was probably partaking in some form of joke, a dare that might have bagged him a free drink if he could get Kiyoomi to do something ridiculous like smile or say more than ten words.

It wouldn’t be the first time something that pathetic has ever transpired. As a teenager, boys and girls alike would pinch their cheeks into blushes and take turns asking Kiyoomi to dance at parties all the time. They’d badger him with vague chatter and stumble over their own words until Kiyoomi told them to leave him alone and his mother had to lecture him about manners.

Without looking back, he sets off for the bladesmith alone with a tight hand around his coin purse and a keen eye on his surroundings. The streets are narrow here, and he must watch that he doesn’t get pickpocketed or bump into other people as they barrel around boisterously drunk despite it being relatively early in the afternoon. At least, he sighs in relief, the stench of ale and sweat is marginally more tolerable than that of salty rot.

Ten minutes of aimless wandering later, however, Kiyoomi realises he is hopelessly lost.

It turns out that the vague direction of ‘that way’ is much more difficult to follow than he’d thought it would be when the streets all seem to look the same and twist puzzlingly around each other like a cobbled maze.

Kiyoomi has passed multiple shops – a hattery, a butcher, a sweet shop – none of which are the bladesmith, and none of which interest him in the slightest. He could ask someone for directions, sure, but every shop he peers into is packed with a crowd too large for him to feel comfortable entering, and the faces he passes on the street feel as unapproachable as his own.

He is standing at a fork in the street, debating which direction to try next, when a man stumbles loudly out of the door to his left and falls into the wall. Narrowly, Kiyoomi manages to dodge the man’s attempt to steady himself using the sleeve of his expensive coat, and he watches on unhelpfully as he struggles grasping at brick instead.

When the man looks up, his eyes spell anger; his mouth looks as though it’s about to spill curses after being left rudely in the lurch, but the moment his eye meets Kiyoomi’s, they soften inexplicably. His mouth stretches into a lopsided grin, and he says, “What’s a handsome place like you doin’ comin’ here often in a guy like this?”

The man is shorter than he is, not by much, but without the heeled boots, Kiyoomi wagers he’d probably claim the advantage if it came down to a fight. The shirt he’s wearing looks expensive; it’s constructed of fine, red-patterned silk, but only the bottom two buttons are fastened and tucked into a tight pair of breeches. Kiyoomi’s gaze flickers passed the glint of a medallion hanging at his chest and the exposed planes of his tanned torso, to the pistol and scimitar hanging on belts at his waist.

He’s a pirate, Kiyoomi’s brain supplies, most likely one dangerous enough that Kiyoomi should be thinking about how to slip away without inviting the barrel of this man’s gun to his head. His father has warned him about pirates, how ruthless and unreasonable they can be, especially towards nobles. It’s just Kiyoomi’s luck, he laments, that the first time he ventures outside of his comfort zone without his sword the worst should happen. Next time he sails, he’ll lock himself in his room and refuse to leave until the journey is done.

Kiyoomi knows he should be careful not to provoke this man, he’s very obviously drunk if the distinct waft of ale is any indication, but instead of acting with sense, Kiyoomi finds himself asking, “What?” Because between the heavy accent and the slurred words, he’s read thousand-page essays that are not nearly as confusing as whatever has just come out of that man’s mouth.

He runs a ring-adorned hand through unkempt blonde hair and continues confidently, “I said, d’ya often place here like you”—he frowns and puts a finger to his lips to stop the words before starting again—“What’re ya handsome place doin’ here on a—Why’re ya handsome on a guy like—fuck I’m drunk.” He sways slightly on his feet and points a finger in the shape of a gun at Kiyoomi accompanied by a wink that is actually just a blink. “Yer hot,” he clarifies more simply.

Ah.

Any curiosity that might have piqued in this strange man suddenly evaporates into thin air.

Kiyoomi grimaces at him and turns on his heel without another word. He hears some cursing and shuffling behind him as he walks away, and then yelling and the colliding of bodies as the man runs to catch up with him.

“Hey, wait! Where’ya goin’? I didn’t even get to ask yer name!”

Kiyoomi doubts his drunken mind even cares for such pointless details. “I don’t have one,” he calls over his shoulder dismissively.

“Shit. Really?” the man calls back “Then what do I call ya?”

Kiyoomi reaches another fork in the street. “You don’t call me anything,” he says as he weighs up the options of left or right. “You stop bothering me and return to whichever hovel you crawled out of.”

He takes a sharp left, hoping that it might shake the drunk pirate off, but it’s a grave mistake, because once he reaches the end of the road, he realises he’s chosen a dead end and that he has no choice but to double back.

Not for the first time that day Kiyoomi finds himself wishing he’d just stayed on the damn boat. No amount of fresh air is worth all of this frustration; his feet are starting to blister in his uncomfortable dress shoes.

When he does reluctantly turn after spending a few minutes pretending to peer into the bakery window, the man is already waiting, leaning against the wall of a house with one hand, and waggling his fingers in a wave with the other.

“Yer not from ‘round here, huh?” he asks with a smile that makes Kiyoomi feel as though he’s being laughed at. It also makes Kiyoomi want to knock the guy’s teeth out from his skull. “Can I help show you some place, Mr No Name?”

“I doubt you could show me to the end of the street,” Kiyoomi notes tersely, watching the way the man’s eyes keep glazing over and the way he keeps tipping ominously forwards.

Kiyoomi could probably shoulder past him easily and he’d fall, but, despite the fact the man has not reached for them, Kiyoomi is still weary of the weapons at his waist. Untold amounts of devastation could occur should his alcohol-addled brain attempt to fire his pistol.

He’ll just have to wait for a chance to occur, for the man to fall unconscious, or for someone else to finally walk down this street so Kiyoomi can pretend he knows them.

“I totally could,” the man says, doing a bad job of stifling a hiccup. “I could show you my—I could show you the, uh… all sorts of great places. My room at the inn is nice. Has a pillow and a, uh, a blanket, and this paintin’ of the sea on the wall. Or maybe it was a forest?” He frowns again, like he’s annoyed at himself for not being able to remember clearly. “Both, I think. Probably. I don’t fuckin’ care. Point is, you should come see it.”

“I’m not interested.”

“In me or my room?”

“You. The room sounds nice.”

The man pulls a face like he’s just eaten something sour. “Why not?” he asks and then gestures to himself. “You got problems seein’ clear or somethin’?”

Unfortunately, Kiyoomi can see how attractive he is frustratingly well. There’s danger glittering in his eyes and something undeniably charming in the tilt of his smile. It’s probably why Kiyoomi hasn’t just bolted despite the risk: it’s almost amusing to watch a man this good-looking fumbling around like he’s a form of street entertainment Kiyoomi should be throwing coins at.

“No,” Kiyoomi tells him with a pointed once over. “I do, however, possess standards higher than rock bottom.”

The man blinks slowly at him, like it’s taking him a while to process what Kiyoomi has just said. Or perhaps, more realistically, his head is completely devoid of thought and Kiyoomi is waiting for a response that simply won’t come.

“So yer not an actor then,” he says eventually, nodding at Kiyoomi’s ruffled shirt and expertly tailored tailcoat. “Yer one of them real fancy boys. The ones who give a damn about grace and decornium and all that useless horseshi—”

“Decorum,” Kiyoomi interrupts.

“Decronum,” he repeats incorrectly. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“That is definitely not what you—"

“Hey, don’t worry yer pretty head ‘bout it. I can be real polite when I wanna be. I know how to say ‘please’ lotsa differenterestin’ ways.” He winks (blinks) again and dips into a bow so low and so blatantly incorrect in terms of etiquette that Kiyoomi’s mother would probably cry if she saw it. “Allow me to give ya the grand tour, milord.”

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to say something mean-spirited again, but gravity does his job for him. The man stumbles over…air? And lands in an unresponsive heap at Kiyoomi’s feet. He makes no immediate attempts to move, so Kiyoomi kicks at his motionless body with the toe of his shoe to check that he’s alive and earns a pained groan in return.

“Maybe next time,” Kiyoomi mocks him with a shrug, knowing very well that he’ll never set foot in this town or see this man ever again come the morning. Though, he doesn’t suppose the oncoming hangover will let the man remember much either.

He’s about to step over him and leave, when two more men round the corner and skid to a halt before the puddle of red silk. “Tsumu!” one says. He’s wearing a similar shirt of black silk – though his is buttoned tastefully – and an identical face to the man on the floor. “The fuck are ya doin’? Why’d ya run off like that? You coulda gotten—Oh. Hey.” He stops shouting when he notices Kiyoomi, looks him up and down and then turns back to his (likely) twin. “‘Spose that makes sense for you.”

Kiyoomi ignores that. He nods to the half-conscious form and asks, “Is that thing yours?”

“Un-fuckin’-fortunately,” black shirt says. He also looks slightly drunk; his words are heavy and take an obvious toll on his brain to form. “You knock him down or did he do that to himself?”

“He fell. Somehow.”

“Shame,” the other man says. He’s considerably more sober than the other two, or perhaps the bored tone to his voice just makes it appear that way. He grabs red shirt’s arm and helps hoist him to his feet with a grunt that suggests he’s doing most of the work. “He deserves a good slugging.”

Kiyoomi’s only known him for a cumulative five minutes and thinks that’s probably a fair thing to say. He looks the sort to be just as loud sober as he is drunk; much like Kiyoomi’s brother during New Year celebrations.

“Suna,” red shirt whines into his friend’s shoulder. “Look how pretty he is. Don’t he look like a prince? Like the one from that story Aran used to tell about the knight? I’m not jokin’ this time boys, I think I’m in lo—mmph!”

The one known as Suna cringes visibly, and the twin winces and slaps a hand over his brother’s mouth to shut him up.  

“We’ll be goin’ now,” black shirt says, fighting to keep his hand over his twin’s mouth despite his muffled struggles. “Unless he said somethin’ really stupid and yer gonna be difficult ‘bout it and get the guards involved.”

Suna’s fingers trace a pattern over the pistol at his waist, and Kiyoomi knows a threat when he sees one. He shakes his head. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less about any of you. Do you know where the bladesmith is?”

“That way,” is all Suna says with a vague wave of his free hand in the opposite direction.

They shuffle away, spitting curses and threats at the drunkard in the middle who won’t keep quiet, and as Kiyoomi watches them leave he decides for the first time in his life to cut his losses and call it a day.

The captain escorts Kiyoomi back onto the ship when he returns to the dock. Like Kiyoomi’s a clueless child, he runs through the safety protocol of staying on the docked ship overnight, tells Kiyoomi that a meal has been prepared for him already in the kitchen, and hands him a ring of keys that unlock all doors, including the captain’s quarters.

The crew stick around as they load up the orlop with supplies they procured at the market and whatever Kiyoomi’s father requested, but they leave as soon as they are done, to spend one comfortable night at an inn before they are due to get back on the water.

Now that he’s alone, Kiyoomi takes a walk around the deck, studies the sails and the helm and the cannons, and matches up their functions with what he can remember reading about them in his books. As his shoes knock a steady rhythm into the wood, he puts names to the knots that comprise the rigging, and labels each of the masts. It’s a shame that it’s so overly crowded during the day. It would be interesting, he thinks, to see how it all works in practice rather than theory without the thirty-strong crew of strangers bustling around him, stealing his oxygen.

To his left and right, more ships are docked, some much larger and more imposing than the one he stands on, built for longer and more treacherous journeys. He wonders which of them – if any - belongs to the pirates he encountered earlier in the day, and if theirs boasts cannons, or perhaps an ominous-looking flag.

When the wind picks up and turns cold, Kiyoomi ventures below deck and looks around. He finds his promised food in the kitchen and picks at it as he inspects the sleeping quarters and rifles through what the captain picked up for his father and stored in the orlop. It’s nothing much, mostly books and imported delicacies, but Kiyoomi also finds some artwork, fine silks and fabrics, and an ornate-looking rug that’ll most likely replace the one in the study once he gets home.

Home. Part of him wishes he’d never left, feigned an illness instead of travelling halfway across the country to avoid a party. He wants his bed, his clean clothes, and to breathe air that doesn’t make him want to vomit. He wants to bathe properly, wants to scrub days’ worth of grime from his skin and eat food that doesn’t taste like watery paper.

He unlocks the captain’s quarters and sits at his desk. It’s a room far bigger than Kiyoomi’s, and he tries not to be too jealous of the fact that the captain has a wardrobe, a rug spread out across the floor, and a window that lets a considerable amount of light in. He turns his attention to the tabletop instead, that’s covered completely in a map of extraordinary detail. Four weights hold it down, and small figures of boats are placed upon precise locations within the sea. Kiyoomi picks up the one placed near a border of land and inspects it; it looks exactly like the ship he’s on now, down to the colour of the hull and the tiny flags flying at the masts. As he brings it closer to his face to see the details of the deck, he fumbles it and hears it thump against the carpet. He bends down to retrieve it, and then he spots the inconspicuous bottle of whiskey hidden in a compartment carved into the desk’s wall and smiles.

Kiyoomi doesn’t care that it belongs to the captain, he picks up the bottle, pops the cork and pours some – not too much - into his mouth from a distance so that his lips don’t touch the rim. Immediately, the warm thrum of alcohol soothes him from the inside out. The burn as it eases down his throat settles some of his perpetual nerves and he imagines it washing away whatever germs have collected in his chest throughout the day like he’s cleansing a wound.

Kiyoomi feels somewhat lighter when he stashes it back away and he sits for a while, enjoying watching the sun set and bruise the sky purple. When the alcohol starts to hit and make his eyes feel heavy, he trudges back to his room and locks the door behind him. Lethargically, he shrugs out of his coat, hangs it neatly over his desk, and changes out of his ruffled shirt and into a looser fitting undershirt to sleep in.

Kiyoomi doesn’t bother with his routine of lighting the lantern and reading himself to sleep that night. He crawls straight under the covers and is asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

Kiyoomi is dreaming of unfamiliar brown eyes and golden hair just before he wakes. He has no idea what time it is, only that he’s feeling more pissed off than usual for some unexplainable reason, and that it’s still too cold to be the morning.

Then he realises what has woken him isn’t the usual rowdy shouting of sailors, but the creaking of wood and the heavy foot falls of boots above his head. He sits up immediately, listening tentatively in the darkness for a clue as to what is happening.

The crew aren’t meant to be back until morning; the ship is supposed to be empty. But Kiyoomi can feel the subtle sway, the nausea in the pit of his stomach that means they’re definitely moving.

There are a few possibilities as to why, Kiyoomi rationalises with himself.

One: it is, in fact, morning, and the whiskey that Kiyoomi drank has simply clouded his good judgement.

Two: he is not actually awake. This is just another strange dream within a dream, because when you spend every waking moment on a boat, your subconscious is bound to start taking notes.

Three: the ship has been boarded by thieves, and Kiyoomi is probably about to be—

Click.

Kiyoomi’s head snaps towards the sound. It’s coming from where he knows the door is; a scraping, a clicking of metal, the rattling of the door handle.

He realises he has nothing to defend himself with other than the book discarded beside his bed and grabs it as a last resort. It’s a hard cover, at least. It’ll do some considerable damage if he hits hard enough using the corners. Even if he had his sword, he feels so disoriented he’s not so sure he’d know how to use it; his hands feel boneless and his breaths are short in his chest.

The door clicks one final time and then it swings open.

Light floods the room, from a lantern in the hands of the person who’s just broken in. Kiyoomi winces as his eyes adjust from the darkness, and then he makes immediate, prolonged eye contact with a man in the doorway.

He’s short, with wild orange hair and a young-looking face. Kiyoomi can’t quite work out the colour of his eyes from their distance, but they widen when he spots Kiyoomi brandishing his book and his hand tightens around the handle of his lantern.

“Oh, shit,” he says after what feels like a lifetime.

Kiyoomi wastes no time. He throws the book at the door and the intruder yelps as it narrowly misses hitting him. The assailant bolts, and Kiyoomi stumbles out of bed after him because he looks small enough that Kiyoomi might be able to take him in a fight and use him as leverage against whoever has boarded this ship. He remembers to pick up the book before he leaves, feeling safer with the weight of a weapon in his hands.

The light of the lantern gives away the intruder’s position; Kiyoomi follows it as it winds around the lower decks but the man’s fast. Too fast for Kiyoomi to keep up with for long, especially whilst the boat is moving and throwing him into the walls.

When he loses both the light and the intruder, he dips behind a barrel and hides while he catches his breath.

Strangely enough, though he spends every waking moment of his life catastrophising the smallest of interactions, though he finds the tiniest and most insignificant of things to be anxious about, right now he feels an odd sense of calm wash over him. I suppose, he thinks, this is what my brain has been training me for all this time. He’s spent so long rehearsing for the worst, that now he feels prepared.

Hiding forever isn’t exactly an option now that someone knows he’s here, and he can hear a lot of footsteps above that suggest he’s far too outnumbered to fight his way free. He’s heard the stories of what happens to the crews of merchant ships, of noblemen and fishermen when criminals board their vessels. The decks are stained with blood and the bodies are left for the sharks.

As of right now Kiyoomi has two choices:

Either he lets the criminals kill him, or he throws himself overboard and takes his chances with nature.

“I’m not kidding! There was someone here, I swear! He threw a book at me.”

It’s the voice of the intruder; Kiyoomi recognises the same upbeat lilt. The voice is coming from his left, the same direction he disappeared in, and now there is another set of footsteps accompanying his, heavier and clunkier.

He must have run to fetch help.

Kiyoomi decides then that he, and the ship, are completely fucked. He should definitely just hand himself over to be gutted now and save everyone the hassle of searching for him. Or perhaps it would be better simply to torch the whole vessel and take everyone down with him. He hopes his grandmother won’t be too displeased that his dramatic and untimely demise at the hand of bandits will plummet the mood of her birthday celebrations.

Who is Kiyoomi kidding? Of course she will.

“There can’t be anyone here, dumbass,” comes the other voice. It’s petulant and grumpy sounding, like the whole world is challenging him rather than just one guy. “The crew said everyone was staying at the inn.”

Kiyoomi holds his breath and remains very still as he listens. If he does somehow manage to get out of this alive, he’s personally going to strangle the life from every member of the crew for handing the entire local crime syndicate the opportunity to rob this ship on a silver platter. 

“Well they lied. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” the grumpy one mocks in a childish tone as he starts checking the rooms along the hallway. Kiyoomi can hear the bangs as he kicks the doors open, and the slams as he closes them again. “OK, smartass, why don’t you—”

“Am I a dumbass or a smartass? You should pick one and stick to it, Stupid-yama.”

“Easy. I pick dumbass. So just shut up and tell me what he looked like.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t understand how a description will help them find him in the slightest – he’s now the only stranger on this boat and nobody outside of his family and the crew would ever recognise him by face. Still, the other seems happy enough to oblige.

“Hmm, it was kinda dark, but he definitely had pale skin, dark eyes and dark hair. I think he was wearing a white shirt. You know, those loose flowy ones that vampires wear.”

Kiyoomi looks down at his undershirt and wonders what about it screams vampire. It’s just an undershirt, there’s nothing inherently—

“Sounds like the Phantom Scholar.”

There’s a pause and the banging stops. The bright sounding one’s voice loses its optimistic edge. “The what?”

“The Phantom Scholar,” the grumpy one repeats. “You know, the ghost that haunts noblemen’s ships and kills pirates with books and quill pens. Once he makes eye contact with you, he follows you around for years, watching, waiting for you to feel safe, until he finally kills you. Weren’t you listening when Hoshiumi-san told that story?”

“O-of course I was listening! It’s not the Phantom Scholar!”

“Sounds like it to me. You said he threw a book at you. That’s how it starts.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.”

“Doesn’t.”

“Does. Have fun dying. If you’re lucky, Ushiwaka-san will take pity on you and throw you overboard before the ghost finishes you off.”

Kiyoomi’s had just about as much as he can take. He steps out from behind the barrel, ready to hand himself over, but when the two idiots spot him standing at the end of the hallway, white vampire shirt billowing slightly beneath the draft, book clutched in his hand, the short one screams, the tall one blanches, and they both curse and scramble over each other to run away.

“I’m too young to die!” Kiyoomi hears the short one shriek as he pulls at the tall one’s coat and yanks him backward down the stairs.  

The lantern rattles around and casts chaotic shadows along the hallway as the tall one retaliates by pushing the other’s face into the wall. “You’re already fucked! Stop trying to drag me down with you!”

“You made eye contact with it too! You’re just as fucked as I am!”

“No I’m not! I blinked, dumbass.”

“Liar! It saw us both! I hope you know how to swim, Stupid-yama!”

“I’m the best swimmer on this crew! You should worry about yourself. Sharks prefer eating short people.”

“That’s not true. Sharks don’t understand the metric system!”

“Excuse me,” Kiyoomi tries to interrupt. “I’m not the—"

They both scream this time and the lantern drops with a clangourous thud. Thankfully – or not – it doesn’t smash and engulf the ship in flames, but the light does go out and bury them all in darkness again. The pair seem to give up on ascending the stairs after that, and Kiyoomi can see their outlines backlit by the moon, hugging each other in fear as they search the darkness for signs of the ‘ghost’.

“What the hell is going on down there?”

“Hoshiumi-san! Don’t come over here! It’s the Phantom Scholar!”

“Hah? What are you idiots talking about?” The voice sounds far away at first, but it gets louder as footsteps bring it closer to the staircase. “I made that up to give you nightmares. Can't believe it actually worked. You guys are so stupid.”

“Don’t say that,” the grumpy one says very seriously. “He’s real and you’re going to make him mad.”

Kiyoomi sighs and approaches the stairs. He shoulders past the two cowering in fear, ignores their screaming, and climbs up to the deck where a third man (Hoshiumi?) is waiting.

Hoshiumi cocks his head strangely at Kiyoomi when he spots him, then his large eyes widen and flicker down to the book in his hand and Kiyoomi knows he’s thinking the same damn thing about this ridiculous Phantom Scholar.

Of all the crews to be boarded by, Kiyoomi gets the one comprised of morons. He can’t even just get murdered swiftly and painlessly by competent criminals, he’ll be forced to wallow in stupidity and die slowly and painfully as they try to work out whether he’s a fucking supernatural entity or not.

He’s lamenting his atrocious luck again when an idea springs forth. A way for him to perhaps secure his life at least until the boat next docks and he can safely run away.

Kiyoomi is no genius, but to a crew full of idiots, his education might seem otherworldly. He can decipher maps, write well, and he’s read a fair amount about health and science to be a passable medic. If he can talk to the captain, he’s sure he can work something out, come to some kind of agreement to prove his worth.

“W-Who are you?” Hoshiumi asks. Kiyoomi ignores him and continues on his way. “Hey! Wait! Where are you going?”

“To hand myself over to your captain,” Kiyoomi replies. “Since none of you seem competent enough to do it yourselves.”

The ship has definitely been boarded by pirates, Kiyoomi confirms as he looks around. Not just bandits, or common thieves, but pirates that have already gotten the ship so far away from the dock that Kiyoomi can barely make out the lights of the town in the distance.

He can see a few members of the crew. Aside from the ones now arguing behind him, there are two racing up the rigging, one cheering them on, and two more talking beside the ship’s helm.

Of them all, Kiyoomi takes his chances with the captain being the one wearing an elaborate hat and long coat of purple and gold brocade at the helm. Kiyoomi starts towards him, but then hands grab at his arms and force them behind his back. Kiyoomi fights it at first, losing his grip on his book and hating the sensation of being touched, but then he resigns himself to the fact that the less resistance he puts up, the more favourable he might seem.

“We’ve got you now, Phantom Scholar,” the short one says. His grip is surprisingly strong around Kiyoomi’s wrists as he pushes him in the direction he was already voluntarily going in. “We’re going to take you to face the wrath of our captain.”

“It’s about time,” Kiyoomi drawls. He has to clench his teeth together after that to stop them chattering, and wishes he’d had the good sense to grab his coat instead of the book.

Hoshiumi pulls a knife to Kiyoomi’s throat and says, “You won’t be saying that when he’s through with you.”

Kiyoomi gives him a look. Even brandishing a knife, Hoshiumi doesn’t exactly strike fear into Kiyoomi’s heart, especially since he’s still eyeing Kiyoomi warily like he might evaporate into a cloud of ghostly smoke. The only mildly concerning thing about him is the pair of pistols at his waist.

When Hoshiumi’s stare lingers on him an uncomfortable second too long, Kiyoomi decides to have a little fun. He jerks his body to the side and snaps, “Boo.”

All three yelp again and Kiyoomi laughs as he feels the grip on his wrists loosen.

Hoshiumi narrows his eyes at him and must finally come to the conclusion that Kiyoomi is not, in fact, a ghost, because he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “We’ve found a stowaway! Everyone gather!”

“I’m not a stowaway,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “This is my damn ship.”

“Not anymore,” says the grumpy one. “It’s ours now.”

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi is forced to kneel on the disgusting deck, shivering in his sleeping clothes as the captain waits for the crew to gather around him. Those who climbed to the top of the rigging are taking an eternity to find their way back down, so Kiyoomi uses that time to discreetly assess those who are assembled.

The two idiots terrified of him below deck look different under the light of the full moon and warmth of the lanterns. The shorter one is dressed head-to-toe in black, and what little light there is bounces off the dozens of blade hilts strapped to his body. They decorate his waist, his chest, his thighs, his boots – he even removes two kunai from the inner sleeves of his wrists and spins them idly around his fingers as he waits.

The taller of the two wears a coat of navy brocade and has a face that boasts of extreme concentration whilst simultaneously managing to look completely blank. There’s a broadsword hanging at his waist rather than a pistol, one sheathed in a scabbard that he rests his hand on as he continues to bicker with Hoshiumi.

The only one louder than them is a man who doesn’t seem to understand the concept of a shirt at all. He wears a leather vest, unbuttoned to expose the enormous bulk of his muscles despite the freezing winds, and an eyepatch over his left eye. There’s a worryingly large blunderbuss slung over his back, two smaller ones in pockets strapped to his thighs, and three lockets hanging loosely around his neck that sway and tangle around each other as he motions dramatically through a conversation.

The captain looks more a privateer than a pirate. He stands stoically at the helm, tall, imposing, and with his hands staunchly at his sides. His sword is sheathed in a scabbard just as ornate as his coat, sharing a belt with an elaborately decorated pistol and a retracted spyglass. He doesn’t look as airheaded as the rest of them; Kiyoomi thinks he might get somewhere talking to him if he can keep his cool.

The only other person left is –

Kiyoomi blinks when he realises that the face is familiar.

The bored expression, the dark, carelessly parted hair, and the piercing eyes. It’s Suna, the pirate he met in the street earlier that day, there’s no doubt about it, especially not when Suna’s eyes widen slightly in recognition upon meeting Kiyoomi’s.

Which means the two climbing down from the rigging must be—

“Like hell ya did, ya fuckin’ liar. We touched it at the same time.”

“No we fuckin’ didn’t, Samu. I obviously touched it first. Yer gonna wanna strap some magnifying glasses to yer stupid face next time. Your eyes are obviously failin’ ya.”

The twins.

Perhaps Kiyoomi will just steal someone’s sword and gut himself after all.

They fall into place next to Suna, arguing with each other about the technicalities of climbing races, pushing and hitting and throwing their elbows around like quarrelling children.

No longer under the influence of alcohol, red shirt looks considerably sharper, and his words come faster and nastier. He looks different than he did in the street; his smile has a vicious edge to it, like it’s now a form of provocation rather than an unconscious accessory.

Standing next to each other Kiyoomi can confirm they are definitely identical twins, despite the immediate difference in their hair. What one twin has, the other has replicated on the opposite side: red shirt has his right ear pierced, scimitar and hand resting on his right hip - black shirt has his left ear pierced, his scimitar and hand resting on his left hip. They’re like bookends, the main commonality between them – aside from their faces - being the matching medallions around their necks.

“Why’d ya call us down anyway, cap?” red shirt drawls. “Ship’s supposed to be empty, ain’t it?”

Black shirt opens his mouth to say something, but then his eye catches Kiyoomi still kneeling on the floor with his hands tied shoddily behind his back and he stops and starts to laugh. “Hey, Tsumu, look who it is,” he says, digging an elbow into his side. “It’s yer prince charming.”

The captain raises an eyebrow and his first words to the group are, “You know him, Atsumu?”

‘Atsumu’ shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says, trying his best to avoid acknowledging Kiyoomi’s existence. He does a terrible job; his eyes flicker from Kiyoomi to the mast, back to Kiyoomi and then to his feet in a jerky, repeating pattern. He couldn’t be more obvious if he’d climbed the mast and announced at the top of his lungs.

His twin throws an arm around his shoulder and messes up his hair. “Sure ya do, champ. What was it he told us ‘bout him, Sunarin?”

Suna makes a point of humming as he tries to recall, and Atsumu grabs the back of his twin’s neck and squeezes. Kiyoomi wishes he would squeeze harder; the last thing he wants is to relive the events of earlier.

“Shut the fuck up, Samu,” Atsumu warns through gritted teeth.

He does shut up, but only because the captain starts speaking again. “Do you know him or not, Miya One?”

“‘Course I don’t, captain!” he says with an easy smile. “Think my standards are significantly higher than that, sir.”

The captain’s face resembles carved stone, it doesn’t give much away in terms of expression, but Kiyoomi thinks perhaps the slight twitch of his eyebrow is one of scepticism.

“We met him in the street earlier today,” Suna supplies. “Had to peel him off the floor ‘cause he was stumbling over himself trying to get in that guy’s breeches.”

Atsumu makes a choked sound as the rest of the crew laughs. Even Kiyoomi snorts as he watches the veil of confidence slip further off Atsumu’s face to reveal a startling blush hidden beneath. “I fuckin’ hate this family,” he grumbles under his breath. “The whole lot of ya.”

The captain crosses his arms over his chest and turns to Kiyoomi. “Does that mean you are here because you followed him with the intention of following through on the offer?”

It’s Kiyoomi’s turn to choke. “Fuck no,” he snaps, trying to supress the shivers wracking his body. His hair is being swept into his eyes, and the air is so cold his skin feels as though it’s being bitten raw, but his blood is suddenly hot and angry beneath it. “If that’s what you think, I’d rather you put a bullet in my head now and save me the humiliation. Actually, make it two just to make sure the job’s done.”

“Shit, alright!” Atsumu snaps back. “No need to be so fuckin’ mean ‘bout it!” He tags on a mumbled, “Asshole,” for good measure.

“I’ll be as mean as I like,” Kiyoomi says, forgetting entirely that he’s meant to be currying this crew’s favour in order to survive. Intentional or not, he’s never quite been able to hold vitriol from the tip of his tongue. It’s why his father agreed to this whole trip in the first place, lest far more important nobles be on the receiving end of his attitude. “Have you forgotten that you’re stealing my ship?”

“Our ship,” the grumpy one interrupts.

“No,” Kiyoomi says slowly so that someone might finally understand him. “My ship.”

“I can see why you might think that,” the captain says. His voice carries sonorously over the crashing of the waves against the hull, crisp and clear and uncompromising. “A few hours ago, it might have been. But look.”

He points up at the mast where a different flag flies than the one once bearing Kiyoomi’s family crest. It’s crudely drawn, white paint on black fabric smeared into the vague shapes of birds and what Kiyoomi thinks might be a wolf or a fox of some kind. For a moment, Kiyoomi watches as it snaps and billows beneath the wind like it’s caught in a cheerful dance, then he turns back to the captain to hear him say, “It belongs to us now.”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi says, because there’s no way he can talk sense and reason into a pirate, no matter how well dressed he might be or how decent his posture. “Keep the ship. Just take me back to the dock so I can find my own way home.”

He’ll find his crew at the inn and get them to secure another way back to normality. So long as he can just—

“I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

Kiyoomi shuffles irritably and the wooden deck pokes splinters through his trousers and into his knees. “Why not?” he hisses.

The half-naked one steps in, voice just as loud as the captain’s, but far more brassy. “Guards at the port saw us leave,” he says with a wide smile. “We’ll get arrested on the spot if we go back.” He drags his thumb across his throat and tilts his head like his neck is broken. “Or worse.”

So his crew will probably be notified that he’s been taken, Kiyoomi notes with optimism. Maybe they’ll send a boat after them, or maybe the authorities will give chase—No, pessimism interrupts. They probably won’t bother until the sun rises, by which time the ship will have disappeared beyond the horizon and be completely untraceable.

The only thing he can think to say is, “Then throw me overboard.”

It’s a long swim, further than what Kiyoomi is capable of, no doubt. And that’s without taking into consideration the fish, the sharks, and the untold amounts of unidentified organisms that could accost him on the way. The mere thought of a fish entering the realm of his personal space sends another shiver down his spine; he’ll perish long before he’ll reach the shore, no doubt.

Atsumu scoffs and tilts his head condescendingly at Kiyoomi. The nervousness to his eye disappears and arrogance replaces it swiftly. “You think the kraken’s gonna put on its little chauffeur hat, scoop you up and carry you back to yer estate, pretty boy?”

Kiyoomi looks pointedly at the duo he met below deck, then to Atsumu and says, “I’d rather take my chances with the kraken than with you idiots. I’d wager it would at the very least possess better manners.”

A few of them bristle, Hoshiumi reaches for his pistol and the shorter one pats his hand as if to say no.

The captain ignores it all and shakes his head. “I’m afraid we cannot do that either."

“What’s stopping you?” Kiyoomi demands. He doubts any other crew of pirates would need to be begged to put an end to the life of a ‘stowaway,’ especially one persistently insulting the crew. “It’s quicker and easier than getting my blood on the deck of your nice new ship, right?”

“Without question,” the captain agrees. “However, the members of this crew abide by one crucial rule: no matter the circumstance, we do not harm civilians.”

“You don’t—” Kiyoomi stares at the captain in disbelief, waiting for the punchline. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he says as he looks around at the sea of serious faces. “Pirates with moral compasses? When did you decide to become living oxymorons? The same time you hired babies to draw your flag?”

“Hey, fuck you! I drew that flag,” Atsumu says, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

“Figures,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “It looks like shit.”

This time it’s Atsumu who gets his hand stopped from retrieving his pistol. As he struggles to wrestle his hands free of his brother’s grip, Kiyoomi sends him a condescending smile of his own and revels in the colourful curse he earns in response.

“We’re not morons,” the grumpy one says, proving himself and the rest of the crew wrong when they nod in agreement.

“And most people would just be grateful that they weren’t getting murdered,” adds Suna with a nonchalant shrug.

Kiyoomi is grateful. Undoubtedly, he is. A part of him sags in relief knowing that he’ll get to see the sun rise because these pirates decided to wake up one morning and choose integrity, but another part still feels frustrated. No matter what, he’ll have to spend days, possibly weeks, aboard this ship against his will. He’ll have to share the space with people who don’t understand him, he’ll have to learn how to cook his own meals and be forced to interact with strangers - pirates. Filthy, scurvy-ridden, drunken, unreasonable pirates.

Kiyoomi’s pampered life at the estate has not prepared him for this. His meals are usually laid out for him, made with extra care and precision. The maids know to keep their distance, how tidy to keep Kiyoomi’s room, what they should touch and what they should avoid. His baths are usually hot, his clothes are always clean and neatly pressed, his boots are polished, and his days are carefully planned and organised.

Now he doesn’t know where he’s going, or if he’ll ever get home. This rambunctious crew could lead him into a storm where the ship will overturn, they could encounter bigger, stronger, more malicious pirates along the way and end up slaughtered and rotting at the bottom of the ocean.

There is an infinite, untold number of possibilities. Too many for Kiyoomi’s brain to even comprehend right now, kneeling in the freezing cold darkness, miles out into the middle of the ocean.

“Lucky me,” Kiyoomi says, deadpan.

“You will be treated as a guest,” the captain informs him. “You may keep your room and walk about as you please.”

Kiyoomi sits back on his heels and tugs at his hand restraints. “Then why am I still tied up?”

“I have to make sure you won’t jump the ledge or harm my crew first," the captain replies. “Before I let you loose.”

“I already told you,” Kiyoomi says with a nod directed at Suna. “I don’t give a damn about any of you. I didn’t even want to be on this boat to begin with.”

The captain crouches down until he’s at eye level with Kiyoomi. “Promise me you will not endanger your life attempting escape.”

Kiyoomi narrows his gaze. He doesn’t know why it’s such a big deal – if Kiyoomi jumps over, he’ll be one less problem – but he offers a perfunctory nod for now and says, “Fine.”

The captain spends a moment longer uncomfortably searching Kiyoomi’s eyes. Whatever he is looking for he seems to find, because when he finally straightens, he says, “Hinata Shouyou, cut him free.”

Hinata - the short one - bounds over and uses one of the many knives strapped to his body to cut Kiyoomi’s bonds loose. He does so warily. Not with the same kind of fear as he had done when he thought Kiyoomi was a ghost, but with apprehension, like a cat with its hackles raised, cautious of being bitten.

The captain offers a hand to Kiyoomi to help him up, but Kiyoomi ignores it and gets to his feet by himself, massaging at the sore spots on his wrist where the rope has rubbed his skin a little raw. “Follow me,” the captain says. “We’ll sort through the details of your stay.”

Kiyoomi ignores the stares and whispers from the rest of the crew as he follows closely behind, especially Atsumu’s, whose seems louder and more pronounced than anyone else’s.

The captain takes him to the captain’s quarters, and the moment he sits down in the captain’s chair, he reaches below the desk and feels around until he retrieves the bottle of whiskey that Kiyoomi discovered earlier on.

“How did you know that was there?” Kiyoomi asks him.

“All good captains hide their best where the crew can’t find it,” he says simply. “Or else it’ll be gone before he can blink.” He pulls a shot glass from his pocket, wipes it clean with a handkerchief and pours himself a drink. With a gesture to the seat opposite his own, he tells Kiyoomi to, “Sit.”

Kiyoomi does sit, but only because the captain seems to display some form of familiar propriety in the way he neatly folds his handkerchief and returns it to his coat pocket. The chair creaks when Kiyoomi settles into it, and the sound cuts through the silence with the delicacy of a serrated blade.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi,” the captain says by way of introduction once he has finished his first drink and is pouring his second. He extends a hand in greeting. Kiyoomi stares at it pointedly but does not attempt to return it; he’s not wearing his gloves.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he replies cautiously.

Ushijima curls his unshaken hand into a fist and returns it to the tabletop. “It is unfortunate that you were on board when we set sail,” he says. “We had intel to suggest the vessel would be empty. That is why we chose this ship as opposed to any other.”

“I don’t really care,” Kiyoomi says. It doesn’t matter how or why the ship was stolen, only that it has been and Kiyoomi is stuck in the middle of it. He wouldn’t be as angry were he one of the many standing at the harbour, staring confusedly at the blank space where the ship had once been rather than sat on it as it drifts away.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Ushijima says reasonably. He swirls his drink around in the shot glass and then gestures to the map spread out across the table. “If you do not mind me asking, where were you headed?”

Kiyoomi debates lying against an outright refusal to answer. In the end he chooses the third option of simply telling the truth because he knows any other decision might come back to haunt him later. “Itachiyama University,” he says. “I was supposed to attend a lecture on Monday.”

“Oh,” Ushijima says. One of his thick brows lifts as he considers Kiyoomi’s words. “Interesting.”

Kiyoomi makes a face. “It might have been,” he says spitefully, knowing very well that he would have despised every moment of it. “Guess I’ll never know.”

Ushijima hums in agreement and picks up one of the tiny boat figurines from the table. “I apologise for the inconvenience, but my crew and I were in need of a new vessel. It will be impossible to get you to your lecture in time, but I can offer you this.” He pushes the figure across the table in Kiyoomi’s direction. “Place that where your home is, and I give you my word, I shall take you there once our journey is complete.”

Kiyoomi immediately places the boat its four-day journey east of the harbour and asks, “Why not before? It’s not far.”

Ushijima nods at Kiyoomi’s home, then points to a spot in the sea, a way out from the harbour of the town. “This is where we are currently,” he says then drags his finger north until it stops in a seemingly random location, a long distance from the harbour, and totally devoid of any neighbouring land. “This is where my crew and I need to be, and we have already set an unchangeable course.”

“To the middle of the ocean?”

“To Ukai’s Island,” Ushijima corrects.

“Ukai’s Island,” Kiyoomi repeats sceptically. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Kiyoomi’s not read about it in any of his geographical books, not heard the name during lectures or from the mouths of his droning tutors.

Ushijima reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out another, smaller, rolled up map. He pushes the figures out of the way and spreads the aged parchment over the top of it.

It’s the same map, just older and more decrepit looking. Kiyoomi spots the name of the town they just left, and then follows the empty expanse of ocean northward until his eyes find a messily drawn circle of black ink and a scrawled descriptor underlined several times naming it Ukai’s Island.

“Incalculable amounts of undiscovered treasure lie in waiting on that island,” Ushijima tells him. “It has taken us years to get a hold of this map and the coordinates are very precise. We will only be making one stop. Here,”—he points to a protruding strip of land along the way— “to secure extra supplies for the long journey ahead. You may wish to part ways with us there, but I cannot guarantee your safety, or that you will ever find your way home from a place such as that. There are many far less kind than I, who will take advantage of stranded nobles such as yourself. I probably do not need to remind you that pirates with codes like ours are extremely uncommon.

“My offer is a generous one; if you stick with us until we have secured the treasure, you have my word that we shall not only protect you as one of our own, but we shall also escort you safely home. On my honour as captain of this crew.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to believe such a ridiculous story about secret treasure buried on an undiscovered island, but the map certainly does look authentic, and if it all ends with him crawling beneath the silk sheets of his bed rather than lying upon the splintered wood of a coffin, then maybe it’ll be worth it.

Ushijima extends his hand again in an effort to solidify the agreement. Kiyoomi looks from it to Ushijima’s face. There’s something honest in his eyes, something sincere that puts Kiyoomi at ease slightly. He seems the straight-talking type, his words are devoid of deceit, and no matter how hard Kiyoomi tries, he cannot find any loopholes in the agreement, any catches, or reasons to refuse. The journey might last a whole lot longer, but it’ll end with his return home.

“How am I supposed to gauge what your honour is worth?”

Ushijima’s smile is microscopic as he nods encouragingly towards his hand. “I suppose you will have to find that out for yourself.”

Kiyoomi, despite how much it makes his skin crawl, knows it would be foolish of him to turn down such an offer considering the circumstances. Kiyoomi is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them.

He shakes Ushijima’s hand and seals the agreement.

Ushijima tells him a number of things before Kiyoomi leaves. The names of those on the crew and their roles, the times at which they sleep, rise, and eat, and that they can expect to dock at the intermission island in a week’s time. He reassures Kiyoomi that the crew will act cordially with him under his orders, and that if he has any needs, questions, or problems, he should seek out Bokuto, the quartermaster.

Kiyoomi doesn’t really pay much attention or care for what Ushijima says. He nods and grunts when a response is expected and when Ushijima dismisses him, he retreats straight to his room and locks himself in with the key he kept hidden in his trouser pocket. He takes the extra precaution of pulling the desk away from the wall and pushing it in front of the door so that he won’t be broken into a second time, and then he opens his suitcase and pulls out a coat - one made of black velvet that is considerably less flashy than the one he’d worn previously - and wraps it tightly around himself to combat the chill.

It takes Kiyoomi a very long time to fall asleep once he finally gets into bed. His thoughts swarm around inside his mind like a tumultuous whirlpool, sweeping him up and carrying him to possibilities and endings he does not really want to consider.

He thinks of all the things that could go wrong from here on out. He thinks of his family, his mother, father, siblings, cousins, all about to receive the news that he’s been taken, preparing themselves for the probable and likely truth that he’ll never return. He thinks of the crew above deck, the new family he’ll have to endure living alongside for the foreseeable future, starts making plans and preparations for how he’ll work around them. He thinks of discovery, and of treasure, of bronze and silver and gold, and it’s those meaningless thoughts that finally carry him off to sleep.

For the next three days, Kiyoomi refuses to leave his room. The only time he does venture beyond the door, is when he’s certain that most of the crew are asleep, and he uses the quiet time to creep out and grab himself some food and some water to clean himself with.

The crew leave him to his own devices. Nobody attempts to talk to him, no knocks sound at his door, and no voices call through the wood, not even Ushijima’s to check that he hasn’t slipped out during the night to jump ship.

He can hear them all above him, however. Excruciatingly clear. They’re a rowdy bunch, far louder than the previous crew despite their number being considerably smaller. He can hear the shouting of the eyepatch-clad quartermaster Bokuto as he encourages the crew to fire their guns in rounds of shooting practice and starts up sea shanties that grow in volume the more of the crew join in across the vessel.

It irks Kiyoomi considerably. Even with his earplugs, he cannot find a moment’s peace to read or simply nap the days away. Every time he closes his eyes, a gun will fire, a screech will sound, or something loud will thud against the deck and shake dust from Kiyoomi’s ceiling. Every time he opens a book, the idiots decide to test the cannons or play loud rounds of cards that end in curses so vulgar Kiyoomi can but wince.

His plummeting mood is aided none by the fact that he cannot cook himself anything decent. There are vegetables, there are eggs and beans, spices and herbs in little glass pots, and sacks of flour and sugar, but Kiyoomi hasn’t a clue what to do with any of it. He’s been nibbling on water-soaked sea biscuits and dried sticks of salted beef for days, and his stomach is starting to protest so loudly that it adds to the pile of distractions.

On the fourth day, however, everything changes.

He’s reading a different book about astronomy, one of his favourites, when a knock sounds at his door. For a moment, Kiyoomi dismisses it is just another instance of Hinata, Hoshiumi and (if Kiyoomi is putting the correct names to faces) Kageyama boisterously racing in the hallways. But then it sounds again, three impatiently quick raps against the wood, and Kiyoomi hears the slight shuffling of feet outside that suggest someone is standing, waiting nearby.

He ignores it at first, turns back to his book and hopes that whoever it is will take the hint and leave him alone. But then the knocks turn in to relentless bangs as whoever wants his attention starts hammering their fists against the door.

Eventually, Kiyoomi is given no choice but to get up and answer it lest his head explode. He pushes the desk out of the way, unlocks the door, and opens it to find Atsumu standing with his fist raised ready to strike again.

“‘Bout time,” he huffs. “Was startin’ to think I was gonna die of old age out here.”

Kiyoomi considers him, still wearing his red shirt. He’s fastened it up to his pectorals today, rather than his navel. It’s miraculous, Kiyoomi thinks, that he doesn’t freeze to death.

“What do you want?”

Atsumu’s lips purse into a pout. He looks as though he’d rather be literally anywhere else on earth than outside Kiyoomi’s door, and Kiyoomi wishes he was too.

He’s not exactly sure why, they haven’t spoken since the night of the boarding, but there’s something about Atsumu that still riles Kiyoomi up, something about his cockiness that rubs Kiyoomi the wrong way, something abrasive that digs beneath his skin like the prick of a needle. His voice always seems to carry noticeably over the others above deck, always seems to ring in Kiyoomi’s ears long after everything has fallen silent. The challenging light in Atsumu’s eyes disturbs Kiyoomi’s fitful dreams, and every time Kiyoomi remembers the tilt of his arrogant smile, he feels his blood boil unexplainably.

Or perhaps it is explainable: he simply dislikes him. More so than the rest of the crew since Kiyoomi had the misfortune of meeting Atsumu first.

Even as he stands outside Kiyoomi’s door now, innocuously offering a bowl of soup upon a metal tray, Kiyoomi finds himself bothered by the childish and flippant way in which he says, “I’m being forced to bring this to you, or whatever.”

“I’m not hungry,” Kiyoomi says despite the pinching of his stomach. He goes to close the door, but Atsumu jams his foot between the gap to stop it.

“You haven’t stopped by to eat in days. I was—Captain said he was startin’ to worry you were starvin’ yourself.”

“I’ve eaten,” Kiyoomi tells him pointedly. “Thank ‘your captain’ for his unwarranted concern and tell him to mind his own business. Goodbye.”

Atsumu stops the door a second time with his elbow. The door hits it so hard that the tray rattles, but he stands steady enough that no soup spills. “What the hell’s yer problem? Stop bein’ a stubborn jerk and just take the soup. It ain’t poisoned, see.” He dips his finger in and sucks the soup from it, waiting a moment to prove that he’s not about to drop dead.

“I don’t want your soup,” Kiyoomi tells him. Even if he had been contemplating taking it before, now that Atsumu has stuck his finger in it, the whole bowl is fucked. It’d be no worse than slurping it up from the floor.

“Well, it ain’t mine, really. Samu’s the one that made it.” He says it with enormous pride, like Kiyoomi should be so impressed by the brother he doesn’t know or care about that he cries an apology, takes the soup, and downs it in one big gracious gulp.

“I don’t want any of your brother’s concoctions either.” He looks distastefully down at the bowl. “I don’t know where it’s been.”

“Ya don’t know where it’s—the fuckin’ pot and the fuckin’ bowl, that’s where it’s been,” Atsumu huffs indignantly. Kiyoomi raises a judgemental brow at the little display and Atsumu bristles further. “What? My brother’s cookin’ ain’t good enough for yer pretentious noble tastebuds? That it?”

Kiyoomi loads his voice with an added pretentious flair just to spite him. “If agreeing is what will make you take the soup and fuck off, then yes. I suppose your brother’s paltry efforts at cookery are inadequate for a refined palate such as mine.”

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu purses his lips in contemplation and he can pinpoint the exact moment in which Atsumu decides to make the stupidest decision possible. His mouth stretches from its scowl into a spiteful smile, and he tips the tray purposefully so that the bowl clatters to the floor and spills soup across the floorboards of Kiyoomi’s room.

“Oh dear,” Atsumu says. “I seem to have dropped the horrible peasant’s soup upon the nobleman’s floor. How clumsy of me.”

Kiyoomi takes a deep, steadying breath and tries not to think about the lump of carrot on his toe, or how the soup is pooling beneath his feet, seeping through his socks and turning them repulsively cold and wet. “Yes,” Kiyoomi repeats calmly. “How clumsy of you. Perhaps you should clean it up before I accidentally slip on the mess and smash your stupid head into the wall.”

Atsumu takes a step back and has the audacity to laugh so brightly that Kiyoomi is left wondering if he’s unintentionally just told a joke. “I’d love to see you try,” Atsumu coos. “But we don’t fight with fake swords and fancy words here. Your title means nothin’ to me, and I’m not so sure yer delicate disposition could withstand a real pirate’s brawl, milord.”

Delicate disposition. Kiyoomi has to laugh. He can’t recall the last time he’s been called anything remotely close to delicate. The moment he’d learned to talk and speak his mind he’d been deemed prickly and aloof, even jestingly by his own mother. He’s never minded it, it means that people either have the good sense to leave him be, or speak properly and without pretence like his cousin, Motoya. He’s never enjoyed the needless posturing that comes with noble titles. He prefers to hear and speak the truth without playing mental games of chess. Perhaps that’s why he so readily agreed to Ushijima’s terms.

“If anything aboard this vessel is delicate, it’ll be your fragile ego,” Kiyoomi scoffs, recalling the way Atsumu’s veneer of confidence kept shattering beneath the crew’s relentless teasing the other night.

It shatters again now, though it doesn’t expose embarrassment this time. Instead, Atsumu’s expression darkens, and he says through heavy lids, “The captain might trust you enough to keep ya round, but I don’t care what happens to ya, and I won’t be kissin’ yer boots or playin’ nice like the rest of ‘em.”

“Oh really?” Kiyoomi challenges. “That’s not what you said in the street the other day if my memory serves me correctly. What was it you called me? A prince? That’s rather embarrassing.”

Atsumu’s eye twitches. “That was the drunkest I’ve ever been in my whole life. Clearly, I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. I’m sober enough now to know an asshole when I see one.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and the movement draws Kiyoomi’s attention to the medallion hovering at his exposed collarbones. Upon closer inspection Kiyoomi can see that the circle of gold is carved to resemble the head of a fox with its pointed ears and elongated snout. An odd choice for a pirate, Kiyoomi thinks. He’s known them to choose mascots more intimidating, like skulls and busts of vicious predators. Though he supposes the fox being a notorious pest suits Atsumu quite well.

“Hey.” Atsumu sounds a short, shrill whistle through his teeth when he catches Kiyoomi staring. “Eyes are up here, pretty boy.”

Kiyoomi hums, refusing to rise to the obvious taunt. “This is supposed to be you sober?” he drawls. “I could hardly tell the difference. You’re equally as pathetic. If not more so.”

“Whu—You—” he sputters and Kiyoomi catches his fists clenching. “Fuck off.”

“My, how profoundly eloquent. Are you sure piracy is the profession for you? You seem to have quite the mind for poetry.”

Atsumu’s face reddens, whether it’s through embarrassment or anger, however, Kiyoomi is undecided.

“I hope you enjoy scrubbin’ soup off the floor, and I also hope you miss a spot and that it rots between the cracks and stinks like shit.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t get another word in after that. Atsumu stalks off, his heeled boots stomping loudly atop the wooden floorboards, his mouth mumbling something that sounds like, “…last damn time I ever do anythin’ fuckin’ nice.”

Kiyoomi does not clean the soup from the floor himself.

As per Ushijima’s instruction, he waits a while for Atsumu to cool off, changes his socks, and then he ventures above deck for the first time during waking hours to seek out the quartermaster, because if there’s one thing he’s learned from his pain of a grandmother, it’s that complaining can get you everywhere.

It’s late in the evening; the sky is dulling from a bright orange to a muddled sort of grey, and after a short while of searching, Kiyoomi finds Bokuto sitting around a makeshift food crate table alongside Suna and Hoshiumi. They’re playing a complex card game, one that involves at least three separate decks of cards and a knife, but when they spot Kiyoomi approaching, they cease their bickering to look up and simultaneously raise their eyebrows.

“Hey, Sakusa Kiyoomi! You’re alive!” Bokuto beams. “I’m Bokuto Koutarou!”

Bokuto has buttoned up his vest today, so that only the muscles of his arms are exposed, and he’s forgone his blunderbuss for comfort. He holds out a hand that Kiyoomi promptly ignores and then pretends that he was using that same hand to fix his nest of unruly white hair when it hangs between them for an awkward second too long.

“I know,” Kiyoomi tells him, trying not to sound too affronted that Ushijima seems to have divulged his full name to the crew without his permission. “Your captain filled me in.”

“That’s great!” Unaffected by Kiyoomi’s rudeness, Bokuto lays down three of his cards and whatever result is on them makes Hoshiumi groan in frustration. “But, you know, I gotta admit, you really had me believing in Kageyama’s ghost theory for a while. Was starting to get a little antsy, you know, whoo.” He pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. “It’s all good now though. You’re not a ghost. You’re here! And we’re gonna be best friends, I guarantee it. Anything I can help you with?”

If Kiyoomi has his way, he highly doubts they’ll even become vague acquaintances by the time he disembarks the ship, but he bites his tongue in favour of more pressing matters. “You need to tame your dog,” he says.

“Now that’s a tough one,” Bokuto frowns and taps a finger against his lip, “because I don’t have a dog.”

Suna snorts, picks up the knife and stabs it through one of his cards so that it’s pinned to the tabletop. “I think he means Tsumu.”

“Aaah,” Bokuto nods solemnly. “Has Tsum-Tsum been giving you trouble already?”

“When isn’t he bothering at least one person?” Hoshiumi says from behind his cards. He makes a show of running a finger across the top of his hand, selects two cards, puts them face down and knocks the table four times. Kiyoomi cannot even begin to understand the rules of this game.

“You’re in charge of this sort of stuff,” Kiyoomi says to Bokuto. “Get him to clean up the mess he made.”

“What mess?”

“Soup,” Kiyoomi says cryptically.

Not cryptically enough though, by the way Bokuto seems to immediately understand. “Aw, shit! Did he drop it? And he made such a big deal out of taking it down to you, too. Gave up his seconds so that there’d be enough. He even sacrificed the big spoon because he said it’s the best at picking up soup and you might not be used to eating on a moving ship.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “He threw it on the floor. I want it cleaned before it gets any worse.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t care about the who, how, or when. He just wants it clean before he settles down to sleep.

Suna runs an exasperated hand down his face, but Hoshiumi lights up and cackles rather wickedly. He throws his cards aside and stands up, hands tugging excitedly on the straps of his suspenders as he leans into Kiyoomi’s space. “Did he swear at you?” he asks, and Kiyoomi nods warily. “Call you names?” He nods again. “Threaten you?”

“Perfect,” Hoshiumi grins.

“I don’t understand why any of that is relevant, I just want my room—”

“Shhh, Phantom Scholar. All will be—”

“—Do not call me that—”

“—made clear soon. You want revenge on the evil Miya? You want the world’s greatest pleasure of Atsumu on his hands and knees scrubbing your floor until it’s spotless?”

Kiyoomi can’t deny that does sound rather tempting; humbling brats is always amusing.

Hoshiumi must see something in Kiyoomi’s expression because proudly jabs his thumbs into his chest and says, “Thought so. You chose the right guy, Sakusa-kun, leave it all to me.” He’s smiling widely, but then his gaze narrows and he snaps around. “You’re not going to rat me out this time, right Suna?”

Suna shrugs. “I did warn Atsumu to leave Sakusa alone. He brought this on himself.”

Kiyoomi decides right then that Suna is probably the only one aboard the whole vessel he could see himself getting along with. Something about him reminds Kiyoomi of his cousin, Motoya.

“In that case, go, hurry back to your room, Sakusa-kun,” Hoshiumi tells Kiyoomi with another wicked smile. He pulls a pistol from his belt and starts spinning it around his finger as he starts off for the stairs down to the lower deck. “The cleaning service will arrive shortly,” he calls over his shoulder. “Mark my words.”

Kiyoomi is at a complete loss for words. He’s not sure what’s just happened, what strange war he’s just wedged himself into the middle of, or what the consequences might be further down the line, but so long as he gets his room cleaned, he’s happy enough to oblige.

“All in a day’s work,” Bokuto sighs happily as Kiyoomi starts off in the opposite direction. “I’m so damn good at my job.”

Chapter Text

Whatever Hoshiumi does works spectacularly.

Later that night, as Kiyoomi is nibbling on dried beef and finishing up his astronomy book, there’s a loud banging at his door. When Kiyoomi opens it, Atsumu is standing there with a bucket and a mop, sporting rolled up sleeves, a bruised cheek, and a scowl for the ages.

“You should choose yer alliances more carefully, Omi-kun,” he says with particular venom. He’s got that look about him again, the one Kiyoomi discovered earlier, the one that simultaneously warms his eyes and darkens them in a warning.

Kiyoomi doesn’t care for the caution, but he does take great offence at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”

Atsumu slams the bucket down in the doorway to keep it open and jams the mop into it so hard that soapy water sloshes out onto the floor. “Aw, why not? Does it piss ya off? Poor baby. You wanna know what pisses me off?”

Content in the knowledge that the mess is being somewhat taken care of, Kiyoomi returns to his bed and picks up his book. “No,” he says as he does so. “Not really.”

Atsumu continues regardless. “Jerks that can’t clean up their own messes.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Miya,” Kiyoomi says with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure you have at least one redeeming quality hidden deep, deep, within you somewhere.”

It’s a fair dig, considering Atsumu is just aggressively pushing the mess around with the mop and kicking the soggy vegetables out into the hallway with his feet instead of picking them up and throwing them away.

Atsumu scowls and slams the mop into the bucket again. “Do they teach you how to be a rotten fuck at brat school? Or were ya just born that way?”

“It’s a talent,” Kiyoomi says as he flicks the page over. He’s not really paying attention to the words written upon it. It’s hard to concentrate on anything at all when Atsumu is barrelling around his room with a mop like an incensed gorilla. “You’re probably not all that familiar with the concept.”

“Ha! Yeah. Sittin’ on yer ass all day orderin’ poor people around is such an invaluable gift, yer so right. Must be hard too, with that stick wedged up yer ass.”

Kiyoomi lowers his book. “I don’t do that.”

Atsumu stops mopping and leans his hands and chin on the stick. “No? Then why am I the one cleaning this shit up, Omi-Omi?”

“Because it’s your mess, Tsumu.”

Atsumu’s brows furrow. “Wouldn’t have been if you’d just accepted my generosity instead of bein’ an asshole.” He points a ring-adorned finger Kiyoomi’s way. “You provoked me on purpose.”

Kiyoomi shrugs in response. There is some truth to that. Kiyoomi knows he could have been kinder, but Atsumu and his crew also could have chosen to steal a different fucking boat, so he supposes they’ve cancelled each other out somewhat.

Kiyoomi won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Instead, he says, “You make it too easy.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to make it fuckin’ harder,” Atsumu snaps back.

Kiyoomi doesn’t think that’ll be possible for someone like Atsumu who seems to wear his emotions so plainly. He stops himself from saying so once again; he has to draw a line somewhere lest he irredeemably assassinate Atsumu’s entire character over something as silly as spilled soup.

Atsumu finishes the rest of the job in silence, mops away the mess until all that remains is a puddle of soapy water that’ll dry by the morning. The whole while, Kiyoomi pointedly ignores him. He turns back to his book and flips the pages with unnecessary force.

“There,” Atsumu says as he throws the discarded bowl and tray into the mop bucket. “All done, milord. If you’ve got a problem with it, tough fuckin’ luck.” He turns on his heel to leave, but then he stops to say, “And don’t even think about snitchin’ on me to Ushijima this time, or I’ll blow yer brains out, civilian or not.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. He has a feeling if Atsumu was going to blow his brains out at all, he’d have done it after Kiyoomi insulted his precious brother’s soup. “Sure you will.”

Atsumu’s gaze narrows. “Laugh all you want. You’ve got no idea what you’ve just started, Omi-kun. Sleep with yer eyes open, or whatever.”

The door slams hard, and Kiyoomi is finally left to enjoy the rest of his book in silence and a slightly cleaner room.

That was supposed to be the end of The Atsumu Matter. Kiyoomi was supposed to return to his life as a temporary shut-in, occasionally sneaking out to stuff more rabbit food into his pockets in an effort to stave off his hunger. He was supposed to continue to ignore the rest of the crew, and most importantly, steer clear of Atsumu and his unexplainable magnetism.

The next morning however, Kiyoomi is thrown headfirst into the consequences of his own actions.

He decides to draft a letter. They’re due to dock in a few days’ time for supplies, and Kiyoomi wants to at least attempt to communicate that he is alive to his family. He pulls out some parchment and his quill and ink from his suitcase and sits himself at his desk to begin the arduous process of thinking.

Trying to pen the situation in a way that makes sense whilst simultaneously putting his family at ease is not easy. Every draft he draws ends up sounding completely ridiculous and implausible. How can he expect his father to believe what has transpired over the last few days when Kiyoomi can hardly believe it himself? It might end up sounding as though Kiyoomi is being impersonated or forced to write against his will.

Don’t worry father, the pirates are not evil! They are not offering me up for ransom, nor are they torturing me. They’re letting me live among them freely and have promised to bring me home safe and sound once we’ve returned from our jaunt at Ukai’s Island, a previously undiscovered treasure trove of—

Kiyoomi crumples up his third draft and tries again.

Steady on the funeral organisation! I have temporarily joined a band of incompetent pirates on a journey to the middle of the ocean—

He crumples that one too and reaches for another blank sheet of parchment. He gets one line in when the noise begins.

It starts as footsteps. Just one set, pacing back and forth across the small rectangle of deck that comprises Kiyoomi’s ceiling. It’s easy to ignore; he’s gotten used to the endless noise the crew create by now. But by the time he gets to his third line, the noise increases from footsteps to what sounds like a hammer being beaten rhythmically against the boards.

It’s a significantly harder noise to ignore than any other kind of disturbance, even after plugging his ears. It becomes completely unavoidable, however, when something breaks through the ceiling and showers Kiyoomi’s desk and head with dust and splinters of wood. Kiyoomi starts and staggers backward in his chair. His letter is covered in debris, and when he dares to look up, there’s a newly formed hole in the ceiling, one the size of a grape, or perhaps a small coin.

Before he can blink, a second round of banging sounds and another hole appears above his bed, then another near the door. Sunlight pierces through them, slicing brightly through the muted warmth of Kiyoomi’s lantern. It makes him wince to see, three pillars carving lines from the ceiling right through to the floor.

The noise ceases once those three holes are punctured through the wood, and Kiyoomi is left awestruck and wondering why they’re there.

Are the crew performing renovations to the deck? Has something been dropped accidentally, or a miscalculation been made? Do they know they’ve broken Kiyoomi’s room? What happens if it starts to rain? Is he going to have to venture above deck again to get Bokuto to fix it?

His questions come to a halt when the footsteps return, and then, very suddenly, water comes spilling through the holes and onto Kiyoomi’s… everything. His desk is quickly drenched, the ink upon the parchment bleeds into obscurity, and the splashback from the water against the mahogany hits Kiyoomi’s face and darkens the grey fabric his shirt. He spins around to find something similar transpiring over his bed; the pillow has collected a pool of soapy water and has mixed with the dust to stain it an alarming shade of brown.

Just as the water slows to an inconsistent drip, there’s a nonchalant whistle to a tune Kiyoomi doesn’t recognise, the sweeping of a brush against boards, and then more water comes spilling through again in another concentrated torrent of rain.

It doesn’t take long for Kiyoomi to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Once he does, he sees red.

With the force and rage of a typhoon, Kiyoomi tugs on his gloves and a coat and throws open the door, almost slipping on the soapy puddle near it. He narrowly avoids slipping again on a squished slice of mushroom in the hallway and has to steady himself on the walls to avoid falling flat on his face as the ship lurches over choppy waters.

When he gets above deck, his movements are almost frantic. There are a few crewmembers milling about; Hinata and Kageyama are standing on their hands against the masts whilst Bokuto watches on, and Hoshiumi is practicing with his crossbow. Kiyoomi isn’t interested in any of them. His vision homes in on what he is looking for: Atsumu standing above his room with a bucket and a sweeping brush.

He’s shirtless, whistling happily beneath the warmth of the morning sun.

Kiyoomi can’t help but to notice that he’s considerably toned, and that his muscles move pleasantly beneath planes of tanned skin as he sweeps water deliberately into the holes. Were Kiyoomi not so preoccupied with throttling Atsumu to death, he’d probably spend a little time appreciating the way his thighs are struggling to stay within the tight confines of his breeches. As it stands, the only thing his hands are itching to explore, is how tightly they will need to wind around Atsumu’s neck until he stops breathing.

“Miya!” Kiyoomi seethes. The others above deck stop what they are doing to watch the ensuing spectacle, but Kiyoomi ignores their stares. He steps as close as he dares, which is a little more than a generous arm’s length.

Atsumu looks up and smiles as though nothing is amiss. “Hey, mornin’ Omi-kun! What a surprise! I didn’t know vampires could walk around during the daytime.”

Kiyoomi can punch him, right? Ushijima warned him not to kill any of the crew or throw himself overboard. There were no rules about decking arrogant bastards in the face. He clenches his fists in preparation and says through gritted teeth. “What the fuck do you think are you doing?”

Atsumu has the audacity to look perplexed. He tilts his head to the side and frowns like a confused puppy. “Whatever do ya mean? I’m just doin’ my chores like a good little boy. Cleanin’ the deck is tough work, yknow, ‘specially when nobody helps me.” He says that last bit louder, with a pointed look in Hinata’s direction.

“So that,” Kiyoomi says, looking down at the three very obviously chiselled holes in the deck and the set of discarded tools, “has nothing to do with you?”

Atsumu’s eyes drop to the floor. “Nope. No idea how that happened. Must have been a seagull or somethin’. Hear they get pretty aggressive ‘round these parts.”

Kiyoomi takes a step forward so that he looms slightly over Atsumu and puts his foot on the brush to stop it moving. Up close, he gets caught off guard by some of Atsumu’s more interesting details, namely the dark brown speck of a freckle in his left eye, the depression of a dimple in his cheek, and the sliver of a faded scar through his lip. He doesn’t let his gaze drop below Atsumu’s face though, he knows that’s what Atsumu wants, why he forwent the shirt in the first place after Kiyoomi’s traitorous gaze fell to his chest the day before. He’s slyer than Kiyoomi gave him credit for.

“Fix it,” Kiyoomi tells him.

Atsumu rocks up onto his toes so that they’re the same height. His voice is low when he says, “Or what, Omi-Omi? You gonna cry for yer butler? Gonna file another complaint with my boss?” He waits for a response that Kiyoomi doesn’t bother giving him, then clicks his tongue and drops back down to his ordinary height. “That’s what I thought. Once a useless noble prick, always a useless noble prick.”

Kiyoomi raises a fist to punch him, but it gets caught and pulled backward.

“Woah, hey, hey,” Bokuto says from behind him. “I definitely can’t let you do that, Mr. Omi-kun, sir.”

His brow twitches at the alarming rate of which the nickname is spreading, but Kiyoomi doesn’t remove his stare from Atsumu. He tugs at his imprisoned arm “Why not?” he says calmly. “He obviously deserves it.”

Atsumu’s eyes light up with something. Kiyoomi’s not sure what, but he knows that it’s not good, and that he doesn’t like it. “Hm? Prince Charmin’ wants to dirty his gloves? Now that’s interestin’. Go ahead, let him try, Bokkun.”

The grip on Kiyoomi’s hand slackens for a fraction of a second, then tightens again harder than before.

“Aaah, don’t do that, Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto whines. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

Atsumu’s gaze slides from Kiyoomi to Bokuto over Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“I will!” Hoshiumi chimes in from somewhere to Kiyoomi’s right. “I’ll tell so fast you won’t fucking believe it, Miya One. I don’t give a shit about honour when it comes to slighting you!”

Atsumu calls him something so vulgar that Kiyoomi winces, then turns his attention back Kiyoomi’s way and shrugs. “Guess we’ve reached an impasse, Omi-kun. Run along back to yer room, now. I’m worried ya might start to shrivel out here. Can’t have anythin’ bad happenin’ to our special guest.”

Kiyoomi raises his other fist, but Bokuto catches that one too and uses it to pull Kiyoomi back. Atsumu laughs and walks off with a wave, twirling the sweeping brush around in his other hand with surprising deftness.

“Get off me,” Kiyoomi says once he’s gone.

Bokuto releases him and holds his hands up with a sheepish smile. “Tsumu’s not usually that bad,” he says. “He must really like you.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Kiyoomi says, because they are two grown men, not children on the playground. “I told you to tame your dog, not turn it rabid.”

Bokuto’s laugh makes Kiyoomi start in its volume. “Word of advice for you, Sakusa-kun.” He leans in a little and lowers his voice to a hushed whisper. “If you want to stand on your own two feet in this crew, you’re going to have to pick up an axe of your own and start swinging, you get what I mean?”

Kiyoomi makes a face. “No.”

“Hmm, how do I put this…” He puts two fingers to his temples and makes a face as though he’s suffering severe constipation. Just as Kiyoomi’s patience is about to wear thin, Bokuto’s one good eye springs open, and he clicks his fingers. “Ah! I’ve got it! If Tsumu’s pissing you off, then you’ll have to piss him off right back until one of you runs out of piss.”

“What?”

“You know, give him a taste of his own medicine. Just make sure it’s not poisonous. Get me now?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says slowly. “I think I do.”

“We’re one big family,” Bokuto says with a fond smile. “A little good-natured pranking does wonders for team bonding. Trust me, you’ll grow to love it.”

After he plugs the holes in the ceiling and cleans what he can of his room, Kiyoomi spends a while pondering Bokuto’s words. At first he dismisses them; he does not want to involve himself with this crew unless the need is unavoidably necessary. Even then, he thinks, if he were suffering in dire straits, he would prefer to die silently than call out for the aid of anyone above deck.

But the longer he spends staring up at the corked holes, bored out of his mind having read all of his books, he thinks, what’s the harm?

Plotting how best to sabotage Atsumu’s life aboard this ship will, undoubtedly, be more interesting than sitting around re-reading educational books, and without his sword to keep him company, he’s starting to crave a workout, physical or mental.

Atsumu is also as entertaining as he is annoying. No matter how mean Kiyoomi is, Atsumu rebuts and refutes him cleanly every time. It’s a quality not many possess and it’s a quality Kiyoomi appreciates, considering everybody else he knows is either afraid of him or misunderstands him entirely. It’s kind of refreshing, to banter with someone equally as mean-spirited and blunt as himself without fearing any repercussions that he cares about – he doesn’t care a damn if he hurts Atsumu’s feelings.

And so, the world’s pettiest war of attrition begins like that, with Kiyoomi at his desk throwing away his letters to his family in favour of penning plans to make Atsumu regret being born.

Seeking out likeminded allies is the obvious best course of action, Kiyoomi decides first, since it seemed to irk Atsumu incredibly that Kiyoomi had gotten Bokuto, Hoshiumi, and Ushijima involved in their last spat.

Hoshiumi will help him in a heartbeat, he’s made that much abundantly clear, but Kiyoomi is also curious as to who else on the crew possesses an Atsumu vendetta. There are bound to be more, surely. So over the next few hours, Kiyoomi forgoes his earplugs and simply listens to what transpires above him. It’s impossible not to pick out voices and details with three gaping holes in the ceiling, and Kiyoomi uses the opportunity to make notes of who seems to talk to who most often.

Suna, Osamu, and Atsumu weren’t just together on the street that day by chance; they spend a lot of time together, bickering, sparring, and playing card games that more often than not result in the promise of a painful death. They are also tactile, Kiyoomi realises, because if they ever do talk about Kiyoomi and his hostility towards Atsumu, they do so in private, where he cannot hear a word of it.

The two that unquestionably spend the most time together, however, are Hinata and Kageyama. Almost every waking hour they are engaged in some sort of competition, proposing new games to best the other at, or loudly professing the change in score that seems to have reached the thousands.

If one is of the same mind as Atsumu, then surely the other must be the opposite.

He seizes his chance to find out when they start their daily race below deck. Usually, Kiyoomi feels like smothering them both when they disturb him with their yelling and swearing. But today, Kiyoomi is simply grateful that they’ll come to him, rather than force him to go looking around for them.

He waits outside his room for the moment their feet start thundering through the hallways and when they round the corner and spot him, Kiyoomi throws an arm out to stop them.

Hinata barrels into the back of Kageyama, unable to halt his own momentum, but he recovers quickly and springs to attention, hand at his brow in an unnecessary salute. “What can we do for you, Phantom—Saku—Omi-san?” he asks.

Kiyoomi points between them. “Which of you two idiots is a part of the anti-Miya regiment?”

“The anti-Miya what?” Hinata gawks.

Kageyama frowns, more pronouncedly than usual. “Miya One, or Miya Two?”

Kiyoomi frowns back. “They’re on different sides?”

“Of course they are,” Hinata says. He seems to understand what Kiyoomi’s talking about now because he jumps into a readied stance. “Atsumu-san says they were born with their hands around each other’s necks.”

“That is physically impossible,” Kiyoomi says. He’s read enough science books to know so. He also possesses more than one singular brain cell.

Hinata shrugs. “Apparently the doctor said they’re special. Especially Atsumu-san.”

Kiyoomi supposes the intricacies of twin dynamics are simply too complex for him to understand. Atsumu was ready to put a hole in Kiyoomi’s head for not appreciating his brother’s soup, and yet they are on opposing sides of the civil prank war? He doesn’t have that sort of relationship with his own siblings; their gap in age has made it so that Kiyoomi spends more of his time being doted on than tortured, and he’s never really had much of a mind for pranks or silly games.

Until now, that is.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi clarifies. “Miya One.”

Kageyama raises his hand and says with a terrifying smile, “That would be me.”

“And you?” Kiyoomi says to Hinata. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

Hinata salutes again. “With Atsumu-san, sir! He calls it the side of common sense and good looks!”

“Ok. You can leave.” When Hinata looks at him blankly, Kiyoomi insists with a nod of his head towards the staircase. “Go on. Fuck off.”

“B-But, our race!” Hinata cries with a forlorn glance at the end of the hallway. “We have to know who wins. For the score.”

“We’ll just say it was me,” Kageyama says flippantly. “I was ahead anyway.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Yes I was.”

“No you—“

“Please,” Kiyoomi says, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off a rapidly approaching headache. “Shut up.”

Hinata pouts. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll re-do it later. Don’t think you’ve won yet, Cheater-yama. The score is still 3765 to 3766 in my favour.”

The ensuing silence is awkward as Kiyoomi and Kageyama stand alone in the hallway, locked in a stalemate of who should break the ice first. Without Hinata around, the furrow in Kageyama’s brow loosens and he looks completely vacant, like one of those children’s toys that needs to be wound with a key.

Kiyoomi does not have the key, and he’s not entirely sure how to talk to someone like that. He’s usually the one creating the uncomfortable atmosphere, not wading his way through it. He almost feels bad for Motoya having put up with him at parties for so long.

Surprisingly, Kageyama is the one to clear his throat first. “Hinata’s going to tell Atsumu-san that you’re colluding with me,” he says. “Like, right now. Whatever you want to do, you should do it quick.”

“I’m counting on it,” Kiyoomi replies with a shrug. It’ll be more fun if Atsumu’s constantly looking over his shoulder. “Follow me.”

Kiyoomi leads the way to the crew’s sleeping quarters, and Kageyama follows without complaint or question. On the way, he gets Kageyama to fill him in on the intricacies and origins of the civil war.

“Hoshiumi-san, Osamu-san, and I are the anti-Atsumu faction,” Kageyama tells him. “Osamu-san recruited us after Atsumu locked me and Hoshiumi into a cupboard for three days because he was curious to find out who would kill the other first.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. That seems about right. “So should I consider everybody else a potential enemy?”

Kageyama shakes his head. “Ushiwaka-san and Bokuto-san are neutral. For legal reasons. Though Bokuto-san will involve himself if something seems fun enough.”

So that leaves Hinata and Suna on Atsumu’s side. Hardly the most intimidating pair, considering Hinata measures up to Kiyoomi’s knee, and Suna seems to carry the weight of ten worlds upon his shoulders at any given time.

When they reach the sleeping quarters, Kiyoomi turns to Kageyama and gestures expansively at the array of hammocks hanging from the ceiling. “Which one is Atsumu’s?”

Kageyama immediately points on the hammock nearest the left wall. “That one.” He pauses. “What are you going to do to it?”

“Give me a knife.”

Kageyama contemplates that for a second, then shrugs, plucks one from his belt and hands it over. Kiyoomi should probably be concerned at how readily Kageyama has armed a total stranger, but he’s more preoccupied with how attractive the weapon is. It’s more a dagger than a knife, with an intricately carved hilt that resembles the head of a crow. It feels nice in Kiyoomi’s hand, reminds him of the light weight of his rapier and how much he misses the feeling of security at his hip.

Kiyoomi doesn’t cut the whole hammock down. That would be no fun at all. What he does, is fray the rope holding it up as much as he dares, easily picking through layers of string with the sharp tip of the blade.

“Aren’t you going to do Hinata and Suna-san’s too?” Kageyama asks.

“I have no quarrel with either of them,” Kiyoomi says as he hands the dagger back. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Ok,” Kageyama says. “Nice.”

That night Kiyoomi is woken by a loud scream and an even louder thud that shakes the whole vessel. For a moment he’s fearful something is very wrong, but once the fog of sleep clears, he hears Atsumu kicking up a fuss and cursing Kiyoomi’s name loud enough to be heard for miles. Someone must calm him down enough to find another hammock, because Atsumu doesn’t come knocking with a raised gun.

It does takes a long while for the storm of footsteps and thudding to clear, however, and once it does, Kiyoomi falls asleep with a smile on his face, content in the knowledge that they are now even.

Ultimately, time waits for no man; Atsumu retaliates almost immediately the next morning.

Kiyoomi is woken from pleasant dreams by a sock landing on his face as it gets pushed back through the hole above his bed, only, water doesn’t follow it this time. Excruciating noise does.

Atsumu starts banging pots and pans with what Kiyoomi can only assume is a hammer, or perhaps a lead pipe. The bangs are irregular, they follow no rhyme, rhythm, or reason. They’re shrill and harsh, then they are hollow and reverberating.

Then, to perhaps every conscious soul aboard the ship’s dismay, Atsumu accompanies it with a song.

Kiyoomi’s been dragged to numerous operas and theatrical performances in his time, enough to know that Atsumu’s voice is completely irredeemable. To say he sounds like a strangled alley cat would be doing cats a great injustice; Atsumu seems incapable of holding even the remotest semblance of a tune. He could be singing something familiar, something as mundane and recognisable as Happy Birthday, but Kiyoomi wouldn’t know it through all of the screeching and botched notes. He’s also quite sure that Happy Birthday doesn’t contain quite so many fucks and bastards.

Kiyoomi does not run to the upper deck to threaten Atsumu with violence today. He buttons up his coat, pulls on his gloves, and slips on his shoes before making his way up leisurely.

He finds Atsumu sitting in the same spot as yesterday, perched upon a stool, surrounded by pots, pans, buckets and pails of all shapes and sizes. He’s brandishing two sheathed daggers, using the metal hilts as sticks to strike the surfaces, and as usual, is wearing his new olive-green shirt unbuttoned far too low.

He doesn’t stop when he spots Kiyoomi – he drums harder.

“Having fun, Miya?” Kiyoomi calls over the chaos.

“Lots, Omi-kun! I took yer very kind advice and started practicing my poetry! Hope I didn’t wake ya!” he beams back, looking very much like he was hoping to wake Kiyoomi and absolutely nothing else.

“Poetry,” Kiyoomi repeats slowly. “Is that what that was? I was afraid you were on the losing end of a fight with some gulls, or perhaps a banshee.”

Atsumu ignores that. “I was up all night, so I had plenty of time to think of some nice rhymes. How’d you like this one? I composed it ‘specially for you.”

He positions himself with his pans and starts to knock out an irregular rhythm. Then he starts to sing:

“Don’t give pretty noble boys yer well-earned grub,

‘cause they’ll insult it like a scrub

and join a shitty club

of assholes who try to kill you in the middle of the night with yer own motherfuckin’ hammock.”

Kiyoomi crosses his arms over his chest as Atsumu finishes the shanty with a flourish of drumming. “You can’t have worked very hard,” he says. “That last part didn’t even rhyme.”

Atsumu idly scratches his head with the hilt of one of the daggers. “Believe it or not, there aren’t many things that rhyme with scrub.”

“No?”

“No. But plenty of things rhyme with fuck. Wanna hear my next one?”

“Sure,” Kiyoomi says and leans himself against a mast pole. “I’d love to. Make sure you sing it louder so that I can definitely hear it.”

Atsumu frowns, clearly expecting Kiyoomi to be at least slightly livid. He also looks rather disappointed, if the pout his frown morphs into is to be believed. He’d probably been banking on Kiyoomi punching him; the glitter in his eye is a challenge, an invite for Kiyoomi to let loose without Bokuto around to hold him back.

But Kiyoomi doesn’t need to punch him.

He just needs to wait.

Atsumu starts up another song, and he is right; there are plenty of words that rhyme with fuck. Plenty that rhyme with shit, too, and just as many new words that Kiyoomi will have to look up in a dictionary once he returns home.

It’s as Kiyoomi starts tapping his foot along to the awful beat that his patience pays off.

He’s spent days listening to the shenanigans above deck, to the arguments and fights and games. Without meaning to, Kiyoomi has learned more than a few things:

One: Voices travel fast around the ship. Loud noises even faster.

Two: Hoshiumi is as volatile as his patience is thin.

Three: Osamu does not like to be woken up early.

All Kiyoomi needs to do is wait until—

“Tsumu! Shut the fuck up!”

Two sets of hurried footsteps clamber up the stairs. Kiyoomi can hardly hear them over the noise Atsumu is creating, but he can definitely see an enraged Osamu and Hoshiumi clawing their way to Atsumu’s location.

Atsumu’s song halts abruptly as hands grab his shoulders and hoist him to his feet. He gets dragged across the deck, kicking and screaming as Osamu tries to smother him into silence. Kiyoomi watches on in amusement, chuckling softly to himself when Osamu and Hoshiumi attempt to throw him over the side of the ship.

“I yield! I yield! I’ll shut up, Samu, I promise!”

Despite looking like death warmed over, Osamu is easily able to pick Atsumu up – Hoshiumi just holds Atsumu’s legs still as he blinks sleep from his eyes. “Yer a fuckin’ liar, Tsumu!” Osamu grunts. “If I don’t throw ya over now, I’ll never know peace!”

“Yeah!” Hoshiumi adds with an encouraging pat of Atsumu’s thigh. “This is for the greater good!”

“Safe travels, Miya One!” Kiyoomi calls with a smile and a wave.

“Fuck you, Omi!” Atsumu calls back as he gets tipped over.

To the sound of screaming and splashing, Osamu dusts his hands off on his trousers and gives Kiyoomi a sleepy thumbs up. “Welcome to the club,” he says. “We play poker on Wednesdays.”

After climbing his way back up the rope ladder, Atsumu changes. Not just his clothes, because they are soaked through with sea water, but his whole attitude switches from a child throwing his toys around, to that of a poised ringmaster.

Atsumu starts by hiding all of the food that Kiyoomi usually picks for himself for breakfast so that he has no choice but to venture to the upper deck during mealtimes and subject himself to soup. Now that he knows Osamu can be trusted, it doesn’t feel so much like he’s eating a stranger’s food, but he does watch carefully as Osamu ladles his bowl full so that his fingers don’t contaminate the broth.

“Make sure ya don’t spill any on yer precious floor, Omi-kun,” Atsumu grins wolfishly as he attempts to return to his room with the bowl. “Yer spindly arms might not be strong enough to hold the mop by yerself.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t spill any because he is not a wild animal, and he responds in kind by finding his way to Atsumu’s belongings and ripping all of the buttons from his shirts as he works on the rigging later that evening. It’s a weak retaliation, Kiyoomi is aware, considering Atsumu doesn’t pay much attention to buttons anyway, but not even Kiyoomi wants to slash the nice fabric of the shirts through completely.

Atsumu doesn’t seem to possess the same kind of mind; he counters it by sanding one of the legs of Kiyoomi’s mahogany desk down so that it earns a permanent wobble. It is arguably one of the worst things he could have done; Kiyoomi sits at his desk most hours of the day, and the wobble is so noticeable and irritating that it makes him want to bludgeon the whole thing with a hammer. It also makes him cross out several ideas from his list of ways to piss Atsumu off for not being nasty enough, and the next morning he convinces Osamu to season Atsumu’s meals for the day with Too Much Salt.

The joy he feels watching Atsumu’s face pinch and sputter as he tastes his food is priceless, but it doesn’t last long; Atsumu and Suna wipe the smile off his face by removing Kiyoomi’s door from its hinges and throwing it overboard whilst he’s out listening to Ushijima’s travel update.

Kageyama helps Kiyoomi rub butter into the soles of Atsumu's shoes so that he slips and slides around the ship. Atsumu takes Kiyoomi’s coats and ties them to ropes high up on the masts so that Kiyoomi has no choice but to beg Bokuto to retrieve them. Kiyoomi rigs a bowl of vinegar to fall over Atsumu’s head when he descends the stairs to the kitchen. Atsumu throws three of Kiyoomi’s books into the sea and uses another to host a paper airplane contest with the rest of the crew.

Without realising it, Kiyoomi ends up spending less time in his room and more time above deck. The war forces him to see the sun set, to watch the sails billow and move, to feel the ocean’s breeze upon his skin. With Atsumu on his mind, he has no time to feel nauseated, he learns to walk with the ship’s sway, and his handkerchief stays firmly inside his pocket. He also makes a point of spending time with Osamu, since Atsumu seems to grow so irritable whenever Kiyoomi talks to his brother that it feels like another tally in his favour.

“I’ve never seen him get so heated over someone before,” Osamu tells him one afternoon as he’s peeling potatoes. “Like, sure, he bickers with Hoshiumi, ‘cause they’re both loud as fuck, but yer a whole ‘nother story.” He frowns at the potato peeler. “He’s embarrassin’ himself.”

Kiyoomi sends him a look over the pages of a new book Ushijima has given him as consolation for the ones lost to the waves. “I’m sure he does that plenty without me around.”

Osamu makes a face, sort of a sickened grimace. “You make it worse than usual. Far worse. I mean, look at him.”

They both raise their gazes to the opposite side of the ship where Atsumu is standing, glaring at them both with his arms crossed over his chest. Kiyoomi sends him a wave and a smile, and Atsumu throws back a middle finger, huffs and stalks off.

“See,” Osamu says. “You’ve turned him into a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel special?” Kiyoomi scoffs.

Osamu shrugs, throws a peeled potato into a bucket and picks out a new one from the sack. “Dunno,” he says. “But Tsumu doesn’t usually pay attention to people unless they interest him. I can count on one hand how many people other than family he’s ever looked twice at.”

Not this again, Kiyoomi rolls his eyes internally.

“Your quartermaster said something similar. Have you considered perhaps he is simply antagonising me because he is an asshole?”

Osamu’s smile is the same as Atsumu’s, though it doesn’t make Kiyoomi’s blood boil the same. “Yer definitely not wrong ‘bout that, but birds of a feather flock together or somethin’, right?”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Are you calling me an asshole, Miya Two?”

Osamu points the peeler at him. “You rejected my soup.”

“Your brother stuck his disgusting fingers into it.”

“Ah,” Osamu laughs. “He conveniently left that part out in the dramatic re-enactment.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes externally this time and turns back to his book. “Of course he did.”

The war reaches a turning point the night before they are due to dock for supplies. Kiyoomi is returning to his room from poker night with the anti-Atsumu faction, sufficiently bamboozled by the rules of pirate card games and chilled to the bone, when he realises he no longer has a bed to climb into.

It has been removed and replaced with a hammock.

Kiyoomi’s not sure how Atsumu managed it, or where the fuck his bed is now, but it’s suddenly a step too far. Kiyoomi just wants to crawl beneath the covers and sleep until they dock the next day. There’s no way in hell he’ll ever subject himself to sleeping upon a hammock – he’s not sure where the rope has been, and he’ll probably strangle himself to death during his sleep. Not to mention Atsumu was the one to put it up. It’ll probably collapse midway through the night through shoddy craftsmanship.

It doesn’t take Kiyoomi long to find Atsumu. He bumps into him in one of the hallways, whistling a tune and walking about with his hands tucked into his pockets.

He doesn’t care that he’s not wearing his gloves; Bokuto isn’t around to stop him, so Kiyoomi finally loses his temper, storms over, grabs Atsumu by the collar of his shirt and shoves him into the wall.

Atsumu’s eyes widen when his head knocks against the wood, but he recovers quickly and smiles. “Ooh, Omi-kun. Have you finally come to yer senses and decided to ravish me? So forward for a noble boy!”

“Where the fuck is my bed?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“We don’t need a bed,” Atsumu grins. “You got a desk, don’t ya? That’ll do just fine. I’m flexible.”

Kiyoomi pulls him forwards and slams him back against the wall again. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Miya.”

“Hmm, a bed,” he says, looking off to the left as he pretends to think. “Dunno if I’ve seen it. What’s it look like?”

He still smells slightly of vinegar as a result of Kiyoomi’s recent attack, and his hair is wet after another attempt to wash it out. It falls into his eyes, makes him look even more roguish than normal. “Fucking bed shaped,” Kiyoomi snaps. “Where is it?”

Atsumu holds his hands up and doesn’t bother to protest Kiyoomi’s rough treatment. He let’s himself get jostled around and smiles wider when Kiyoomi lodges his arm threateningly beneath his chin and tilts his head higher.

“This is the thanks I get for settin’ you up a little treasure hunt, huh?” he says, voice taut.

“A treasure hunt,” Kiyoomi repeats slowly.

“Yeah. You looked so bored talkin’ to Samu earlier I thought I’d make things more interestin’ for ya. If you start now, you might find all the pieces by the mornin’. Fun, right?”

Kiyoomi’s fist tightens around the fabric of Atsumu’s shirt. “You and I have very different ideas of fun, Miya,” Kiyoomi seethes.

Atsumu’s gaze drops. “I’m sure we can find common ground somewhere, Omi-kun.”

The way he says it does something to Kiyoomi’s gut, pulls at it strangely and makes it lurch at the same time.

It’s a part of his game, Kiyoomi has to remind himself. He’s doing it on purpose.

Kiyoomi pushes his arm further into Atsumu’s throat and forces his chin upwards until he’s forced to stop looking at Kiyoomi’s lips.

“Hm?” Atsumu continues. “You finally gonna lose it and hit me instead? I’ve been waitin’ a while for this. Bokkun said yer kinda strong.”

God, he’s impossible. Kiyoomi opens his mouth to tell him as much, but his voice is suddenly drowned out by the loud blaring of a horn.

Kiyoomi frowns. It’s not a sound he’s heard before, and he’s heard many over the past week. It’s accompanied by the thundering of running footsteps, and unintelligible frantic yelling from the crew.

Atsumu seems to know exactly what is happening. Mirth evaporates from his eyes, his smile drops and he suddenly grows a spine and throws Kiyoomi around so that he’s the one against the wall. “Find a room with a door and barricade yourself in it,” he tells him quickly and quietly.

“Wha—Why?” Kiyoomi sputters. “What’s happening?”

“More pirates,” Atsumu says. He’s holding Kiyoomi’s sleeves so tightly that Kiyoomi can’t move his arms to protest. “We’re gonna get boarded real soon. I’m being serious, hide, Sakusa, and don’t come out ‘til I come find you, yeah?”

“Why should I—”

“Listen to me? Yeah, I can’t give you a reason other than if ya don’t, you’ll fuckin’ die.” Kiyoomi swallows and Atsumu lets him go. The smile returns to his face, but it’s not genuine; it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Pissin’ you off’s kinda fun, so I can’t let that happen just yet.” He shoos Kiyoomi away but doesn’t turn to leave until Kiyoomi complies with his instruction.

“Fine,” Kiyoomi scoffs despite the familiar sensation of anxiety unfurling in his chest. “But if you die before you put my bed back together, I’ll find a way to bring you back just to kill you again.”

More than that, Kiyoomi thinks, Atsumu has a point. The journey would certainly be a whole lot more boring without him, despite how annoying he is.

Atsumu sends him a wink and a salute using the barrel of his pistol. “If I don’t die, I’ll help you reassemble the damn thing myself.”

Chapter Text

Begrudgingly, Kiyoomi follows Atsumu’s instruction and finds himself an empty cabin with a door that isn’t floating somewhere over the waves a hundred miles away. It's so dark once he locks it behind him that he can see nothing other than shadow. Not even his own shaking hands in front of his face.

For a while he tries shuffling around, searching for something to barricade the door with, but it doesn’t take long for Kiyoomi to realise the room is totally empty; there are no barrels, no boxes, or no crates to wedge beneath the door handle. He walks forwards with outstretched hands until his hands meet a wall, then feels along it until he finds a corner to crouch in.

The pirates haven’t boarded yet, but Kiyoomi can hear the shouts and shots of firing guns that can only mean they are closing in.

He hears it clearly when they do.

Boots hit the deck like a clap of thunder and continue to stampede across the wood. The sound of fighting rises above it, the crack of dozens of pistols firing simultaneously, the clanging of swords, the shouts and yells of exertion, pain, death.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that these pirates are nothing like the crew Kiyoomi has grown to tolerate. They don’t possess morals, or reason, or remorse – what they do possess, are dangerous weapons and copious amounts of murderous intent. He’s read about pirates, how they plunder and pillage and loot. Not even their fellow pirates are safe; it’s every man for himself out on the water.

But they’re going to be mightily disappointed once they realise the highest value items on this ship for them to steal are an ugly rug, and a few gold coins in Kiyoomi's pouch.

It’s impossible to tell how many pirates are attacking, but it’s definitely more than the motley crew of eight that comprises the last and only line of defence between Kiyoomi’s life and death. His heart hammers loudly in his chest when he thinks of them fighting. It beats an irregular rhythm, not unlike the one Atsumu drummed into the pots and pans just the other day, only this time it doesn’t make Kiyoomi laugh, it makes him sick to his stomach.

Kiyoomi wonders how many of the bodily thuds that hit the deck belong to them, how many of the screams he hears have been torn from their throats. They carry weapons – Kiyoomi sees them all the time – scimitars, pistols, broadswords, crossbows. He also hears them practising their aim most days with spare ammunition, but he’s never seen them fight for real. It could all be for show, to make Kiyoomi feel as though he’s in competent hands, to scare him into behaving. If Kiyoomi’s honest, it’s never worked in their favour; they’re about as intimidating as a circus act, and he’s not sure they’ll be able to stop bickering long enough to point their pistols in the right direction.

He can’t discern the crews’ voices from the enemy. It all morphs in to one large cacophonous blur of sound. With every breath Kiyoomi takes in, he finds himself hoping that it isn’t one more than Atsumu. That’s one contest he’s not so keen on winning.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know how long he stays crouched in the corner of the room, but the fighting still hasn’t abated any once he’s counted his way to five hundred, and now there’s the unmistakable metallic twang of blood in the air, accompanied by the acrid smokiness of gunpowder.

Shit, he realises with a stutter of breath. He’s probably going to die here. Tonight. Any moment. He’s not going to fall under new management this time, pirates are actually going to slit his throat and he’s going to bleed out on the—

Something – someone – slams against the door and Kiyoomi’s hands fly to cover his mouth so that he doesn’t make any noise.

“Shit!” he hears through the wood. It’s a voice he definitely does not recognise, raw and desperate and raspy. “Shit, fuck, shit!”

The banging gets louder and louder, as though someone has switched from kicking it, to throwing their whole weight against it. Kiyoomi stands and readies himself into a fighting stance, low and with his fists curled. He won’t go down without at least making them work for it. His tutor has taught him enough about hand-to-hand combat so that he won’t make a fool of himself in doing so either.

The door swings open with a crack and a slam, and a man comes stumbling inside. Slivers of light from the hallway lanterns carve a rectangle of light in the doorway and illuminate him, bloodied, terrified, breathing frantically.

When he spots Kiyoomi his eyes widen further and he starts to back up, sword clattering to the floor, one hand clutching at his abdomen. “Oh, fuck! There are more!” he cries out. “Down here, there are more!”

Kiyoomi eyes the sword. It’s clean; not dirtied with the blood of his… acquaintances? Perhaps that is a good sign. Perhaps Atsumu will find and fix Kiyoomi’s bed after all.

“Please,” the man begs as his back hits the opposite wall of the hallway. “Don’t kill me.”

Judging by his pallor and the blood leaking through his fingers, Kiyoomi thinks it’s a little too late to be asking that. He darts forwards, grabs the sword, pushes the man into the room and closes the door after him to muffle the pained groans.

The sword is far heavier than his rapier, and it takes Kiyoomi a couple of swings and rotations of his arm to get used to the way it pulls at his underused muscles. It would be easier if Kiyoomi had remembered to grab his gloves before accosting Atsumu in the hallway earlier. His hands wouldn’t be as sweaty, and his grip would be firmer around the handle. It’ll have to do for now, he supposes, because it’s no longer safe below deck now that someone’s called for help.

Kiyoomi follows the hallway until he reaches the stairs and climbs them warily, head darting over his shoulder to check he isn’t being followed. Without wooden barriers, the noise of battle hits him so hard it’s as though he’s just taken a seat in the orchestra pit, and the bright flashes of gunfire in the dark startle him.

But that is nowhere near as shocking as the scene unfolding before him.

There are a dozen bodies littering the deck, eyes staring lifelessly at the sky.

Not a single one of them belongs to the crew.

Kiyoomi spots Hinata first. He’s got two daggers in his hands, and he dips and flits around, dodging wide sweeps of enemy broadswords and slicing and stabbing at flesh in return. His movements are precise whilst still somehow looking erratic, and he’s impossibly fast, throwing well-timed attacks into thighs, abdomens, shoulders, and necks.

When Kiyoomi thinks a pirate is about to sneak up on Hinata with a pistol, a crossbow bolt thumps into the assailant’s head and he drops to the ground. Hoshiumi calls for Hinata to watch his back from where he’s hanging high up on the rigging and then turns his attention to where Kageyama and Ushijima are locked in bouts against burly men twice their size. Despite their obvious difference, both Kageyama and Ushijima are on the assault rather than the defensive, driving the two men further and further back until their legs hit the ship’s ledge and strong swipes of broadswords gut them in tandem, navel to throat.

Through the smoke of gunfire, Kiyoomi’s gaze roams over to where Bokuto is locked in a similar battle. Two pirates are struggling to keep up with him; he’s using his blunderbuss as a sword, bludgeoning them with it whenever they get close enough, laughing so loudly Kiyoomi can hear it over the clashing of metal. The pirates lunge at the same time, frustrated with how easily Bokuto brushes them off, then Bokuto cracks the barrel hard against one man’s head, wrenches a pistol from his unconscious grip, and uses it to shoot the other pirate point blank in the chest.

From high up in the crow’s nest, Suna is firing precise shots with a rifle, picking off men as they climb rope ladders aboard the ship. Osamu is carving his way through men with his scimitar, and Atsumu is—Atsumu is aiming a pistol directly at Kiyoomi.

The shot fires before Kiyoomi has time to blink, and something warm and wet splashes against his cheek. A body hits the floor to his right and Kiyoomi realises that the man he’d left below deck has followed him, armed with a pistol of his own.

Well, had.

The man’s brains are now decorating the wood and—Kiyoomi’s face.

He bites down the wave of nausea that crashes over him and clenches his fist tighter around the hilt of the sword. He doesn’t attempt to wipe the blood away. If he acknowledges it right now, he’ll most likely throw up.

“The fuck’re you doin’ up here, Sakusa?” Atsumu shouts as he jogs over. His face is streaked with blood and dirtied with gunpowder, his shirt is torn, and his eyes are bright and wild as they scan Kiyoomi from head to toe, probably looking for injury. “I told ya to stay hidden!”

No matter how hard he tries, Kiyoomi cannot get words to form past his lips. He stares at Atsumu, at the deep cut leaking crimson across his forearm, at the bodies scattered where he’d once stood, at the gun still smoking in his hand, and his mind goes completely blank.

“You doin’ OK? Yer not hurt, right?”

Kiyoomi manages to shake his head. He can at least do that much.

Atsumu runs a hand through his hair and nods towards the staircase. “Good,” he says. “You need to go hide again. There’s a lock on Ushijima-san’s door you can—”

A man comes charging at Atsumu out of nowhere, blade raised, yelling. Kiyoomi knows that Atsumu’s gun isn’t loaded after just firing a shot, and his scimitar is still hanging at his waist. He’s not going to be able to reach it in time. Atsumu knows that too – Kiyoomi can see it in the slight stiffening of his shoulders and the widening of his eyes as realisation hits and he brings his arms up to brace himself for impact.

Kiyoomi’s body finally listens to him, and he swings his sword up in time to catch the oncoming blade with a clang before it can sever Atsumu’s head from his neck. The impact sends reverberations through the bones in Kiyoomi’s hand, to his arm, and then to his chest. He almost drops the sword when pain blossoms in his shoulder as the muscle there complains, but adrenaline keeps his grip tight.

He pushes forward and kicks so that pirate tumbles backward, then he stumbles a little himself and Atsumu’s hand settles on Kiyoomi’s back to steady him before he falls.

“You know how to use that thing?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“They do teach us some useful things at brat school,” Kiyoomi says a little breathlessly.

Atsumu swallows. “Good,” he says, then nods at the pirate who’s gotten back to his feet and is charging at Kiyoomi again. “Can you take him?”

Kiyoomi looks at the pirate, at his obvious limp and the blood leaking from a knife wound on his thigh. He wants to say something sarcastic, something witty, or mean like he usually would to Atsumu. Instead, what comes out is a shaky, “Yeah, I think so.”

Atsumu’s hand is still on Kiyoomi’s back, and he uses it to push Kiyoomi slightly forward. “Stay alive and look forward,” he says. “I’ve got yer back.”

The bout Kiyoomi shares with the pirate is the sloppiest he’s ever fought. He’s still getting used to how different the sword is from his usual rapier, and his senses are overwhelmed with the ten-thousand other things occurring around him.

Their swords clash over and over and over, but Kiyoomi can’t quite bring himself to administer a final blow. He’s never killed anyone before; his tutor didn’t ever bother preparing him for that and every time he envisions pushing the sword through flesh and bone his stomach churns unpleasantly.

“You’re not a pirate,” the man spits through bloodied lips. “You’re too weak.”

Kiyoomi grits his teeth as their swords lock against each other. The man doesn’t mean weak physically, that’s for sure, because Kiyoomi’s the one pressing forwards, making the man grunt beneath the pressure.

He should kick at the man’s bad leg and drive the sword through his throat when he falls, but Kiyoomi just can’t bring himself to go through with it. Though it’s exhausting, he’s hoping to keep the man busy until he bleeds himself dry.

Luckily for them both, a crossbow bolt from Hoshiumi puts the man out of his misery and Kiyoomi looks up to find him offering an upturned thumb. Kiyoomi kicks the lifeless body to check he’s dead, then turns to find Atsumu locked in battle with two men.

Since venturing above deck, something about this whole scene had seemed off to Kiyoomi. There was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something that unsettled him, and it’s when he’s watching Atsumu that he finally figures it out.

All eight of the crew are smiling as they fight.

There’s no hint of fear, no sign of exhaustion, not even a frown of concentration. Every single one of them is enjoying themself; Bokuto’s laughing, Hinata’s cheering, Hoshiumi’s adding sound effects, Kageyama and Ushijima are grinning, Osamu and Suna are even loudly chatting about what they’re going to eat for breakfast once they dock the next morning.

They’re monsters, Kiyoomi realises.

There are easily upwards of thirty men on the deck altogether, which means each member of the crew has taken on and killed at least four men each and none look any worse for wear.

Kiyoomi almost feels foolish having doubted them; only immense skill could give them the unbridled confidence needed to be so relaxed all the time. He sees that now.

It’s Atsumu who seems to enjoy it the most, though. He bounces on the tips of his toes and spins and flourishes his scimitar with arrogance as he dances around his opponents. His eyes are alight, his teeth are flashing white in a grin, and his movements are so fluid it feels as though Kiyoomi is watching a performance rather than a fight for his life.

He can’t look away.

There could be another pirate waiting to blow his brains out, a sword at his throat, the kraken could be looming above him, but Kiyoomi can’t stop watching Atsumu as he laughs and taunts his opponents, a startling gold beacon against the foggy, dark backdrop of night.

He looks nothing like the idiot that stumbled up to him drunk that fateful afternoon, or the brat that sings awful shanties, or antagonises Kiyoomi for fun, but at the same time, he does. He is contained, controlled chaos, a hurricane sweeping everything up in its path, forcing all it makes contact with to walk to the same awful beat of his drum.

It makes Kiyoomi’s throat dry up, makes his grip tighten on the sword, makes him blink, blink, blink until he can find something else to watch other than Atsumu’s skin glistening with sweat beneath the moonlight.

It takes a gunshot to shake Kiyoomi from his thoughts. Bokuto’s blunderbuss knocks a man flying backward as a bullet finds his chest, and at the same time Atsumu finally downs the two men on him with rapid-quick slashes of his scimitar.

After that, the ship falls silent, because other than the crew, all that remains is a sea of lifeless bodies.

Everyone turns to Suna up in the crow’s nest and he sends back an OK sign with his hands. “All clear!” he calls back. “That was the last of them!”

“Any injuries?” Ushijima calls out, so unaffected by the whole thing that his hat is still perched perfectly atop his head.

Movement from beside him catches his eye, and Kiyoomi watches Atsumu pull the sleeve of his shirt down over the cut on his arm and call back, “None over here!”

Similar shouts sound out across the vessel, signals of good health. Only Bokuto and Hinata boast shallow cuts and grazes, but that’s to be expected, considering how up-close and personal they got with their opponents.

Ushijima nods once and sheathes his sword. “Bokuto, Kageyama, Hinata, take the boats and see if you can find the enemy vessel. Take anything of value then set it ablaze. Everybody else, commence clean-up. Good work.”

‘Cleaning up’ it turns out, is just throwing the dead bodies overboard, and despite the injury to his arm, Atsumu gets to work right away, hoisting the man nearest his feet up and dragging him over to the ship’s ledge.

“You gonna unclench and help me, Omi?” he grunts as he brutally flops the dead body up onto the ledge. “Dead men are heavy.”

“I am not touching that,” Kiyoomi says. There’s a gaping wound on the man’s neck that leaks whenever Atsumu jostles him about, and seeing it suddenly reminds Kiyoomi of the blood staining his own cheek.

When he wipes his face with his sleeve, it comes back red and Kiyoomi takes a staggered step backward. He scrubs at it again until his face starts to burn, furiously, frantically to try and rid himself of the sensation of the gross wetness on his skin, but then a hand grabs his arm and pulls it away.

“Hey, hey, stop that. Yer gonna hurt yourself.”

Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu, at his eyes, usually half-lidded in provocation, now wide and concerned. All traces of fire and fun have vanished from his face, and Kiyoomi finds himself wishing it would return. That would be easier to process than whatever this is.

Atsumu’s gaze drops to the sword still clutched tightly in Kiyoomi’s hand, and he tugs at it until Kiyoomi relinquishes it. “It’s over now,” he says lowly. “Don’t worry ‘bout the mess. Just…uh, go get cleaned up, yeah?”

He gives Kiyoomi another once over, leans to the side to check that the blood on Kiyoomi’s face is definitely not his own.

A strange feeling washes over Kiyoomi in that briefest of moments. Not nausea, or fear, or anxiety. It’s the feeling of being scrutinised, the feeling of being picked apart, of being worked out. Kiyoomi can almost see the gears turning in Atsumu’s head and clicking into place and he hates it.

Kiyoomi snatches his hand back. “Don’t do that,” he snaps.

Atsumu tilts his head in confusion. “Do what?”

“Pity me. Act concerned. Whatever. It doesn’t suit you. Just be an asshole.”

Atsumu’s laugh is an exasperated one. “Fine,” he says. “Then quit loiterin’ up here and fuck off outta my way.” He shoos Kiyoomi away with a hand. “Wait in the captain’s quarters like a good boy, and actually stay there this time. Can ya manage that?”

It doesn’t hold the same venom as usual, but it’s enough for Kiyoomi to turn on his heel and shuffle back down the steps to the lower deck. He makes it to the bottom step before his legs give out and he has to sit down to catch his breath as it tries its hardest to escape him.

It’s not the death, or the blood, or the gore that has shocked him; the pirates that attacked chose their own fate the moment their boots hit the deck. Kiyoomi isn’t bothered either way – he doesn’t know them, and he certainly doesn’t care about them. What irks him, is that he stood by as his life flashed before his eyes and did absolutely nothing about it. If not for Atsumu, Kiyoomi’s body would be one more being thrown into the ocean. He’d almost cost Atsumu his life too – he’d only been one fraction of a second faster than letting Atsumu get hacked to death.

Back at home, Kiyoomi is the competent one. The one his parents never have to worry about because he’s never doing anything reckless or dangerous (other than speaking out of turn at parties). He’s always been the one to err on the side of caution, to prepare meticulously for even the most minor of situations, to ask questions so that he’s never caught off guard.

Tonight has reminded him that here, on this ship, with these pirates, he’s completely out of his depth and he hates it. The prank war has dulled his senses to the truth, made him believe he is on their level, if not above it, but now he looks a fool. He hates relying on others, hates being useless, hates owing people. His nails dig into his palms as he clenches his fists, and he focusses on the bite of pain to bring himself back down to earth.

He’s not going to let it happen again.

The very first thing Kiyoomi does is ignore Atsumu’s instruction. Instead of sitting and waiting in the captain’s quarters for… Kiyoomi’s not sure what, exactly, he makes a beeline for the kitchen where he spends a long time scrubbing himself clean with what little remains of the washing water supply. He can’t see his own reflection, so he splashes his face over and over again until his hair is just as wet as his face and he’s shivering beneath the night’s breeze. He doesn’t mind the cold, though. It’s a sobering reprieve.

After that, he returns to his room and changes out of his bloodied shirt. He doesn’t bother putting the wrecked one back into his suitcase; he balls it up and throws it to the corner in the hopes that he might forget the stains on the sleeve.

He can hear the sounds of bodies being dragged across the deck above him as he buttons his new shirt with traitorously shaking fingers, and the twins they bicker noisily over who took on more pirates.

“It was me,” Atsumu boasts loudly. Kiyoomi can hear it clearly, they’re right above the bloodied socks plugging the holes in the ceiling. “I know so, ‘cause you were too busy flirtin’ with Suna to fight properly. Whole damn ship heard ya actin’ like a shameless harlot.”

“And the whole damn ship’ll hear me stranglin’ you to death if ya don’t shut yer huge fuckin’ mouth.”

“You got rocks for brains? That’s the whole point, dumbass. Maybe Suna’ll hear me and finally put you out of yer—”

There’s a thump, and Kiyoomi’s not entirely sure whether they’ve just dropped a body or if one of them has pushed the other over. Probably the latter.

They bicker for a while longer, fading in and out of Kiyoomi’s hearing range as they ferry bodies to the ship’s ledge. Atsumu continues to point out Osamu’s personal feelings towards Suna as being ‘obvious’ despite the fact that Kiyoomi found the information to be considerably unexpected, and Osamu resents Atsumu’s birth and laments not being an only child. Kiyoomi zones out for a while as they curse each other out in the familiar routine of who’s the superior twin; he’s heard it all four thousand times before already and he’s only known them a little over a week.

What grabs Kiyoomi’s attention again however, is when Osamu says with a tone that is considerably more serious, “Tsumu, what the fuck is that?”

“What the fuck is what?”

“That.”

Kiyoomi has no way of knowing what Osamu is referring to, but judging by the way Atsumu says, “Nothing,” a little too quickly, he assumes it can only be about the gash on his arm that he’d tried to hide.

“So that’s not yer blood, drippin’ from yer fingers then?”

“Nope,” Atsumu says dismissively. “I accidentally stuck my hand in a guy’s stomach, that’s all. Not my blood.”

There’s a pause. Kiyoomi imagines Osamu sighing wearily in it and joins him because Atsumu’s way with words truly is abysmal.

“One day,” Osamu promises, “I’m gonna find a witch and pay her good money to curse yer filthy lyin’ ass so you’ll get uglier every time you do. I’d give it a day before you got so ugly you’d have to live the rest of yer days under a bridge.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, Samu, considerin’ I’m not lyi—Hey! Gimme my arm back, ya fuckin’ scrub.”

“I knew it. You do this every fuckin’ time. Shit. That looks deep, Tsumu.”

“It’s just a scratch. Sword barely grazed me. Looks worse than it is.”

Kiyoomi knows that is another lie. He only saw Atsumu’s wound for a moment and knows it was far worse than that. It needs stitches, or at the very least to be cleaned properly and wrapped.

“I can see yer bones.”

“Now who’s the fuckin’ liar?”

“Whatever. Just make sure ya clean it and get it stitched when we dock. I’ll drag ya there myself if I have to.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m serious, Tsumu. Sunarin’s dad’s friend’s cousin’s brother died because his leg got cut up and he ignored it, and I ain’t got any money to pay for yer funeral after ya blew it all on blackjack. Go do somethin’ about it. I’ll finish up here.”

“I don’t need to. I’m fine.”

“If ya don’t, I’ll tell Ushijima-san.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You know I would. I’ll go right now.”

The threat is sufficient, because Kiyoomi hears Atsumu say “Fuck you,” as he huffs and walks off. He also knows for a fact that Atsumu is not going to listen to his brother, so Kiyoomi digs his first-aid box out of his suitcase, lights a lantern, and leaves in search of him because Kiyoomi will be damned before he lets Atsumu save his life then die of something as ridiculous as blood loss after the fact.

It doesn’t take long to find him. Atsumu heads immediately for the kitchen, and Kiyoomi watches from the doorway for a moment as he rummages around for food, bad arm hanging limply at his side, sleeve rolled down to cover the injury.

“I was wrong,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu yelps in surprise. “You do have a talent. It’s called ‘being a fucking moron.’”

Atsumu spins around and narrows his gaze. He’s acquired a handful of nuts, and eats them so nonchalantly it’s almost infuriating. “See you're doin’ better, Omi-kun,” he says around a mouthful. “That’s great. Back to yer usual rotten bastard self.”

Kiyoomi ignores that, and the pleasant breath of relief that means they’ve returned to normal. “Do you get a kick out of ignoring good advice?” he asks. “Or are you really just that stupid?”

“Can’t be any more stupid than you.” Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “Told ya to stay in the captain’s quarters, didn’t I?”

“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi says.

Atsumu shrugs one shoulder and pours more nuts into his mouth. “So am I.”

Kiyoomi walks inside the kitchen and puts the lantern and his first aid box on the table. “Sit down,” he tells Atsumu, nodding to a wooden stool nearby.

Atsumu eyes the box, then the stool, then Kiyoomi, and says, “I’ll pass.”

“That wasn’t an invitation. Sit the fuck down, Miya.”

With a breathy laugh, Atsumu tries to walk past Kiyoomi to the door, but Kiyoomi grabs the back of his shirt collar and yanks him backwards. He makes a dramatic choking noise and clutches at his throat as though Kiyoomi has just garrotted him.

“You tryna fuckin’ kill me, Omi?” he coughs. “Almost choked on my fuckin’ nuts.”

Kiyoomi looks pointedly at Atsumu’s arm. “I doubt I could manage it before you bled to death.” Atsumu rolls his eyes, and Kiyoomi pulls him further back until his legs hit the stool. “Sit,” he says. “Or do I need to threaten you with the captain too?”

Atsumu does sit, with the most elaborate and unnecessary sigh imaginable. “Eavesdroppin’ is hardly becoming of a nobleman, y’know, Omi. Didn’t anyone at yer fancy estate ever teach you manners?”

Kiyoomi starts to unpack the box of supplies; bandages, scissors, pure alcohol, clean cloth. “It’s not eavesdropping when you’re the one who drilled the holes into my ceiling.”

Atsumu’s knee is bouncing and he’s looking anywhere but at Kiyoomi and the equipment on the table. “That was the seagulls, remember? The man-eating, ravenous ones.”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi drawls. “The seagulls. How could I forget?” He fills a bowl with clean water and finds another stool that he positions opposite Atsumu. “Give me your arm.”

“There’s really no need to make such a big deal, Omi, it’s fine, really, it’ll heal on its own eventua—”

“Give. Me. Your. Arm.”

Atsumu swallows and surrenders his arm. Kiyoomi places one hand on the underside of Atsumu’s forearm and uses the other to roll back the sleeve. It’s sticky with drying blood and as careful as he is, it looks so painful as the fabric peels away that Kiyoomi winces.

That’s nothing compared to Atsumu, however. His head is turned in the opposite direction, eyes pinched so tightly closed that his whole face scrunches up. There’s sweat collecting upon his brow and his breaths are shallow in his chest.

Kiyoomi reaches for the bowl of water and cloth and spends some time making sure it’s thoroughly soaked. The moment the damp cloth makes contact with Atsumu’s skin he flinches.

Kiyoomi falters slightly. “Did that hurt?” he asks.

Atsumu refuses to open his eyes. He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Just don’t like it. Hurry up.”

That’s another lie. It has to hurt, but somehow Kiyoomi knows he’s also telling the truth. He’s not gritting his teeth or groaning about the pain – the bounce of his leg, the nervous rambling, the initial reluctance, it’s almost as though he’s—

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of… which is it?” Kiyoomi asks incredulously. “Doctors? Needles?”

Atsumu’s face screws up tighter. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Kiyoomi blinks at the bloody cloth in his hands and at Atsumu’s face, then he remembers how Atsumu hadn’t commented on Kiyoomi’s own aversions above deck earlier and bites back a cynical reply. “I’m not,” Kiyoomi says and returns to cleaning away the excess blood so he can actually see the wound. “I just find it hard to believe after seeing you fight. I didn’t think anything could scare you.”

He can fight like a storm, balance precariously on the tightrope of life and death. He can cut people open, blow their heads off, joke about being wrist deep in their entrails, and yet the concept of a doctor or the prospect of receiving medical treatment is what frightens him?

Atsumu scoffs. “Why do you care at all, anyway? Wouldn’t things be quieter for you if I bled to death?”

Kiyoomi dips the cloth back into the water to rinse it off. The sound makes Atsumu flinch again.

“Undoubtedly,” he says.

“Then why?” Atsumu hisses when the cloth gets a little too close to the wound. “Isn’t this torture for you too?”

Kiyoomi has always wondered the same thing when studying science and surgery. He cannot stand the idea of germs, of other people’s bodily fluids, or of contamination, but leaving Atsumu’s injury untreated, to fester and infect, is infinitely worse. When Kiyoomi cleans, he knows he’s doing it correctly, and to his own high standards. Anyone else might do it wrong.

“You can’t fix my bed if you lose your arm to gangrene,” Kiyoomi tells him.

Atsumu opens one eye and levels it on Kiyoomi. “You bein’ serious?”

Kiyoomi smirks. “Deadly.”

Atsumu’s laugh is just a shaky exhale of breath. Kiyoomi feels it against his cheek as he works, a warmth that sends a shiver down his spine. “You're a fuckin’ asshole.”

Kiyoomi hums and tries his best to clean the wound as speedily as he can manage for Atsumu’s benefit, clearing away the blood, gunpowder residue, and grime of battle. Once the surrounding area is clean, he switches to the pure alcohol solution and wets a second cloth with it.

“This is going to sting,” Kiyoomi warns him. “A lot.”

He knows; any time he sustained injury at sparring lessons or playing outside as a child, he’d been the one to clean his own wounds and use far too much of the stuff than what was probably necessary. But those were just surface level scrapes and grazes – this wound is a deep line carved from the top of Atsumu’s wrist to midway up his forearm.

“Don’t tell me, Omi.” Atsumu closes his eyes again and looks away. “Just get it over with.”

The first contact makes Atsumu flinch so hard that his foot kicks at Kiyoomi’s shin and they’re both cursing.

“Shit. Sorry,” Atsumu groans. “You weren’t lyin’, huh? Fuck.”

“I don’t make a habit of it, no,” Kiyoomi grunts back, fighting the urge to rub at his bruising leg.

“I’m not usually sober for this,” he wheezes. “Or conscious.”

Kiyoomi waits for Atsumu to wrestle his breathing under control, then tries again. He manages a small section this time, dabbing carefully and the cut and ignoring Atsumu’s pained noises in his ear. He has to stop midway through again though, when the bouncing of Atsumu’s leg gets so intense that it shakes through to his arm and makes it hard for Kiyoomi to work.

“Stop moving,” Kiyoomi tells him, so lost to concentration that he forgets sympathy.

“Stop moving?” Atsumu repeats a little hysterically. “Yer bedside manner fuckin’ sucks, Omi. I should punch you.”

“No,” Kiyoomi says calmly. “What you should do is shut your mouth and keep still, unless you actually want to bite your own tongue off.”

Despite the instruction, Atsumu seems physically incapable of stopping his own leg, so Kiyoomi grips Atsumu’s thigh with his free hand and forces it still. Atsumu’s eyes widen and his head snaps around to look at Kiyoomi, but Kiyoomi doesn’t give him the chance to say anything stupid. He dabs the alcohol on the wound again and Atsumu’s gaze flies to the ceiling instead.

At some point, Atsumu’s hand finds Kiyoomi’s on his thigh and he clutches at it, nails digging into Kiyoomi’s skin. Delirious with pain, Atsumu’s probably unaware of what he’s doing, so Kiyoomi doesn’t complain or shake him off even though he wants to.

It takes longer than Kiyoomi is capable of with only one hand to work with, but he finally manages to clean the cut to his standards and throws the bloodied alcohol-cloth aside.

“Take a breath, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says in what he hopes is a mildly encouraging tone. "I'm almost done."

“That’s better,” Atsumu hums shakily. “I respond well to positive reinforcement, y’know. Tell me I’m a good boy.”

Kiyoomi makes a face and pulls his hand from Atsumu’s grip to reach across the table for the roll of bandage and the scissors. “Shut the fuck up.”

“That is not positive reinforcement.”

“You’re not getting any. You’ve spoiled it forever.”

Atsumu chuckles and he sags in what Kiyoomi assumes is relief. The whole time Kiyoomi’s been working he’s refused to watch at all, but now he sits quietly and observes as Kiyoomi cuts strips of bandage and lays them readily over his own thigh.

“You’re not gonna sew me up?” he asks.

“No,” Kiyoomi replies. “I don’t have the equipment or the means to sterilise it. I’m just going to bandage it best I can until you can find a real doctor.”

Atsumu goes quiet again. All Kiyoomi can hear is his shallow breathing as he continues to catch his breath and the light tapping of his foot against the floorboards.

Gently, Kiyoomi starts to tie the thin strips of bandage around Atsumu’s arm, knotting them tightly to keep the wound together in the hopes that it might start to scab over and heal itself. Then he begins to wind a long length of bandage around Atsumu’s whole arm from wrist to elbow to keep it all in place. It’s not perfect by any means, but it’ll be enough to tide him over until the morning.

“Hey, uh, Sakusa?” Atsumu clears his throat of its rasp and Kiyoomi turns to meet his eye, curious at the lack of obnoxious nickname.

Kiyoomi’s breath catches in his throat when he finds their faces so close together. Atsumu’s lips are swollen and bloody after being bitten through the pain, his eyes are red and raw, and his skin is pale through blood loss. There’s also a smudge of gunpowder on his cheekbone that Kiyoomi finds himself fighting valiantly against the urge to wipe away with his thumb. Once he catches himself thinking that, he wrenches his gaze away and turns back to the bandages.

“What?”

“If I uh—If I got the equipment, somehow, and the means, or whatever, you could do it right?”

Kiyoomi pauses. “Do what?”

“Stitch me up.”

“No,” Kiyoomi says. “I’ve never done that before. You’d be safer with a professional.”

Kiyoomi’s only ever read about suturing in books, he doesn’t know the next thing about repairing skin in reality. He’s not so sure he could do it even if he had the equipment and the training. The thought makes him nauseous.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Atsumu blurts. “Bein’ yer first.”

Kiyoomi’s mouth twists in disgust. “Do you have to phrase it that way?”

“You know what I mean.” Atsumu waves his hand dismissively. “I trust you way more than I trust medics on land.”

Kiyoomi ties the end of the bandage tight and checks that it’s not cutting off Atsumu’s circulation. “Then you’re more foolish than even I gave you credit for,” he says. “Try not to move your arm too much.”

When Kiyoomi finally lets Atsumu’s arm go, he inspects the bandages himself then cradles it close to his stomach. “Am I?” he asks. “You haven’t knocked me out, taken vials of my blood, given me any strange experimental tonics, or asked me to pay my weight’s worth in gold for medicine that’s actually just leaf water.”

The frown that takes over Kiyoomi’s face is automatic. “What the hell kind of medics are you visiting?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Dunno. Suna finds ‘em. They don’t have names.”

Kiyoomi stands and starts to pack his equipment back into the box. “I’ll find you a reputable one,” he says as he balls up the bloodied cloths and throws them into the kitchen waste barrel. He has no clue how he’s going to do that, considering he doesn’t know the next thing about where they’re going to be docking, but it irons out the concerned crease in Atsumu’s brow when he says it so now he supposes he’s going to have to try.

Atsumu stays seated on the stool, rubbing an idle hand over his bandaged arm. “Will ya come with me and hold my hand again?” he grins.

“Absolutely not.”

With a sniff, Atsumu gets to his feet. “Fine. Be that way.”

“Ok,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “I will.”

Atsumu grabs another handful of nuts, as though he hasn’t just endured excruciating amounts of pain, and starts off towards the door. Kiyoomi turns back to his box and starts to reorganise it in the ensuing silence. He thinks he’s alone for a moment, but then Atsumu’s voice sounds again from where he’s stopped in the doorway. “Thanks. For, uh, fixin’ me up. I appreciate it.”

“You saved my life,” Kiyoomi says as he re-winds the excess bandages. “It was the least I could do.”

“Hey, you already paid me back for that by savin’ me too, remember?”

It certainly doesn’t feel that way. Atsumu was only ever in that position to begin with because Kiyoomi had gotten in the way. Still, Atsumu doesn’t seem bothered. He leans against the door and continues, “Guess now I technically owe you, huh?”

“Stay alive long enough to fix my fucking bed like you promised. That’ll be enough.”

Atsumu laughs loudly, like he usually does, like he did fighting, and it finally brings Kiyoomi some semblance of peace after hearing him swallow pained cries for the past ten minutes. “You really care ‘bout the bed that much?”

“I would rather die than subject myself to sleeping in a hammock,” Kiyoomi says honestly. “There are some ‘rich boy’ comforts I’d rather not do without. A bed that doesn’t actively try to strangle me in my sleep being one of them. Now get the fuck out of my sight and get some rest before you do something stupid like pass out.”

Atsumu snorts. “You really gotta work on yer compassion, Omi-kun. It fuckin’ sucks.”

“Goodbye, Miya,” Kiyoomi prompts.

“Yeah, yeah.” He throws a wave over his shoulder and actually turns to leave this time. “Sweet dreams in yer murder hammock.”

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi does not bother attempting to climb into the hammock. He’s not so sure he’d find sleep even if Atsumu hadn’t disassembled his bed. His mind is filled to the brim with thoughts, wrestling and wrangling their way to the forefront of his brain in a never-ending cycle. If he’s not thinking about the fighting, he’s thinking of blood, of Atsumu’s injury, of home, of the journey ahead.

He spends some time sitting at his desk, meticulously inspecting his hands for any residual blood, and finally writing that letter to his parents that he’s been putting off for days. It’s awkward, and still a little unbelievable, but it sounds miles better now that Kiyoomi no longer has grounds to call the crew incompetent, now that he firmly believes he will get home in one piece.

After signing his name and tucking the letter into an envelope that bears the Sakusa family crest, Kiyoomi stands and makes a solid effort to rotate the ache out of his shoulder so that his muscles don’t knot. Thirty minutes later, he’s not sure the pain is even real anymore, as opposed to a figment of his over-stressed imagination, but he continues until he’s satisfied.

He grabs the pillow from the hammock and tries again to sleep at his desk. It doesn’t work; he keeps his eyes closed for what feels like forever, hoping that sleep might catch him unaware, but his body never succumbs to relaxation. In the end, he gives up entirely in favour of a walk around the ship.

The first thing Kiyoomi notices as he approaches the top step, is that they’re moving again, and he frowns as he tries to recall when that happened. He must have been out of it, if he hadn’t even heard the crew shouting to raise the anchor. It can’t have been long, though; he can still see the enemy ship burning in the distance as they drive a steady pace away from it. For a moment, he simply stands there and watches with his hands tucked into his coat pockets until it disappears over the horizon.

The second thing Kiyoomi notices, is that the deck is clean. Well, clean of bodies, at least. There are still dark pools of blood soaking into the wooden boards and weapons scattered about, but upon an initial glance he would not have said a battle had occurred just a few hours previous.

The crew are mostly quiet. Ushijima stands alone at the helm, looking through his spyglass at something in the distance, and Suna and Osamu are sitting huddled together in a corner, sewing patches into bullet-riddled sheets, talking in hushed tones.

Surprisingly, Atsumu is nowhere to be found, or heard. He must have taken Kiyoomi’s advice seriously and turned in for the night. The thought makes Kiyoomi frown. If Atsumu is listening and honouring Kiyoomi’s instruction, that means he has to take the hunt for a doctor seriously when they dock. Perhaps it would have been easier simply to let Atsumu bleed out instead; Kiyoomi hates navigating new places, especially without the luxury of a map.

A while later, Bokuto, Kageyama, and Hinata return from the orlop after storing the fruits of their labour. According to Hinata’s loud announcement, there wasn’t much to take from the enemy vessel, just some food nearing the end of its usefulness, some extra ammunition rounds, and some spare sacks of clean clothes and bed sheets. It’s no wonder, Kiyoomi thinks, that the pirates attacked when they were such a large crew with so little to live on. He almost feels bad for their luck in having stumbled upon this ship in particular and its crew of monsters.

“Hey, hey! Sakusa!” Bokuto calls holding up a bottle of rum and a pack of cards. “Come join us!”

Ordinarily, Kiyoomi would refuse. But tonight he welcomes the distraction, the stupider the better.

He pulls up a stool with them – Bokuto, Kageyama, and Hinata – around an upturned crate-table. Bokuto tries to convince Osamu and Suna to join in, but they wave him off and return to their conversation, faces even closer together than before.

After hearing Atsumu spill Osamu’s secrets for anyone with functioning ears to hear, Kiyoomi actually notices how differently Osamu looks at Suna, how he keeps rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, and using the sway of the boat as an excuse to knock shoulders with him. It suddenly becomes so painfully obvious that Kiyoomi has to wonder if Suna is either far meaner than he lets on, or far denser, for him to see Osamu behaving that way and to do absolutely nothing about it.

Though they offer multiple times, Kiyoomi does not drink any rum. The three of them pass the bottle around and take long swigs from the neck rather than sharing it into cups, and while Kiyoomi is getting used to being around the crew, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be familiar enough with them to share their spit.

“You ever played backwards-switch-fish-jack before?” Bokuto asks as he shuffles four decks of cards together.

“No,” Kiyoomi admits, watching his hands deftly leafing the cards with a satisfying sound of curling paper. “I doubt anyone other than this crew has.”

“It’s easy,” Bokuto grins. “We play switch, go fish, and blackjack all at the same time but backwards. Get it?”

Kiyoomi does not get it, and he doubts he ever will. “I suppose it can’t be any worse than your idea of poker,” he says.

Though it was only a handful of hours ago, it feels like a lifetime has passed since he was sat around the table with Osamu, Kageyama, and Hoshiumi trying to work out what hand of cards constituted a ‘triple king’s cock flush back handspring’. Kiyoomi was adamant they’d bullshitted the whole game and its rules as a way to fuck with him, but now, listening to Bokuto explain this game, he’s not so sure.

“Poker’s no fun unless you take your clothes off,” Bokuto says dismissively as he finishes handing out cards. “Myaa-Sam’s version is boring.” He jabs a thumb into his exposed chest. “One day I’ll teach you how to play it properly.”

“Please don’t listen to Bokuto-san,” Hinata says with a hollow shiver. “And please don’t ever play poker with him. Not if you want your eyeballs and your brain to remain pure.”

“Hey, hey! I’m not that bad. Not as bad as Tsum-Tsum, anyway. He takes his clothes off even when he’s winning.”

Kageyama makes a face like he’s chewing on a lemon. “He takes his clothes off even when we’re not playing.”

The game goes about as well as it can for Kiyoomi when he simply places down random cards and hopes for the best. Despite that, he somehow manages to beat Hinata out of last place a handful of times, and once the rum kicks in and Kageyama stops playing seriously in favour of slurring garbled curses at Hinata, he even gets close to winning.

“Nice, Sakusa!” Bokuto jeers when he finally does. “We’ll make a pirate of you yet!”

Kageyama scowls. “It’s beninging—begenin—begin—ben—bein—begig—” he says between multiple hiccups.

Hinata pats his back sympathetically. “Don’t mind, don’t mind. You’ll get there, Drunk-Yama.”

“Beginners’ luck,” he finally finishes slowly to a small round of applause.

“I won one out of ten rounds,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “I’d hardly call that luck.”

“A win is a win, Omi-san! Don’t diminish your own hard work.” Hinata clenches his fist and looks up at the sky. “It doesn’t matter if you suck at first, it’s all about the journey, the steps you took to get to where you are today, the emotions you felt when you—”

“It’s backwards-switch-fish-jack.”

Hinata shakes his head sadly. “Don’t underestimate the journey, Sakusa-san.”

Bokuto switches the game after that, because Hinata reaches his alcohol-limit too and starts rambling about nonsensical topics that nobody understands. They yell and argue and joke and curse and Kiyoomi observes them all in sober and complicated disbelief.

He knows this is them, the real them – rowdy, loud, obnoxious – but he cannot stop thinking about the versions of them fighting. The terrifying looks in their eyes, their smiles, their bloodthirst.

One moment they’re singing awful sea shanties, and the next they’re slitting throats.

It’s jarring.

Kiyoomi wants to understand it.

“How did you become pirates?” he blurts during a hand of ace hunt – a game he thinks he’s grasped the concept of until Hinata insists they have to clap seven times whenever they draw a seven.

“Huh?” Bokuto says. “What do you mean?”

Anyone else might have felt bad for inquiring, might have felt nosy, or as though they’d overstepped. Kiyoomi doesn’t care, has never cared, about such things. He also doesn’t think the question is that hard, so he simply repeats it. “How did you become pirates? Did you choose it?”

They must have. Kiyoomi can’t imagine them doing anything else. The thought of Hoshiumi keeping a shop or Ushijima sweeping streets just does not make any sense. It’s as though they were born to fight for their place atop the ocean.

Bokuto hums as he plucks a card from Kageyama’s offered hand. Their history doesn’t seem to be a sore spot or a closely guarded secret, since he easily replies, “Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

“We all went to the same orphanage,” Hinata explains, words clumsy and eyes unstable. “The eight of us—” he gestures around the ship with his finger “—plus Aran-san, Kita-san, and Akaashi-san too.”

Bokuto’s hand moves up to one of the three lockets at his neck and he clutches it. He smiles and says, “Ushiwaka’s father was a privateer before he went missing. He taught him how to sail as a kid. It’s why he’s like, obsessed with boats.”

Kiyoomi supposes that much makes sense. They’re a close-knit group, and Ushijima carries himself with more poise than the rest of them. He often finds Ushijima simply admiring the ship’s rigging or testing the strength of the rope knots unprompted. He must be good at what he does, too. Normal crews operate on much larger scales, and yet this ship sails perfectly fine with eight.

Hinata takes a card from Bokuto’s hand, then claps rapidly seven times. “We knew nobody was ever going to adopt us,” he says slowly with intoxication. “We were thirteen, and Kageyama was too ugly.”

Kageyama pinches him, but Hinata must be so drunk he’s turned numb because he doesn’t even flinch. “You were uglier, dumbass.”

Hinata shrugs and holds up his hand for Kiyoomi to choose from. Kiyoomi plucks out the same seven, but he doesn’t bother to clap, and nobody’s sober enough to notice.

Hinata continues, “One day, the Miyans got in trouble for fighting and had to clean the headmaster’s office as punishment. Usually they’d be forced to tend the gardens, but it was raining that day. Now that I think about it, it was probably fate! Right?”

Bokuto grins. “Tsum-Tsum found a treasure map hidden inside one of the headmaster’s books. He tucked it into his pocket when the headmaster wasn’t looking and convinced us all to run away and hunt it. He said we could buy our own orphanage with the gold and live without stupid rules and bad food.”

Kiyoomi almost smiles. That’s such a naïve, childish thing to say. As a kid, Kiyoomi would never have entertained such recklessness; the furthest he’d ever adventured was the gardens, and even then, he’d refused to walk too far just in case something bad happened and he couldn’t find his way back. He’d been stung by a wasp one summer afternoon, and spent the next three months locked inside his room, waiting for winter to rid the world of bugs – dropping his home comforts for a fake treasure map was unthinkable. And yet, he feels a pang of… something. Jealousy? No, that’s not a life Kiyoomi would have enjoyed. Fondness? Definitely not. Not for Atsumu, anyway.

Whatever it is makes him want to hear the rest. He holds out his cards for Kageyama to choose from.

“How did you get away?” he asks. He doesn’t know much about orphanage life, only that once kids get taken there, they often stay until they’re old enough to work or survive on the streets. If it was easy to run away, Kiyoomi imagines more kids would do so sooner.

“Our escape—” Kageyama hiccups again “—was flawless.”

When Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, Hinata grins. “Kita-san found a plant that could make people fall asleep, so we made the headmaster some tea with it and ran away while he was uncosnous.”

“It’s pronounced uncosncous, stupid.”

“Oh yeah. Uncosncous.”

Bokuto nods approvingly. “Fate and luck were on our side. The orphanage was only a day’s walk from the harbour. When we arrived, there was a boat with no crew, just sitting there, waiting for us to take it.”

“Like mine,” Kiyoomi scoffs.

“Yeah, exactly like yours!”

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue and takes another card from Hinata. “Seems old habits really do die hard.”

Kageyama scowls at that. “If you want to blame someone, you can blame Oikawa-san. He’s the one who set our last ship on fire because Ushiwaka-san suggested our crews should stop fighting and assmil—asiminate—asimila—join together.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know who Oikawa is, but blaming him for everything is starting to sound like a good idea.

“Yeah,” Hinata adds. “We’re sorry that we stole you. You were probably going to go and meet a princess or something, right? Or the king! Is the king your father? Do you know him?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says with exasperation. “I don’t know where you keep getting the idea that I’m from royalty.”

He blinks. “Then why were you here?”

In a long winded, roundabout sort of way, he does blame Oikawa when he realises it doesn’t irk him or nauseate him to tell them the truth. When did it suddenly become so easy to talk to these people when he hasn’t had a single drop of rum? “I was attending a science lecture,” he says. “In Itachiyama.”

“Oohh!” Hinata says with a sparkle in his eye. “Are you a teacher? A professor? Is that why you’re reading all the time? Can you teach me something? You must be smart, huh, Omi-san?”

“I suppose,” he says. His siblings are far smarter, far more dedicated to their studies and far more passionate, but he’s not a lost cause. It’s just that his passions lie elsewhere. If anything, he wishes he could attend a lecture from the crew on how to wield a sword the way they do. “Though I wasn’t really keen on attending it. Lectures aren’t very enjoyable when the topics aren’t interesting.”

Bokuto frowns. “Then why were you going?”

“I was… trying to avoid something.”

Something is better than saying he’s avoiding his own grandmother and her lavish parties. Something tells Kiyoomi that they wouldn’t quite understand the need to escape a celebration of all things.

“You were running away,” Kageyama says as a blunt statement of fact rather than a question. Kiyoomi would be offended if he wasn’t so unsettlingly correct.

“Just like us,” Hinata beams. “Maybe fate’s looking out for you too, Omi-san. Maybe it brought you to us, or us to you.”

Kiyoomi thinks about that as they play the rest of their card game. He thinks about it long after Hinata, Bokuto, and Kageyama have hobbled off to bed, and as he sits on his stool and stares up at the stars. He’s still thinking about it when the sun starts to rise, and the sky starts to resemble a scene from a J. M. W. Turner painting.

Fate, he thinks. That certainly is a romanticist’s way of dressing terrible luck.

The crew take their time waking up, like the world’s slowest set of falling dominos. Just as the sun peeks above the horizon, Hoshiumi swaps places at the helm with Ushijima to allow him some time to rest before they reach the harbour, and for a while it’s just the two of them, Hoshiumi humming pleasantly above the silence, Kiyoomi content to simply listen.

A while later Suna wakes, closely followed by Osamu as they start breakfast preparations. It’s gotten a lot harder now that the supplies are dwindling, even with the extras they secured from the enemy stash. It’s a good thing they’re due to restock today. Kiyoomi’s not sure how much longer he can last without a decent meal, even after accepting Osamu’s surprisingly above average cooking.

Kageyama and Hinata wake next, looking like death warmed over and clinging stubbornly to consciousness. They run some checks and adjustments to the sails and the knots, then find themselves buckets and mops and start scrubbing aimlessly at blood. They must be tired, Kiyoomi thinks, since they haven’t yet found a way to turn it into a competition.

By the time breakfast is ready, everyone is awake, including Atsumu, who unlike everyone else, looks completely and utterly well rested. Kiyoomi cannot help but to notice that he covers his bandaged arm with a sleeve again while they eat. If he didn’t know any better, he’d never have guessed that Atsumu was hiding such a serious injury. He doesn’t even wince when he uses both hands to eat, or when he stupidly helps with the washing up afterward.

Osamu whispers something to him as he does, and tries to take over the cleaning, but Atsumu just pushes him off and continues as though nothing is amiss. It must piss Osamu off significantly, because he seeks Kiyoomi out a while later once he’s returned to his room to change clothes, wearing an uncharacteristic frown and his hands bunched into fists at his sides.

“I dunno what you did to him last night that actually made him rest,” Osamu says in a hushed whisper. “But I need ya to do it again.”

“I didn’t really do anything,” Kiyoomi says, because other than insult him and dress his wound, he hadn’t threatened Atsumu any differently than Osamu had.

Osamu’s look can only be described as withering. “Yeah, I know, but you make him listen, or whatever. Gettin’ him to even breathe the same damn air as a doctor is a pain in my ass, but he’s been boastin’ all mornin’ that yer takin’ him to a fancy rich one later on.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “That would be another of his elaborate lies. I simply told him I would point him in the direction of a doctor that could be trusted.”

Osamu scoffs and leans against the empty doorframe. “You coulda told him you were takin’ him to his own damn execution and I think he’d still follow you.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What it means. That he thinks the sun shines outta yer ass.” When Kiyoomi looks at him in confusion, he shakes his head and sighs. “I ain’t explainin’. Just tell him to stop bein’ an idiot. I know it’s causin’ him problems again and he’s actin’ too stubborn to admit it.”

Osamu leaves with that, and Kiyoomi is left wondering when the hell he suddenly acquired the responsibility of being Atsumu’s keeper. He laments it the whole while he trudges up the stairs in search of him.

Atsumu is back to his old self, ignoring all good advice again, sweeping the deck alongside Hoshiumi and Hinata when Kiyoomi approaches him. He’s changed his shirt since this morning, to a loose black cotton, and has it buttoned all the way to his throat, both sleeves buttoned to his wrists. Kiyoomi would be thankful he’s finally covered himself up if it didn’t concern him so much.

“Follow me,” Kiyoomi tells him curtly.

Atsumu’s eyes flicker over to Hinata and Hoshiumi who are busy arguing about who could theoretically throw their mops the furthest distance, then settle on Kiyoomi. “I’m fine,” he says lowly. “You fixed me up real good, Doctor Omi.”

“No,” Kiyoomi says. “I didn’t. You’ve fucked it all up by moving when I told you not to. The bandages need changing, and I need to check the knots. You can follow me somewhere quiet, or I can do it right here. Decide.”

It’s strange, Kiyoomi thinks, how Atsumu loves to be the centre of everyone’s attention, but cannot bare people looking out for him when it actually matters. He’s not sure if it’s an ego thing, or if Atsumu genuinely does not hold his own health in very high regard, but either way, Kiyoomi is unbothered. He’s gotten used to the intricacies of verbal gymnastics growing up surrounded by nobility. Navigating Atsumu is easy in comparison.

Atsumu looks around once more with a sigh, then drops his mop and follows Kiyoomi below deck.

“Samu put you up to this, didn’t he?” he grumbles as they descend the stairs. "Nosy fuck."

“He didn’t need to. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together could see you were moving about unnecessarily.”

“It wasn’t unnecessary, I was—”

“I think your brother can handle cleaning the dishes just this once, considering your arm is falling off.”

He doesn’t need to be looking at Atsumu to know he’s rolling his eyes. “My arm ain’t fallin’ off.”

“It will, if you continue to act as though there’s nothing wrong with it at all.”

Kiyoomi takes Atsumu back to his room, clears his desk of stuff and forces him to sit atop it. Despite his complaining, he’s compliant, and does exactly what Kiyoomi tells him when he tells him. This time, when Kiyoomi unpacks his first-aid box, Atsumu’s leg no longer bounces frantically with nerves, but his good hand does grip tightly at his thigh.

He rolls back the sleeve of Atsumu’s shirt and sends him an unimpressed look when he notices that the bandages are soaked through with blood. It’s no wonder he changed his shirt – it’s probably been hidden somewhere, stained and ruined. Osamu was rightfully concerned.

When Kiyoomi undresses the wound, it’s not as bad as it was the night before, or as he had been expecting after Atsumu mistreated it, but it’s still not great. He unties the blood-soaked bandages holding the wound together, and gets to work cleaning it again with alcohol.

Atsumu is quiet for a while. Kiyoomi’s not sure whether he’s conserving energy to deal with the pain, or if something particularly challenging is on his mind, but he frowns through it nevertheless, lips pursed slightly in a pout, eyes focussed on watching Kiyoomi’s hands work.

“What weapon do you favour?” he asks eventually, and Kiyoomi leans back and raises an eyebrow at him.

“What?”

Where on earth did that line of thinking originate? Of all the things to be pondering at a time like this. He’s almost certain he’s heard him wrong, but then Atsumu continues, “You can fight good, but you were awkward with a broadsword. You must be used to somethin’ else. Spear? Sabre? Katana?”

“Rapier,” Kiyoomi supplies.

Atsumu hisses when Kiyoomi finishes cleaning with one final daub of the alcohol. “Makes sense,” he says through gritted teeth.

Kiyoomi lets him catch his breath and cuts some strips of bandage. “Does it?”

His parents never seemed to think so. They deemed his lessons a waste of time, since no jobs of high enough standing could come from learning the art of the sword in their eyes. The only reason he is allowed to attend lessons at all, is because they became an incentive for him to improve upon his manners and studies.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “Yer reaction times were impressive, and yer form was better than Ushiwaka’s. Yer tall, too. So it suits ya.”

Kiyoomi’s not sure what to say to that. He wasn’t aware Atsumu had been watching him fight. Not that closely.

“We should spar,” Atsumu continues. “I’ve never fought someone calm like you before. Or against a rapier. Bet it’d be fun.”

Kiyoomi holds up Atsumu's arm to remind him that he is, in fact, injured. “I don’t think so.”

“When it’s better, or whatever.”

“Still no.”

“Why not? Scared I’ll beat yer ass?”

Kiyoomi knows Atsumu will humiliate him in a fight, that much is unquestionable. Kiyoomi has no real-life experience, except against his tutor, but he still wants to fight him, despite it all. He wants to learn how to fight like Atsumu does, like he’s free. The issue is not that he knows he will lose. It’s just that—

“I don’t have my rapier.”

It’s at home. Collecting dust in its box beneath Kiyoomi’s bed.

“Ah.” Atsumu sags in disappointment. “Damn.”

It’s not a common weapon – another reason Kiyoomi was allowed to study its art was that it was considered the noble’s sword. They don’t cause enough damage for a pirate to consider one over a broadsword or a cutlass. It takes work to draw its full potential, and skill to control the elaborate hilt and maximise lethality. Though he searched through the weapons left behind by last night’s dead, he did not find one amongst the metal.

“Where did you learn?” Kiyoomi asks in an attempt to steer Atsumu away from the thought of sparring. From what little he’s gleaned of Atsumu and the crew’s past, there wasn’t much time between being ordinary children and pirates. He doubts they simply woke up one day with the ability to fight like hurricanes.

Atsumu’s eyes light up and he beams, uninhibited. Kiyoomi almost takes a step back he’s so bright. “Aran,” he says. “He’s a natural. Can master any weapon he picks up; cutlass, katana, sabre, scimitar. He taught us all how to defend ourselves when we first started out. He always used to say I was the best. Which I still am.”

Kiyoomi remembers Aran’s name from earlier; one of his friends from their time at the orphanage.

“Is he not a part of the crew?”

“He was,” he says, smile dimming to one of fondness. “He’s retired now. With Kita-san. They run an orphanage together in the countryside.”

Atsumu loses himself in quiet thought after that, and lets Kiyoomi finish dressing his arm without distraction. When Kiyoomi’s done, he pulls the sleeve back down and buttons it for him so that he can continue to pretend he is fine in front of the crew.

“Thanks,” Atsumu mumbles. He doesn’t bother to get up immediately. He stays seated on the desk and watches Kiyoomi pack his things away.

“Don’t do anything stupid this time,” Kiyoomi warns him, trying to ignore the prickling feeling of being so closely observed.

Atsumu huffs and just as Kiyoomi’s about to turn away, his good hand reaches out and wraps around Kiyoomi’s wrist. Kiyoomi starts and his eyes snap to Atsumu’s in a silent question. They were close before, but now Kiyoomi is suddenly very aware of their proximity.

“Yer runnin’ yer mouth about me and my health, but you haven’t slept. I can tell.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “That is none of your concern.”

Atsumu tips his head back and laughs, light catching on the small gold hoop at his ear. “You wear a lotta things well, Omi-kun,” he says. “But hypocrisy ain’t one of ‘em.”

Kiyoomi tries to extricate his wrist from Atsumu’s grip, but Atsumu pulls him ever so slightly closer. “How’s this,” he says. “If I promise not to be stupid until this heals, you promise to nap until we reach the dock.”

“Or,” Kiyoomi counters. “You leave me alone, shut the fuck up, and do as you’re told.”

Atsumu’s smile is small but nonetheless amused. “You sure yer a noble, Omi? Never met one with a mouth as filthy as yours before.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Kiyoomi replies. “Maybe I’m a spy who’s waiting for us to dock so I can turn you over to the authorities and gut you publicly in the town square for crimes against the crown.”

Atsumu doesn’t look as though he believes that one bit. His smile unfurls further like a flower whose petals have found the sun. “What a way to go, huh? Might not be so bad.”

Kiyoomi’s expression darkens. He feels as though he’s being made fun of, though he can’t quite pinpoint how. “I’d make certain it was awful.”

“Sure ya would.” He lets go of Kiyoomi’s arm and hops down off the desk. “Offer’s still on the table. If ya want some sleep, I’ll come back and wake ya right before we dock.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Atsumu turns on his heel and throws a wave over his shoulder before he leaves.

The wind favours them. It bolsters the sails and carries them to the harbour just as the sun is through reaching its midday peak.

Kiyoomi starts to feel his exhaustion setting in as he stands port side and watches their approach. There are dozens of huge ships lined up along the dock and time seems to stretch on forever as he waits for Ushijima to call the anchor down.

With his letter, a small pouch of gold, and a change of clothes tucked into a satchel, Kiyoomi follows everyone as they disembark the vessel. Ushijima leads them to an inn, where for the first time in his life, Kiyoomi actually checks in and purchases himself a room. They’re to stay in this seaside town for four days, whilst the crew procure enough supplies for the journey ahead and rest after a tough week of sailing.

Kiyoomi is just glad for the bed.

Small groups split off; Suna and Osamu make good on their dinner plans, Kageyama, and Hinata leave to meet up with a friend, and Bokuto and Ushijima make a start on bargaining with supply vendors. That somehow leaves Kiyoomi stuck with both Atsumu and Hoshiumi, and he wonders where he went wrong.

Kiyoomi starts to lead the way through the streets, despite not knowing where he’s going, and the other two follow along amicably. That is until Hoshiumi says, “I can help you find a doctor. To fix Miya One’s arm.”

Atsumu chokes on air, and he whirls around to glare at Hoshiumi. “The fuck? How’d you even find out about that?”

If he’s worked it out by himself, Kiyoomi will be impressed. Atsumu is good actor; especially when it comes to concealing pain. He could be hiding another fatal wound somewhere else on his person and Kiyoomi’d be none the wiser.

Hoshiumi grins and folds his arms behind his head casually as he walks. “Miya Two got sick of you ignoring him and told us all to make sure you didn’t attempt any work.” He turns to Kiyoomi. “He also told me to tell you that Atsumu is your responsibility now.”

It’s Kiyoomi’s turn to choke. “What?”

“Yeah, he said he had better things to be doing than getting between whatever weird thing you two have going on. I mean, I get it. Most of the time I can’t tell if you’re about to kill each other or start tearing each other’s clothes off.”

“The former,” Kiyoomi says at the same time Atsumu says, “The latter.”

Kiyoomi glares at Atsumu. Atsumu winks back.

Hoshiumi grimaces. “Anyway,” he says, drawing out the ‘a’s’, “I have a friend nearby who’s a doctor. Thought I’d spare you the search because I am this team’s heart, soul, and unified reason for living.”

Atsumu stops walking. “Not Hirugami,” he says, face pale.

“Yeah,” Hoshiumi says with a thumbs up. “The one and only! Wow, you’re smarter than you let on, Miya One. Which isn’t a lot, really, so don’t start getting a big head.”

Atsumu looks as though he’s about to pass out. “He’s a fucking vet, are you kidding me? He works with animals.”

“You snore like an elephant and look like a wild hog. I’m sure you’ll fit right in. Let’s go, it’s this way. I might even get us a discount because I’m so easy on the eye and Sachirou thinks I’m charming.”

Hoshiumi points to the left and starts walking that way. Kiyoomi follows immediately and Atsumu lets out a strangled noise. “Woah! Wait, hey! Why’re ya followin’ him, Omi-kun? Did you not just hear what he said? Hirugami is a vet. An animal doctor. Why am I the only one rightfully fuckin’ disturbed?”

“Skin is skin,” Kiyoomi shrugs. “So long as his premises is clean and he can stitch you up without killing you, I don’t really care. I have other things to be taking care of besides you. I’d prefer to get this over with before the sun sets.”

Atsumu’s hands fall uselessly at his sides and he stares up at the sky. “Next time, please let me bleed to death. I am beggin' you.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. He says, “Picking a coffin would certainly be less stressful than a doctor with all your complaining.”

Hoshiumi leads a winding path through the town, sometimes cutting through odd, cobbled lanes, other times doubling back once he realises he’s taken the wrong street. The whole walk, Atsumu is uncharacteristically quiet. He lags behind considerably, eyes trained on the ground, sometimes stumbling over his own feet.

After a while spent glancing over his shoulder to check on him, Kiyoomi slows his own pace to match Atsumu’s so that he can be there should he fall too far or too hard, because the last thing he wants is to add a broken nose to the wound on his arm.

“I told you I would find you someone respectable,” Kiyoomi tells him quietly. “If Hirugami doesn’t meet my standards, I will find you someone else.”

Atsumu looks up, eyes round with concern. “Promise?”

Kiyoomi makes a face. “What are you, five? Just take my word for it and walk properly.”

Though Kiyoomi’s delivery leaves much to be desired, Atsumu perks up a little after that. He picks his eyes up from the cobbles and peers into shop windows instead, much steadier on his feet. Kiyoomi also doesn’t miss the way that he shuffles a little closer so that their arms are close to brushing whenever Kiyoomi has to dip aside to avoid oncoming pedestrians.

Hirugami’s practice is satisfactory enough; it smells of medicinal herbs and strong cleansing alcohol, and the man himself is well turned out. His smile is honest, and Kiyoomi can’t spot any dubious chemicals lying about, or any unsanitary animals lurking beneath the counters.

Hirugami also knows Hoshiumi far better than Hoshiumi had let on. He wraps Hoshiumi in a hug when he sees him and checks him over for injury as though he has long accepted that he will find at least one.

“Kourai! You’re doing good!” Hirugami says rather than asks. “Where have you been this time?”

Hoshiumi beams. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” he says. “I’m here to stay for a few days! I can stay over, right?” Hirugami nods and Hoshiumi pumps his fist in victory. “Nice! Before that though, could you please sew one of my Miyas back up before he dies or whatever?”

Hirugami peers over Hoshiumi’s shoulder and waves at Atsumu. “Miya One,” he says. “Long time no see.”

Atsumu’s smile is forced and laden with anxiety. “I was hopin’ to keep it that way, honestly.”

Hirugami laughs. “Don’t worry. If you’re walking, it can’t be that bad.” He puts a hand on Hoshiumi’s shoulder. “I’ve had lots of practice fixing humans working on Kourai over the years. You’re in safe hands.”

Atsumu sends Kiyoomi a look like that was the very last thing he wanted to hear because he knows it means Kiyoomi is going to trust him.

“And I see you’ve made a new friend.” Hirugami holds out a hand, and because Kiyoomi has remembered his gloves, he takes it and shakes it. “Hirugami Sachirou,” he says.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“We accidentally kidnapped him,” Hoshiumi boasts.

Hirugami’s eyes bulge. “You what?”

“Please don’t ask,” Kiyoomi sighs.

Hirugami doesn’t ask, probably because Kiyoomi doesn’t look as though he is screaming for help.

He waves them through to the back room and pulls up a chair for Atsumu to sit in. When he pulls back his sleeve and undresses the wound, Hirugami sends Kiyoomi some compliments for his job in treating it.

“Are you trained?” he asks.

“No,” Kiyoomi admits. “I’ve just read a lot.”

Hirugami looks to Atsumu who refuses to do anything other than pinch his eyes closed. “Well it’s a good thing he had you around. Infection would have set in quickly otherwise.” He leans in close and ruffles Atsumu’s hair. “You hear that, Miya One? This guy saved you a world of pain.”

“Fuck off,” Atsumu grumbles.

Hirugami cleans the wound again and inspects it under the natural light pouring in through the nearby window. “I’ll just go and get some equipment,” he says as he gets up. “This shouldn’t take long.”

Atsumu lets out a huge sigh of relief when Hirugami leaves and Hoshiumi follows closely behind offering to help. He opens his eyes, slumps back in the chair, and runs his free hand through his hair. It’s unkempt today; he hasn’t had the time to style it in the reflection of a cooking pot lid. It suits him better, Kiyoomi finds himself thinking – mussed and roguish with its slight, natural wave.

From his side of the room Kiyoomi continues to observe Atsumu curiously, watches the way his chest rises and falls in a rhythm meant to steady him, watches the way his tongue darts out nervously to wet his cracked lips, and the way his thumb fiddles with a ring on his middle finger. He looks so different from his usual confident, arrogant self that Kiyoomi almost finds himself endeared by his vulnerability, finds it hard to look away even though Atsumu’s not doing anything particularly interesting, like fighting, or taunting him.

But it’s more than that, really, it’s the way the light hits his face and turns his brown eyes gold. It’s the way his Adam’s apple bobs beneath the tanned skin of his throat when he swallows, and the way his voice sounds when he hums idly.

Atsumu is beautiful.

Kiyoomi knew it before. He’s not blind. But now it carries weight. Now that information is starting to mean something. It’s starting to make Kiyoomi want to reach forwards and smooth out the wrinkle of anxiety from Atsumu’s brow with his thumb. It makes him want to step closer, makes him want to search Atsumu for more of his hidden details, makes him want to—

“So, you saved my life again, huh?” Atsumu says suddenly, jerking Kiyoomi from his traitorous thoughts. “Startin’ to lose some serious face ‘round you.”

Kiyoomi clears his throat. “What do you mean starting. You humiliated yourself the moment we met.”

Atsumu finds Kiyoomi’s eye. His smirk is not so much a taunt as it is an exhausted smile that tugs charming creases into the outer corners of his eyes. “Can you blame me?”

“Yes?”

Atsumu huffs out a laugh and looks over to his arm. He makes a face at it then tilts his head back to look up to the ceiling. “You said you were gonna hold my hand,” he says.

“I did no such thing.”

“Damn shame.” His voice is taut with the way his neck is stretched. “Opportunities to hold a pretty boy’s hand don’t crop up very often.”

Hirugami and Hoshiumi’s voices pick back up in the hallway outside. Atsumu snaps up straight and drops his smile like a rock in a pond.

Kiyoomi sighs and drags a stool over to sit at Atsumu’s side. No, he thinks as he takes Atsumu’s stupid opportunistic hand. They certainly don’t.

“Woah, hey, I was mostly kiddin’. You don’t have to, really,” Atsumu says. “I mean, not if you don’t wanna—”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi hisses.

Atsumu turns his hand over so that he can thread their fingers together and squeezes.

Kiyoomi ignores the small smile on Atsumu’s lips and the strange feeling in his gut when Atsumu says, “M’kay.”

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi takes Atsumu straight back to the inn once Hirugami is done with him, rather than around town to look for a means to post his letter.

Since Kiyoomi did such a ‘good job’ taking care of Atsumu before, Hirugami hands him various salves and spare bandages and suggests that he continue to be the one to clean the wound until it makes a full recovery. He gives Kiyoomi a quick demonstration on how to remove the stitches in a week’s time, and sends them on their way. As they walk back, Kiyoomi tells Atsumu to report to his room once in the morning, and once in the evening and Atsumu agrees without complaint before waltzing off to ‘take care of something.’

Kiyoomi trudges up to his room and doesn’t even bother changing out of his clothes before he collapses atop his bed. All he manages is to shrug out of his coat and kick off his shoes before he’s asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

He doesn’t dream. Even his subconscious mind is too exhausted to do anything other than sleep, and since the bed is miles more comfortable than the one on the ship had been when it was alive, he sleeps soundly too.

Kiyoomi has a window, a working door, space to stretch his limbs and fresh air to breathe. Part of him wonders if he can’t just stay here forever rather than subject himself to the ship again once their excursion is finished.

The thing about napping, however, is that waking from one makes Kiyoomi feel as though he has, in fact, died. When a knock at his door tears him violently from a deep slumber, he almost falls out of bed in shock. His limbs don’t want to listen to him, and his brain can’t even comprehend where he is, but he manages to shuffle over to the door and pull it open.

“Inn’s servin’ food in twenty, thought I’d—Pfft! Sorry, did I wake ya?”

Kiyoomi vaguely recognises Atsumu standing on the other side. It takes a while for his eyes to fully focus on him, for him to blink away the blurriness of sleep. Atsumu’s got some colour back in his face, most likely courtesy of a few rounds of alcohol. It stains his cheeks red and the warmth of it has led him to unbutton his shirt back down to his chest again. Not that Kiyoomi is looking.

Kiyoomi’s mouth feels like the inside of a shoe when he mumbles, “No. Yes. What?”

“Food,” Atsumu repeats, hiding a laugh behind the back of his hand. Kiyoomi can’t even find the energy to get mad at the fact he’s being laughed at. “Downstairs. Twenty minutes.”

Kiyoomi whirls around and realises that the sun has long since set beyond the window, which means he’s been out for the whole day. He wants to go back to sleep until the sun rises again, but the distant smell of cooking meat and the tight clench of his empty stomach convince him otherwise. “OK,” he says, and closes the door in Atsumu’s face.

Kiyoomi paid extra for a room with a washroom attached. It’s the first time he’s seen his own reflection in a mirror since the morning he left the estate almost two weeks ago. He doesn’t look as awful as he’d been expecting; his hair is dishevelled, his face is marked with lines from where he fell asleep a little too hard on his arm, and there’s a slight shadow of stubble growing in around his chin, but he’s relieved to find that there’s no blood. No dirt, no grime, no burns from exposure to the sun.

The inn is a generous one; there’s a small basket of soap that smells of lavender, and a blade sharp enough to shave with placed in a pot by the sink. It takes him fifteen minutes to wash and preen himself before he finally resembles the son his parents remember. He puts on his night shirt and makes a note to buy some more clothes when he leaves to post his letter rather than to worry about having his old ones cleaned, then he makes his way downstairs.

Everybody – minus Hoshiumi who is staying over at Hirugami’s – is already gathered around one of the inn’s dining tables when Kiyoomi arrives. There’s a space that’s been saved for him, at the end of the row next to Kageyama and opposite Suna. It’s a long bench rather than a proper table with chairs, and Kiyoomi slides into place wordlessly during a particularly rowdy debate concerning chicken and beef.

“You can make chicken taste like anythin’,” Osamu is saying, arms flying around in a series of passionate gestures. “Sweet, salty, sour, rich. It’s a versatile meat that can pair well with just about any sauce or garnish, Tsumu, you uncultured fuck.”

Suna raises his hand and asks, “Can we place our order now?”

Atsumu ignores him and responds louder, “Yeah, well, ya don’t hafta season beef much for it to taste good! You can take it right off the fire and have a great fuckin’ time with it.”

Ushijima frowns. “Won’t making love to the beef imbue it with an odd flavour?”

Both twins stop like cats doused with water and turn to look at Ushijima. It would have been a decent joke, had Ushijima looked at all like he was joking.

Atsumu points at him. “Someone fuckin’ take him to bed and put him outta his goddamn misery. Who let him get this obliterated?”

“I’m sober,” he says.

“And I’m an only child.”

Ushijima’s frown deepens, large brows casting shadows over his face. “You are not an only child.”

“Now yer gettin’ it!”

Suna raises his hand higher. “Can we please place our order?”

Atsumu stands and bangs a hand against the table. It sends some cutlery flying and makes Hinata yelp in surprise. “Not until Samu admits he’s wrong!”

“I don’t wanna hear opinions on food from a scrub who thinks that burnt is a flavour!”

“And I don’t wanna hear ‘em from a scrub who eats shit off the floor!”

Osamu erupts into another bout of shouting, succinctly and quite impressively, listing more qualities of chicken and the reasons Atsumu should recognise its advantages over beef. Atsumu only seems to know so much; his only rebuttals are slight re-worded iterations of ‘because it tastes good.’

Kageyama sighs next to Kiyoomi and uses his fork to start scratching lines absently into the wood of the table. “We’re going to be here all night,” he says sadly. “The last time this happened we ended up ordering breakfast instead.”

“Why don’t they just order different dishes?” Kiyoomi asks incredulously as he watches them attempt to brawl over the table.

“They are ordering different dishes. It’s just that one always has to claim to have a better meal than the other,” Suna says like that makes any sense. “They’ve been this way since they were kids. Trying to outdo each other’s happiness.” He makes a dismissive gesture with the hand he isn’t leaning his chin on. “I can see you trying to understand it. Don’t bother. I’ve been trying for fifteen years. It’s impossible.”

That, Kiyoomi thinks, is probably the most sensible thing anyone on this crew has said to him all week. Even as Osamu makes terrible threats on Atsumu’s life he still takes great care to avoid touching his bandaged arm. They’re both walking paradoxes.

“Fine! Let’s get an expert opinion! Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, making every head at the table turn in Kiyoomi’s direction. “You’re a man of distinguished taste, right?”

Kiyoomi pointedly looks Atsumu up and down. “Not these days,” he says.

Suna snorts. Atsumu frowns. “Sure ya are, you’re from a noble family. You gotta have eaten plenty of good food in your time.”

Arguably, Kiyoomi eats the worst out of his entire family; his meals consist of a select menu of his favourite dishes that he’s deemed trustworthy. He’s not experimental like his brother, or eager to sample rare delicacies like his sister. He takes comfort in the familiar and sticks to it.

Atsumu continues, “Pick one. Chicken or beef?”

“If I debase myself to partake in this inane debate, will you take it as final and order before someone at this table dies of starvation?”

There’s a rumble of agreement. Most noticeably from Bokuto who has slumped over the table and is groaning like he’s seconds away from succumbing to an eternal rest.

The twins nod furiously, hands clutching each other’s shirt collars in anticipation.

“Fine,” Kiyoomi says. He wonders for a moment if he should perhaps think before he makes a decision, if one choice will be the lesser of two evils and cause less controversy, but then he realises he doesn’t actually care. “Chicken is easier to cook to a universally acceptable standard and contains less excess fat.” Plus, Kiyoomi's eaten enough dry sticks of salted beef the last few weeks to turn him off beef for a lifetime. 

“Ha!” Osamu shouts. “You were right, Tsumu, he is a man of distinguished taste.”

Atsumu’s face is hollow with betrayal. “I thought we had somethin’ real special goin’ on, Omi,” he says.

Kiyoomi smirks. “A gross oversight on your part, really.”

Atsumu blinks owlishly at him for a moment, then huffs and sits back down. Kiyoomi tries to think about what he did that suddenly made Atsumu clam up like that, but he can’t quite work it out, and he doesn’t get time to dwell, because the innkeeper finally deems it safe enough to come over and take their orders.

Kiyoomi orders a chef’s special, which, after a thorough inspection, is just a collection of colourful vegetables and sliced chicken doused in gravy. It’s not too dissimilar to what he would usually eat, though the quality of vegetables is not quite as good as the ones they grow in the gardens back home. He also indulges in some wine. He buys four bottles for the whole table to share and ignores the wolf whistles when he pulls out his coin pouch to pay.

The consequences of Kiyoomi’s earlier actions creep up fast; Atsumu makes it everyone else’s problem that Kiyoomi chose chicken by loudly and lewdly groaning about how good his steak tastes every three minutes. Kiyoomi is glad to be on the opposite side of the table to him with multiple conversations between them to stifle the noise, because Hinata’s face turns a startling shade of red that is definitely not a result of the alcohol.

Midway through his food it strikes Kiyoomi that he hasn’t dined in company for a long while. Even back home he would – more often than not – get his meals brought up to his room so he didn’t have to endure conversation with his parents about his future prospects and the concept of marriage. Since his brother married the questions have turned more insistent, become more probing and invasive, and Kiyoomi hasn’t the mental fortitude to even consider telling them that his romantic preferences do not align with what they incorrectly assume of him.

But this crew don’t ask him such anxiety-inducing things. He somehow ends up in an animated conversation with Kageyama about swords and the properties of the different metals that forge them. Bokuto asks him about horses, and Kiyoomi pretends that his doesn’t actively try to kill him whenever he climbs atop the saddle when he regales him with facts about it.

Each sip of wine warms Kiyoomi’s blood and loosens his tongue. He asks more questions, divulges more of his life, and doesn’t mind when he does so; the others seem just as fascinated with him as he is with them. Ushijima in particular takes an interest in Kiyoomi’s father when he learns that he has a small selection of other yachts and luggers besides the ship. He tries his best to answer Ushijima’s questions about the masts and sails and speeds they travel at, but Kiyoomi doesn’t know much about them other than their sizes and colours.

“How did you lose your eye, Bokuto-san?” Kiyoomi finds himself asking after his fourth large cup of wine. Bokuto is such a good fighter, such a bruiser, that Kiyoomi can’t imagine anyone ever creeping up on him or gaining such an advantage.

Bokuto looks at him in confusion. “How did I lose my—Oh, you mean this?” Bokuto lifts the eyepatch and reveals a second, completely ordinary, un-injured eye. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I just wear the patch because it makes me look more mysterious.”

The laugh that overcomes Kiyoomi is one of genuine amusement, but is also one of disbelief. It bursts forth from his chest, makes him choke on his wine and tip his head back because everything about his life, about this situation, about these people, is ridiculous.

Bokuto laughs with him, and continues to tell stories about the many others he’s fooled with the eyepatch and how he’s convinced he’s trained his eyes to see further distances as a result. When Kiyoomi winds down and catches his breath, he spots Atsumu staring at him from his place further down the table. He’s resting his cheek in his palm, wearing the small smile that dimples his cheek.

The alcohol emboldens Kiyoomi. He raises a challenging brow at Atsumu when their eyes meet, and to his credit, Atsumu doesn’t shy away. He raises his cup of wine in a toast, then takes a long sip without averting his gaze.

Now Kiyoomi’s the one left staring as Atsumu licks a droplet of wine from the corner of his mouth, as his throat shifts to swallow, as the warm light of the nearby fireplace flickers across the planes of his face.

It would be easy to stare at Atsumu all night, to observe him like he’s a renaissance masterpiece and Kiyoomi has an interpretive essay due on him by the morning. Amidst the haze of alcohol, Kiyoomi’s clouded mind thinks of all sorts of unhelpful things about the man he convinced himself he hated, the man who’s supposed to still be grating on his nerves and needling his way beneath Kiyoomi’s skin. He knows, though, that even without the wine, his blood has started to burn a different kind of hot around Atsumu. Kiyoomi’s not an idiot – his hand encircling Atsumu’s earlier today was no accident.

Back home he never allowed himself to act upon his feelings or desires. He’s loved many in passing; the boys he’d fallen for at school but never told, the men at parties he watched quietly from behind champagne flutes as he got older, the stableboy who smiles warmly and unabashedly despite the fact that Kiyoomi never smiles back.

Under the watchful eye of his parents, under the weight of expectation, Kiyoomi is afraid to love, to feel, or even explore his own thoughts.

But out here, in this odd space between right and wrong, amongst this lawless group of idiots, he realises he might not actually be afraid anymore.

There are far scarier things than feeling.

Like Atsumu’s singing voice and sense of rhythm.

In the end, Kiyoomi is the one to break off the staring contest. He turns his attention back to his end of the table where Suna is trying to get an intoxicated Ushijima to recite a tongue twister, and he keeps it there for the rest of the night, no matter how much he wants to check if Atsumu is still watching him.

The second day on land is far better than the first. Kiyoomi is no longer feeling as though he is on the brink of death, and after applying salve to Atsumu’s arm and wrapping it again for the day, he heads back out to run some errands. Alone, this time.

There aren’t as many shops in this town as there were in the last, but it is a whole lot quieter. Kiyoomi finds a post office near the harbour, one that takes his letter and throws it onto a pile of others to be posted for just a single bronze coin. He feels an odd twinge of anxiety when they take it. Obviously, he wants his family to know that he isn’t dead, but there’s something nagging at the back of his brain, something irrational that wants to keep them separate from this journey that he’s on. Like they’ll somehow find a way to spoil it from hundreds of nautical miles away.

There’s nothing to be done about that now - the letter is beyond his reach and he’s already handed over the coin - so he tries to push the thought away and moves on to his next port of call.

Kiyoomi’s mother and sister have always been the ones to pick out his clothes, to choose the shades and patterns of fabric for his coats, to select flattering cuts of shirts. He’s always had maids to press and iron them and piece together pleasing ensembles for him to slip into without question. When he enters the most high-end haberdashery he can find, he realises how much he has taken them all for granted; he hasn’t the next clue what to even look for.

Luckily, the tailor seems to know money when he spots it, and helps Kiyoomi through the process of acquiring enough spare clothes for the journey ahead. To the tailor’s curbed aggravation, Kiyoomi does so without trying a single garment on, or letting himself get measured by unfamiliar hands. He stops his griping once Kiyoomi tips him, and he boxes everything up alongside the new suitcase Kiyoomi has bought, with the promise to deliver it to the inn for him by the day’s end.

That takes so long that the nearby clocktower chimes midday by the time Kiyoomi steps outside again. The weather is starting to take a turn, grey clouds thick with impending rain are crawling in and Kiyoomi can feel the chill winding its way beneath his coat. Though he hasn’t exactly done much, Kiyoomi is already exhausted.

He's on his way back to the inn, when he stumbles upon a book shop.

It’s a quaint little store. Each wall looks to be completely covered in books from the floor to the ceiling, and it’s empty, save for the keeper who wobbles atop a stepladder towards the back. Since Atsumu threw his good books into the ocean, Kiyoomi spends the rest of the afternoon perusing the selection for more things to read. He steers clear of science and education this time; he finds one on the art of the sword, one about mythical legends surrounding the sea, and one that’s just a thousand-page strong fantasy story about knights and dragons and adventure. The bookkeeper climbs down to recommend a few of her favourites, hands Kiyoomi a few thick hardbacks all by the same author and Kiyoomi pays for them all.

His arms are full when he gets back to the inn. His clothes are waiting for him at the front desk, and the innkeeper helps him bring everything up to his room. The rest of the crew are out again; Kiyoomi can’t hear them causing havoc at the inn’s bar, or stomping around below him. Though he knows he should save such boring activities for the long ship journey to Ukai’s Island, Kiyoomi still settles down in bed at three in the afternoon to read until Atsumu’s knocking at the door for his evening appointment.

They’re both sitting on Kiyoomi’s bed. Atsumu is perched on the end, and Kiyoomi is sitting cross-legged beside him holding his injured arm.

“It’s looking better already, huh?” Atsumu says. He’s made extreme progress with his tolerance towards medical care; he no longer closes his eyes, and he pays particular attention to everything that Kiyoomi does. “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore either.”

As if to prove a point, Atsumu clenches his fist and strains the muscles in his arm. Kiyoomi sends him a disapproving glance as he smooths more of the anti-bacterial salve around the cut. “You have a worryingly skewed perception of ‘better,’” Kiyoomi notes. It still looks considerably raw and painful. Kiyoomi would probably be carrying it around in a sling were he the one injured.

“This is nothin’,” Atsumu boasts. He holds out his other hand and turns it palm facing up. “Got stabbed through the hand once, ‘cause some guy thought I was cheatin’ at blackjack. I mean, I was, but he didn’t hafta stab me for it. That took forever to heal. Mostly ‘cause I needed that hand to fight with.”

Kiyoomi looks at the faded scar, at the shiny skin cutting a jagged line across the delicate flesh of his palm. The scar carries over to the surface of his hand too, though it’s much less faded. “Is that supposed to impress me?” Kiyoomi drawls.

“I dunno. Does it?”

“Not at all.”

He closes his hand into a fist and moves it away. “Then nope.”

Kiyoomi huffs a laugh. “What about that one?” he asks, gesturing to the scar cutting through Atsumu’s bottom lip. “Someone stab you in the face for running your mouth?”

“Ha! No.” He touches his finger to his lip, then pouts and looks off to the side. “That one’s not important.”

“Not important, or too embarrassing to recount?”

“Not important,” he repeats with a scowl. For a moment, Kiyoomi thinks Atsumu’s serious, and that he’s miscalculated something, but then he spots the reddening tips of Atsumu’s ears and knows he’s hit the nail on the head.

Kiyoomi hums and finishes wrapping the bandages in silence. “All done,” he tells him as he ties the end of the bandage off. “Get the fuck out so I can read in peace.”

Atsumu slides off the bed and makes his way towards the door as Kiyoomi leans back against the headboard and resumes his place in his book. Atsumu stops midway though, and raises an eyebrow at the large selection of books stacked high in a tower on the floor. “Someone’s been busy today.”

“Don’t even look at those,” Kiyoomi tells him without looking up from his pages. “They cost a small fortune, and I don’t trust you not to ruin them.”

“Woah, woah, hey! We’ve called a truce, have we not?”

“A temporary one,” Kiyoomi replies and finally looks up to meet Atsumu’s eye. He’s leaning in the doorframe, the way he does when he’s insistent on being insufferable. “The moment we step foot on that ship again I plan to repay you tenfold for what you’ve done to my bed.”

Atsumu’s gaze narrows, but its less threatening than it is annoyingly sultry. “Oh yeah? What’re ya gonna do, Omi-kun?”

“If I tell you,” he replies, voice tight with the need to swallow around the sudden dryness in his mouth, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Hm, I do love surprises,” Atsumu laughs as he concedes defeat. “Guess I’ll have to be patient. See you at dinner,” he calls as he leaves.

Atsumu is bolder than last night. When he arrives at the dining table, he squeezes into the seat opposite Kiyoomi, rather than the empty space at the other end next to his brother. Kiyoomi’s not sure if that’s because Atsumu actually wants to sit near him, or if he’s just trying to avoid the fact that Suna and Osamu are sitting next to each other tonight.

There are no arguments about food this time, and most have held back on the wine and ale. It’s no less of a loud affair, however, because Bokuto has taken one step further into becoming a walking pirate cliché by purchasing a parrot.

Kiyoomi has no idea what species it is. Only that it’s green with a smattering of yellow around its eyes. Bokuto’s got it on a loose leash so that it doesn’t fly around the dining hall, but it seems content enough to sit on his hand and receive small treats of boiled vegetables whenever they are offered.

Bokuto proudly announces that he’s named it Banana, because it looks like one about to ripen. He also boasts that it already knows how to speak, but the whole night passes and Kiyoomi only ever hears it say, ‘hello' and ‘fuck off’ whenever it gets close to or makes eye contact with Kageyama.

“Why does it hate me so much?” Kageyama asks with mild distress when it hops off Bokuto’s hand and runs across the width of the table to nip at his fingers. He manages to keep it at bay by brandishing a fork at it. Banana ruffles its feathers threateningly and tells him to ‘fuck off’ again.

“You keep looking at him wrong,” Hinata insists. “He thinks you’re picking a fight.”

Bokuto picks Banana up before it attacks Kageyama and places the bird on his shoulder. “Don’t skewer my son,” he warns. “This little guy is gonna take all my letters to Keiji, Tetsu, and Kenma when we’re out at sea.”

The whole table groans in unison. Atsumu slumps forwards, hits his own head against the table, and says, “Bokkun, I dunno how to tell you this nicely…that’s not a fuckin’ messenger bird.”

Bokuto gasps and tries to cover Banana’s non-existent ears. “Don’t say that. ‘Course he is! The guy who sold him to me—“

“Was probably a con artist,” Suna finishes.

“No! He told me no matter where in the world I was, all I had to do was tell Banana where to go and he’d find his way there. I paid extra for him because he’s special. Apparently, he was an outcast in his flock because the other birds were jealous of his talent.”

Kiyoomi almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

“How much did ya pay for him?” Osamu asks. He doesn’t look as though he feels sorry for Bokuto or the bird. He looks thoroughly delighted.

“Ten gold coins,” Bokuto says cautiously.

“Fuck off,” Banana agrees.

Kiyoomi watches Atsumu’s face contort through several stages of grief. Ten gold coins is more than what Kiyoomi paid for a whole new wardrobe of clothes and the collection of books combined.

“Bokkun,” he says. “You’ve gotta take him back. Get a refund. That bird ain’t gonna deliver shit.”

Bokuto shakes his head and pulls Banana away defensively. “I’m not taking him back! He’s family now! The guy said the other birds might execute him if I return him.”

Atsumu raises his hand and summons the innkeeper. “Yeah, I’ll have a bottle of the strongest whiskey you’ve got, thanks.”

“I don’t care what nasty, rotten Tsum-Tsum says about you,” Bokuto coos at the bird. “I believe in you.”

Kiyoomi watches in amusement as Atsumu spends the next twenty minutes drinking himself into incoherency.

“I can’t be sober to hear him talk about this,” he slurs across the table at Kiyoomi four shots of whiskey in. “Ten gold coins was his allowance for the rest of the goddamn month. He’s our quartermaster.”

“It was a good investment!” Bokuto exclaims. “What did you spend yours on, huh? Blackjack?”

Atsumu makes a face. “No. I’ll have you know, I made some good investinments of my own this month, actually.”

Ah, Kiyoomi thinks. Here it is. The stage of Atsumu’s intoxication where he forgets how to speak properly. He’s well on his way to being as drunk as he was the day they met.

“Whiskey is not a good investment either, Atsumu-san,” Hinata adds.

“It ain’t fuckin’ whiskey neither!” He frowns down at his empty glass and refills it. “Why the hell am I the one suddnelly bein’ railed anyway? Bokkun’s over there with empitity pockets and a fuckin’ useless pet budgie, leave me out of this.”

“You are the only one causing a scene, Miya One,” Ushijima says. He turns to Bokuto and holds out a hand. “Allow me to meet this feathered gentleman.”

Banana hops into Ushijima’s open palm willingly and Kageyama makes a noise of protest. “Ushiwaka-san is pulling the same face I did. Why isn’t he being attacked?”

Hinata pats his back. “Don’t mind, Unfriendly-yama.”

“Let me try,” Atsumu says. He holds out his own palm, and it’s unsteady and shaky with inebriation. “Gimme the little bastard.”

Ushijima leans across the table and holds out Banana. The bird squawks and pecks Atsumu’s hand and tells him to ‘fuck off’ with considerably more vehemence than it did Kageyama. Kiyoomi can’t help but to snort when he yelps and rubs at his hand.

“Don’t you laugh at me with yer stupid nice fuckin’ perfect smile or whatever,” he grumbles.

Kiyoomi hears Osamu say, “Oh no,” from his place along the table, but he doesn’t make any effort to stop Atsumu from embarrassing himself this time. He certainly doesn’t cover Atsumu's mouth with his hand when he continues, “Go ahead, Omi-Omi. You try, if you think yer so…hot, ‘n pretty, and perfect and interestin’.”

Kiyoomi ignores that spiel and regards Banana, sitting in the middle of the table, holding a piece of carrot in its claws and munching it idly. “I’m not putting my hands anywhere near that thing.” He nods at the bird. “No offence, Banana-san.”

Banana responds with a “Hello,” which is definitely better than a ‘fuck off’. The table erupts in a cheer at Atsumu’s expense, and he spends the rest of the night with his head on the table lamenting both his own and Banana’s births.

The conversation returns to normal with Atsumu out of commission. Or as normal as it can get between this crew. Kiyoomi vaguely remembers them talking about meat buns and a particularly dangerous sounding bard by the name of Saeko, but he loses track when he feels a foot kick at his shin.

Atsumu doesn’t lift his head from the table, but Kiyoomi knows it was him. He kicks back at the leather of Atsumu’s knee high boots and takes great satisfaction in the pained grunt it earns him. The retaliation comes quick, just as harshly. Then they’re locked in a subtle war of kicking that somehow ends with their legs tangled around each other in restrictive chokeholds.

They stay that way for a while. Atsumu never lifts his head, and Kiyoomi pretends nothing amiss is transpiring beneath the table. He doesn’t remember when it turns from battle, to simply resting upon each other’s weight, but now, every time Atsumu’s leg shifts, it’s not to try and gain an advantage, but to press closer.

People start to filter out of the dining hall. Bokuto claims he needs to take Banana to bed because he’s only a small boy, Kageyama, Ushijima, and Hinata, leave to play a round of football out in the courtyard, and Suna leaves claiming he’s tired.

Kiyoomi watches Osamu watch Suna go, and he’d have to be a total idiot not to recognise the pure want in Osamu’s gaze. Kiyoomi wonders why he doesn’t just follow, but then Osamu’s eyes trail over to Atsumu slumped over the table and he rolls his eyes and sags in disappointed annoyance.

“You can go after him if you want,” Kiyoomi offers very selflessly and very kindly. He nods to Atsumu. “I’ll take care of…that.”

Osamu looks at Kiyoomi strangely. “Huh?”

“You want to make sure he gets back without breaking his own neck, rather than to chase after Suna,” Kiyoomi guesses. “But you foisted him off on me yesterday, did you forget?”

“I was mostly jokin’,” Osamu says, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “He’s a bit much when he’s drunk. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. ‘Specially not you, with his… uh. With… yeah.”

Atsumu grumbles incoherently into the wood, then goes quiet.

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi waves him off. “I think I’ve figured out how to handle him. I’ll get him to his room in one piece once he’s sobered up enough to lift his head.”

Even if Osamu wanted to be the one to help his brother home, he’d have a hard time extricating his legs from Kiyoomi’s. It’ll be much less embarrassing for everyone involved if Kiyoomi just works this one out himself.

It’s funny though, Kiyoomi thinks as Osamu sits there blinking oddly at him, that the twins are so similar and yet so different. Usually, it’s Atsumu who looks as though his eyes contain a thousand thoughts, while Osamu stares off into the distance without the burden of a single one. Tonight, however, through some sort of strange twin osmosis phenomenon, Osamu has absorbed all of Atsumu’s working brain cells and looks lost in his own mind.

Eventually, he comes to some sort of conclusion, because he stands and says, “Whatever ya hear him say tonight, pretend ya didn’t hear it, ‘kay?”

He waits to see if Atsumu is going to protest, but he starts snoring softly, so Osamu continues, “He can’t control his dumb mouth at the best of times. It’s worse when he’s drunk. And he – look, you’d hafta be kinda stupid not to notice he’s startin’ to like you.”

No, Kiyoomi is not stupid. Atsumu made his thoughts about Kiyoomi abundantly clear the day they met when he stumbled out of a tavern and started unabashedly flirting with him in the middle of the street. He’d thought it had just been initial attraction and a need to rile Kiyoomi and his ‘prissy’ personality up at first, especially as they were going to such lengths to make each other miserable just the other day. But ever since the pirates boarded, Atsumu’s glances and smiles have cooled off, or warmed up? Kiyoomi’s not sure, only that he seems to have gotten over whatever drove him to call Kiyoomi an asshole enough to want to hold his hand and entangle their legs beneath the dining table.

And maybe Kiyoomi doesn’t mind. Maybe Kiyoomi is starting to get over himself too, because unlike Osamu and Suna, Kiyoomi does not possess the emotional and observational skill set of a brick.

“I’m not hearing a problem,” Kiyoomi says with a quirked brow.

Osamu’s eyes bulge as he deciphers what that means. “Oh,” he says. “You—really?”

“Really,” Kiyoomi repeats. “You should be more concerned with your own personal life. Your brother seems to be doing just fine without your interference.”

Atsumu is bold enough to keep pushing and pursuing Kiyoomi, but respectful enough to hold back and let Kiyoomi cross the final line when he’s comfortable. It’s probably why he’s even considering entertaining Atsumu at all – despite all the odds, against Kiyoomi’s better judgement, Atsumu feels safe.

“I—Yeah. I mean. I guess he is. Jesus. Fuck. OK. Guess I’ll just, uh, go then. Get him back by nine, don’t kill him, and all that shit.”

“If I wanted to kill him, I’d have let him bleed out days ago.”

“Yeah. Guess you would have.”

Osamu gives them one last look before he leaves, surprise still lifting his brows and widening his eyes. He turns on his heel and walks with purpose, hopefully, Kiyoomi thinks, to Suna’s room.

Kiyoomi turns back to Atsumu and nudges their entangled legs. “You alive?”

He doesn’t even earn a grunt in response. Atsumu is fast asleep, snoring softly with his face mashed into the table next to the whiskey bottle that is emptier than it should be for someone who drank it alone. Kiyoomi watches him for a few minutes, appreciates Atsumu in the rare instance that he is quiet. Then he gets bored and reaches over to the bowl of pistachios Ushijima ordered as a snack and grabs a handful.

“Wake up,” he says, as he throws one at Atsumu’s head.

Atsumu doesn’t budge.

Kiyoomi throws another one. And another. And another, until he finds himself playing a game of trying to lodge pistachios into Atsumu’s hair from afar. He manages fifteen, before Atsumu finally grumbles and turns his head and sends the pistachios cascading across the tabletop.

“The fuck?” he asks, sitting straight and finding more pistachios fall from his hair down the back of his shirt.

“Time to wake up,” Kiyoomi prompts. He uses Atsumu’s confusion to finally take back his legs, and stretches the numbness from them having sat so awkwardly for so long.

Atsumu looks around, eyes so heavily hooded with sleep he can barely keep them open. “Where’s Samu?”

“Hopefully off somewhere unpacking his emotional repression.” Atsumu looks at him like he’s just spoken another language, so he translates: “Suna’s.”

Atsumu’s mouth expands into a sleepy smile. “Aw, did ya offer to look after me so Samu could get some? That’s real nice of ya Omi-kun.” He hiccups violently and holds his chest to steady himself. “But it’s a waste of yer time. Samu’s a fuckin’ coward. They’re probably up there platonicitatly cuddlin’ again.” He makes a face and tries to lie back down, but Kiyoomi throws another pistachio at him before he can.

“Don’t go back to sleep. I don’t plan on sitting down here with you all night.”

Atsumu perks up. “Oh? Then what do you plan on doin’ with me, Omi-kun. Enlighten me.”

Kiyoomi scoffs and leans forward. It's a whole lot easier to play along with Atsumu when he's drunk. “First, I’ll take you up to your room.” Atsumu nods encouragingly, eyes widening with interest. “Then I’ll get you into bed.”

“I’m likin’ where this is goin’ so far,” Atsumu grins.

“Hmm, then you’re really going to love this next part.”

Atsumu leans even further across the table until his face is dangerously close to Kiyoomi’s. Kiyoomi doesn’t bother to move away. He says, “Then I’ll lock you inside and return to my own room alone so that I can get a good night’s sleep.”

Atsumu slumps back in his seat. “That sounds like a really terrible idea.”

Kiyoomi raises one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I’m starting to embrace having those.”

It requires a herculean effort to get Atsumu to stand up on his own two feet, and even then, he still slumps against Kiyoomi’s body more than what is probably necessary. Kiyoomi takes Atsumu’s good arm and puts it around his own neck as a means to keep Atsumu upright, and helps him stagger from the dining hall to the staircase.

It strikes him, halfway up the stairs, that he doesn’t know which room Atsumu is even staying in. He forgot to ask Osamu, and he hasn’t bothered roaming the halls to catch anyone entering or exiting their own rooms.

“Which number is yours?” Kiyoomi tries asking him between laboured breaths. Atsumu is a whole lot heavier than he looks, solid with muscle and unhelpfully limp. He’s trying his hardest not to rest his head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder for some reason, and he lets it roll about in a way that keeps offsetting both of their balance.

“Twelve,” Atsumu responds with an undeservedly smug smile for such a terrible joke.

“That’s so funny, Miya,” Kiyoomi says without inflection, because it’s his own room number that Atsumu has just relayed. “Tell me the right number before I break your brother’s promise and throw you down the stairs.”

“You wouldn’t,” Atsumu says with conviction.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Nope. You think I’m charmin’. I can tell.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. “I’d think it more so if you told me what damn room you’re staying in.”

Atsumu finally rests his head upon Kiyoomi’s shoulder. He’s just the right height to, Kiyoomi realises, which is nice. He can also feel the cool gold of Atsumu’s earring against his skin and smell the strength of the whiskey he drank on his breath. “Seven,” he says into Kiyoomi’s ear.

Room seven is on the second floor, one below Kiyoomi’s. It’s easier to walk now that Atsumu’s body is steadier, and he seems to be a little more stable on his feet, matching the rhythm Kiyoomi walks at a little better. When they arrive at the door, Kiyoomi keeps his arm firmly around Atsumu and asks, “Did you remember the key?”

Atsumu hums, and Kiyoomi feels it right next to his throat. “In my back pocket.”

“Then get it out of your back pocket and open the door with it.”

“Can’t,” Atsumu says, holding up his injured arm. “Arm hurts too much to move it, suddenly. See?” he waves it around, then says, “Ouch. So painful. You’re goin’ to hafta get it for me, I might pull the stitches, Omi-kun.”

“I don’t think so, Miya.”

They’re still standing awkwardly in the hallway, Atsumu propped up on Kiyoomi’s side. He makes no move to retrieve the key from his pocket; he sighs and says, “I like the way ya say Atsumu better.”

“That’s nice. I like it when you say nothing at all and do as you’re told.” Kiyoomi moves Atsumu’s good arm from behind him and switches to holding his shoulders to keep him upright. He turns Atsumu so that they’re facing each other. “Key,” he prompts.

“Yer extra pretty up close,” he says, eyes shameless in how they roam over Kiyoomi’s face and neck. The heat he feels in his cheeks as a result is unavoidable; Kiyoomi is only human, and when Atsumu’s tongue darts out to wet his lip, Kiyoomi can’t stop his eyes from flickering to the action, from lingering on the scar there. Atsumu puckers his lips when he catches Kiyoomi staring, like he’d done it on purpose, knowing Kiyoomi would follow.

He takes his hand from Atsumu’s arm and uses it to flick his forehead. “Key,” he says again.

“Yer no fun, Omi,” Atsumu groans. He finally retrieves the key from his pocket and hands it over because he at least requires enough self-awareness to know that inserting a key into a lock is a puzzle too complex for his current state.

Kiyoomi places him against the wall to open the door, and then grabs him by the shoulder again to push him inside once he’s nudged it open.

The room is a mess. As though a wild boar has been living there rather than just one Miya Atsumu. There are clothes strewn about everywhere, some new that Kiyoomi hasn’t seen before, some old that he’s seen Atsumu sporting around the ship. There are scrolls and books and bags littering the floor, his weapons are thrown haphazardly atop his bed, and there’s a plate of half-eaten snacks on the desk.

He clears the bed enough for Atsumu to get into it, then pulls back the cover and gestures to it. “Get in.”

Atsumu grins. “You first.”

Kiyoomi throws his hands up. “Nobody can say I didn’t try,” he sighs. “You are as relentless as you are insatiable.” He walks over to Atsumu and places the key in his palm. “Lock yourself in and don’t go wandering off. If I find you drunk at my door in twenty minutes time, I will gut you with your own scimitar.”

Atsumu takes the key – not without needlessly covering Kiyoomi’s hand with his own and squeezing first - and sits himself down on a chair to start pulling off his boots. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“Goodnight, Miya,” he says pointedly before he closes the door.

“Sweet dreams, Omi-kun,” Atsumu beams back. He sends the usual drunken wink-blink and finishes with a, “Thanks for gettin’ me home safe, darlin’.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t slam the door, because he is not an inconsiderate animal, but it is a near thing.

It takes him longer than usual to get to sleep that night. Osamu had tried to warn him, but Kiyoomi had thought himself stronger, thought himself capable of more resilience than this, because no matter how hard he tries, he cannot bring himself to dislike a single thing Atsumu said or did.

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi allows himself to wake up later than usual, and when he does, he spends almost an hour longer just lying in bed, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling.

Today, he decides as he lies there, is as good a day as any to spend indoors recharging. Tomorrow is the last day on land before they’re due to get back on the water and Kiyoomi wants to spend as much time indulging in comfort as he can before he’s forced to return to soup and beef sticks and dingy lantern light.

He washes up, and then makes a start on organising his new suitcase, neatly folding his new clothes and packing them away, sandwiching his new books between the layers. It’s pleasant, to just go through the motions of cleaning. He ends up tidying the rest of the room too, opens the window to let in some fresh air, and makes his bed to an even higher standard than he’d found it in.

When Atsumu knocks, the first thing he says as he makes himself comfortable for his morning medical appointment is, “Woah, how’d you get room service?”

Kiyoomi regards him. He’s surprisingly chipper for someone who should be experiencing a whiskey-induced hangover. There’s a smile on his face and a spring to his step that makes Kiyoomi wonder if he’s also mastered masking the pain of a headache, or if he’s simply resilient.

“I didn’t,” Kiyoomi drawls, recalling the mess left in Atsumu’s room the night before with disgust. “I cleaned it myself because I am not a feral animal.”

Atsumu huffs out a laugh in response and Kiyoomi gets to business as usual, checking his injury and applying the salve. It seems to be healing fast. The wound is scabbing over nicely and, miraculously, none of the stitches have pulled. “You should probably air it out now,” Kiyoomi tells him. “It’ll heal faster.”

Atsumu’s nod is small as he pulls down his own sleeve, leaving the buttons at the wrist loose. There’s no immediate effort to move on his part, he sits and chews the inside of his cheek, lost in thought. Kiyoomi’s about to rib him with a sarcastic jab about preserving his brain cells, but then Atsumu suddenly blurts, “Are you busy today?”

Kiyoomi pauses packing the salves away and levels him with a scrutinising stare. “Why?” he asks, because whatever Atsumu says next will determine whether he suddenly has very important errands to run, or if he’s free for the whole day.

With a shrug, Atsumu says, “Dunno. Just wondered if ya wanted to do somethin’, that’s all.”

“Do something,” Kiyoomi echoes. He’s not sure what he had been expecting, but after every suggestion that came out of Atsumu’s mouth the night before had been mischievously suggestive, ‘something’ hadn’t been it.

“Yeah.”

“With you?”

“Yeah, Omi,” he chuckles. “With me. You had breakfast yet?” Kiyoomi shakes his head and Atsumu drops his gaze to his fingers where he starts to fiddle awkwardly with his rings. “We can go get some. There’s a place I know across town that makes some real nice pancakes. They make ‘em right in front of you so can… y’know, check they aren’t weird.”

Kiyoomi stares blankly at him for a moment, observing the way his cheeks have turned ever so slightly red and his leg has gained the bounce usually reserved for his medical anxieties. Atsumu swallows, and Kiyoomi wonders what, exactly, about inviting Kiyoomi out for pancakes is so terrifying when Atsumu has invited him to bed on more than a few occasions.  

“It’s fine if ya don’t want to,” he says. “Just thought I’d, uh, ask. Y’know. Just in case you, uh. Wanted,”—he clears his throat—“pancakes.”

“Ok,” Kiyoomi says probably a little too quickly.

Atsumu finally looks up, eyes blown wide. “Really?”

“I suppose I have nothing better to be doing,” Kiyoomi says, ignoring the voice inside his head that mocks him for so quickly disregarding his earlier plans of staying indoors and doing absolutely nothing.

“Nice!” Atsumu smiles wide with bright white teeth. “I’ll wait for ya downstairs.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t keep him waiting long. It’s a nice day, so he forgoes a coat and dresses down in a simple white shirt and the new pair of brown trousers he picked up from the haberdashery. They’re a bit loose on him, courtesy of Kiyoomi’s reluctance to get measured properly, but they’re fine once he tightens them up with a belt.

The spring in Atsumu’s step never falters. He keeps a steady pace beside Kiyoomi as they walk the cobbled streets, arms swinging light-heartedly at his sides, a tune humming beneath his tongue.

Unlike those he’s been forced to interact with in his time, Kiyoomi never seems to fall short of conversation with Atsumu, because Atsumu seems to have enough anecdotes filed away in the recesses of his brain to fill an anthology. He tells Kiyoomi about the time he and Osamu visited the very same pancake restaurant before, about how Osamu challenged the chef to a pancake flipping competition and won them free breakfast for a month. He ranks his favourite pancake toppings, asks Kiyoomi what his favourite is, and complains loudly and at length when Kiyoomi responds with honey.

As they cross a bridge over to the other side of town, Atsumu asks Kiyoomi about the places he’s visited before, and Kiyoomi is forced to try and recall the sights and sounds of destinations from the time before he grew to hate travelling and play them off as recent. Atsumu knows a few of the places, jokes they might have even crossed paths once or twice in their time despite that being totally impossible. As impressed as he sounds with Kiyoomi’s history, he undoubtedly has a richer one in terms of exploration. He lists places Kiyoomi has only ever heard of in books or glanced briefly at upon maps, places so far away it’s almost dizzying to think about how long he must have spent cooped up aboard the ship to get to them.

Kiyoomi is hardly the most desirable of conversational partners, considering he hasn’t much to talk about besides science, swords, and the geography of his own bedroom, but Atsumu seems to possess an honest interest in everything Kiyoomi has to say. He listens intently, and asks questions born of genuine curiosity rather than a means to guide the conversation to its end. There’s a sparkle in his eye that grows with each and every thing he unearths, like facts about Kiyoomi are shiny golden coins to be added to his trove of stolen treasure.

By the time they finally get to the pancake restaurant, Kiyoomi thinks it would probably be fair to say that Atsumu now knows more about him and his interests than his own parents. He wonders if perhaps he should have been less forthcoming, if perhaps he’s embarrassingly overshared, but then he realises that Atsumu has told him just as many stories, if not more and kicks the concern aside.

The restaurant is clearly a popular one, judging by the scant number of free seats left available. At the centre of the room there exists an island in which the chef stands inside and cooks the pancakes upon large metal counters. Two waitresses wearing frilled dresses ferry orders from the counter to tables with bright smiles and voices that sound like songs, and there’s a bard near the doorway that strums a lyre pleasantly. There’s a cosy sort of atmosphere, a crackling fireplace and a low hum of chatter that makes it feel as though they’re existing inside a perpetual winter evening. It’s nice, Kiyoomi thinks. Far different from the austere conditions he is used to dining under at home.

Atsumu lets Kiyoomi pick the most secluded table nearest a window and wastes no time in ordering enough pancakes to feed the entire crew.

“You can have yer disgustin’ honey pancakes,” he says, “but yer also tryin’ chocolate.”

Kiyoomi grimaces. “Must I?”

“Don’t make that face. How can you say you don’t like it if ya haven't tried this specific one? It could be the best damn chocolate you’ve ever had, Omi.”

“Believe it or not, I am pretty attuned to my own tastes, Miya, having lived with myself for over twenty-four years.”

Atsumu scoffs. “Yeah, well, I’m gonna hafta retune ya. I can excuse yer attitude on account of yer pretty face, but I can’t be into someone who doesn’t appreciate chocolate.”

Kiyoomi leans back in his seat and lets the warm wave of satisfaction at Atsumu’s words wash over him. “Suddenly, I’m allergic.”

“I can fix that.”

“Oh? Did I miss the part where you came into divine powers?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu grins. “I think you were asleep.”

The chocolate pancakes aren’t as bad as Kiyoomi had been expecting. The chocolate is far sweeter than what he is used to, not bitter like the dark truffles Kiyoomi’s grandmother used to force him to eat from fancy ribbon-wrapped boxes as a child. It becomes one more idea Kiyoomi has come to realise he’s been wrong about his entire life; not all chocolate is bitter, not all pirates are bad, feeling doesn’t have to be scary.

Victorious in his conversion, Atsumu doesn’t stop at pancakes. Once they’re done, he takes Kiyoomi around a marketplace to sample more of his favourite foods fresh from vendor stalls. He starts off choosing places Kiyoomi approves, but as the morning stretches on and Kiyoomi keeps finding himself pleasantly surprised by flavours, he stops questioning and inspecting each thing Atsumu hands him and simply learns to trust his judgement.

They try pretzels and takoyaki, biscuits, waffles, and dango. Atsumu makes Kiyoomi try his favourite flavours of each and doesn’t stop badgering Kiyoomi until he regales him with honest reviews. Even when Kiyoomi isn’t particularly fond of something he still finds himself offering censored evaluations so that he doesn’t give Atsumu a reason to stop smiling.

Another thing Kiyoomi notices about Atsumu that morning is that he never seems to get lost. He knows exactly where everything is, what streets to turn down, and what all the shortest routes are. They walk side by side, and this time it’s Kiyoomi who finds himself subconsciously leaning closer, like Kiyoomi is lost and Atsumu is his compass, pointing the way home.

“Ya can’t get back on that ship without yer own deck of cards, Omi,” Atsumu tells him as he leads him down a busy street. He takes Kiyoomi’s right side, walking a step ahead so that he can clear Kiyoomi a path. “It’s startin’ to get a little depressin’ hearin’ ya lose because yer trustin’ everyone else’s decks.”

“Cards are cards, Miya. What the hell kind of nonsense is that?”

“It’s not nonsense. It’s the truth. You wanna know why Bokkun wins more often than not? Why Samu always seems to have a ‘triple king’s cock flush back handspring’ when you’ve only got a two pair? It’s because Bokkun got his deck enchanted by a witch, and Samu’s got a custom deck built specifically to cheat at poker. Ya can’t play usin’ theirs anymore. You’ll lose.”

“I don’t think the cards matter all that much,” Kiyoomi admits. “You could all drop dead mid-game and I’d still find it difficult to win by your ridiculous rules.”

Though, now that he thinks about it, Osamu does always seem to have an unbeatable hand whenever the betting pool was at its highest. Kageyama and Hoshiumi were oblivious, which means, intentional or not, Atsumu has probably just told Kiyoomi something he probably shouldn’t have.

Atsumu laughs. “That’s bitterness talkin’,” he says. “Play an honest game of poker with me and you’ll change yer mind.”

“Why? What manner of fraud are your cards committing?”

With a wink, Atsumu says, “Only thing special about my cards is that I’m the one wieldin’ them.”

Kiyoomi vaguely recalls Kageyama and Hinata warning him against poker with both Bokuto and Atsumu, but he can’t seem to find it within himself to care when Atsumu drags him by the sleeve to a nearby games shop.

He buys two decks, both with identical green backs since that’s the only colour amongst the crew that hasn’t been claimed. Atsumu takes one of them and starts shuffling them as they walk again, with hands so dexterous Kiyoomi almost bumps into someone he’s so distracted.

“With two decks, you can sneak cards into yer hand from yer pocket if you think some other motherfucker is gettin’ a bit loud,” Atsumu tells him, making a card dance over the corners of the deck. “You’ve gotta keep an eye on what cards have already been in and out though. Some of the guys are observant when it comes to games, like Tobio-kun, Ushiwaka, and Suna. The others won’t have a clue. You could probably put a double diamond ace hand down and Bokkun would tell ya good game.”

Kiyoomi considers him as he moves on to leafing the deck. This facet of Atsumu is probably his favourite, he decides. The one that gets so immersed in what he’s saying that he forgets to flirt. It makes Kiyoomi want to ask more pointless questions, just to keep him rambling about his strange ideas and theories and philosophies. “And you are telling me all of this because…”

“Because if I’m not allowed to fight ya with a sword, this is the next best thing,” Atsumu says. “You’ve gotta lot of catchin’ up to do before yer ready to face the undisputed champion though. I wouldn’t wanna crush your spirits.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and Atsumu hands the deck back, shuffled so that every other card is facing the wrong way. It’ll take Kiyoomi a long and unnecessary amount of time to right them all if he actually wants to play. He throws out an elbow into Atsumu’s side and calls him a bastard.

“Yeah, yeah, call me what ya like, Omi-kun.” He hops back up onto the cobbled pavement from where Kiyoomi pushed him off, and grins. “Not even Akaashi could beat me at poker, and his poker face was pretty fuckin’ impressive.”

“Give me a week,” Kiyoomi tells him. “I’ll dethrone you.”

Atsumu nudges him back by knocking their shoulders together. “Oooh, fightin’ talk. I like it!”

As they start the long walk back, Kiyoomi notices Atsumu’s frown. It’s not the same one he wears when he’s annoyed, or scared, it’s the one Kiyoomi’s come to recognise as his thinking frown, and it’s usually followed by something stupid.

“Pull the breaks on the thought train, Miya,” Kiyoomi tells him. “It looks as though you’re about to crash.”  

Atsumu holds up a finger. “Fuck off. I’m tryin’ to think of someplace else to take ya.”

Someplace else, Kiyoomi thinks. Like they haven’t been to almost every shop, stall, and establishment in this town already.

“Not bored of me yet?” Kiyoomi jokes.

“No,” Atsumu says a little too quickly. “Why? Are you bored of me? You wanna go back? I’ll take you if yer tired.”

Were Kiyoomi on his own, or even out with his family for so long, he’d have already started the walk back by himself around about now. But Kiyoomi’s been out all morning with Atsumu, and he hasn’t thought about returning once. Even now, being presented with the opportunity, he finds himself wanting to hold on to whatever this is a little longer.

He has to avert his eyes from the intensity of Atsumu’s gaze. “No,” he says.

In his periphery, Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu’s chest puffs out and he grins triumphantly. “Good. Then shut yer trap and let me think.”

They end up in the town square, sitting on a bench nearby a large fountain. It is by no means beautiful. The water is turning green and the stone floor beneath it is littered with rusting coins, but the noises it makes are soothing, and Kiyoomi’s glad for the chance to rest his feet.

“Is there somewhere you wanna go?” Atsumu ends up asking him once he’s exhausted his brain of ideas. He puts his hands together in prayer and closes his eyes. “Please don’t say the opera house, milord.”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi laughs as he mulls it over. Though he himself despises the opera, he’s almost curious as to how Atsumu would respond, how scandalised the upper classes would be if Kiyoomi waltzed in with Atsumu on his arm, mouth full of foul language and clad in his usual unbuttoned shirt and pierced ears. They could clap at the wrong times, whisper too loudly, and get thrown out before the first interval. It would be far more entertaining than the last one he attended.

Ultimately, Kiyoomi knows nothing of this town’s geography other than the location of one bookstore and Hirugami’s vet clinic, both of which are over the other side of the bridge. Kiyoomi shrugs.  “I’ve been meaning to visit a bladesmith,” he suggests.

Atsumu winces. “Uhh, can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so. Next?”

Kiyoomi’s about to tell him that ‘because I said so’ is the stupidest fucking excuse in the history of excuses, when he gets interrupted entirely by the shouting of two armed guards. They run into the square, swords clanging noisily at their waists, boots loud against the smooth stone. Multiple heads turn to watch them, Kiyoomi hears a couple of people gasp in surprise as they bolster their way through the crowd, pushing and shoving and yelling.

“There they are!” one of them cries. “We’ve finally found them!”

Both Kiyoomi and Atsumu look around for who the cause of the commotion is, but the guards seem to be looking directly at them, charging towards their bench.

“Uh, Omi,” Atsumu says under his breath. “How fast can ya run?”

Kiyoomi’s never had to run a day in his life. “Decently enough,” he lies.

Atsumu grabs his hand and snatches him to his feet. It comes as no surprise that Atsumu is fast. So fast that Kiyoomi feels himself being pulled along and forced to exert himself to match his pace. Were his legs not so long, he’d probably find himself struggling to stay upright.

“Someone stop them! Don’t let them escape again!” the guards call after them.

They sprint along the streets, weaving their way in and out of the crowds. Atsumu sometimes dips into side alleys and turns sharp corners in an effort to lose them and Kiyoomi can do little else other than hold tightly onto Atsumu’s hand and trust him.

Eventually he stops in an alley behind a bakery. It’s so narrow that Atsumu is forced to twist his arm awkwardly behind him to keep a hold of Kiyoomi’s hand as they manoeuvre around stacks of large crates and boxes.

“Think we lost ‘em,” he says as he lets Kiyoomi’s hand go. The loss is a terrible one. Kiyoomi’s hand no longer feels warm and secure, but cold and sweaty and a little longingly awkward.

He waits until the world stops spinning to ask, “We’ve only been here three days. What the fuck did you do?”

Atsumu sinks back against the wall and holds his hands up. “Nothin’! Promise! I’ve been good since we got here. Haven’t even been gamblin’.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “Then what was that about?”

“No clue. Maybe you did somethin’.” The brow Kiyoomi raises is enough for Atsumu to retract that statement. “Yeah, I dunno. Hope ya did all the shoppin’ you needed. Looks like we’re gonna be stuck hidin’ out at the inn until we leave.”

“The only place you’re going is a holding cell,” a voice says from Kiyoomi’s left. One of the guards is standing at the end of the alleyway, sword drawn to block the way. Atsumu swears under his breath and grabs Kiyoomi’s hand again, but when they turn to run the other way, another figure steps into the exit and blocks that off too.

“We’ve got you cornered, tricksters! There’s no way you’re getting out of this one!”

“Tricksters?” Atsumu repeats incredulously. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

The guard at the entrance of the alleyway walks forward and Kiyoomi feels Atsumu tugging his hand towards him so that they stand closer.

The guard stops a foot away and reaches into his inner pocket for a piece of parchment. He unfolds it and turns it around for the two of them to see.

It’s a wanted poster. Displaying two crudely drawn composite sketches of criminals. One has black curls and is described as little else other than ‘tall,’ where the other is drawn with lighter hair and a permanent smile. The two are labelled under the names ‘Makki and Mattsun’ and the prize for detaining the wanted conmen is nearing a thousand gold.

“Were you born yesterday?” Kiyoomi scoffs. “They look nothing like us.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu adds. “We’re way more handsome.”

“Nice try,” the guard says. He turns the paper back around and reads, “The pair are disrespectful and condescending towards those of uniform. The shorter of the two is known to have a penchant for boasting their good looks, while the taller exclusively wears white shirts and brown trousers.”

Kiyoomi sighs loudly and closes his eyes. If only he’d put on his goddamn coat this morning.

Slowly, he reaches into his pocket with one hand, careful to keep the other held up in an offering of peace. There’s a coin he carries bearing the Sakusa family crest, one that is supposed to get him discounts from vendors, allow him entry to certain clubs, and get him out of sticky situations such as this. He’s never had to use it before, never really paid it any mind, but he holds it out now and says, “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

The guard steps forward and takes the coin. He pulls out another piece of paper from his pocket and holds the coin up to it. “Ha!” he says after a while of scanning the sheet. “Sakusa, is it?”

“Uh,” Kiyoomi says. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

The guard flips the coin over his shoulder so that it rolls away out of sight. “You’ve already used that scheme in Itachiyama and Shiratorizawa.” He holds up the piece of paper for Kiyoomi to see and it reveals a whole list of named disguises this duo has apparently travelled under next to the diagram of the family crests they’re most likely to impersonate.

According to their information, Makki and Mattsun have impersonated sons of the Sakusa family three times already.

Before Kiyoomi can blink, his wrists are wrenched behind his back, and a set of handcuffs are locked around them. There’s a blur of movement to Kiyoomi’s side where Atsumu attempts to reach for his scimitar, but the other guard detains him quickly and unexpectedly from behind and cuffs him too.

The guard doesn’t expect Atsumu to be so violent, however. Atsumu thrashes against him and uses his legs and feet to his advantage, kicking and throwing his knees into the guard’s groin. The guard falls in pain, and Atsumu stomps on his hand until he releases his sword, then he kicks it away down the alley and turns on the other. Kiyoomi thinks he’s going to take that one down too, but then three more men appear behind him and not even Atsumu is stupid enough to try and take them all on at once.

He gets slammed into the wall, but he still turns to Kiyoomi and tries his best to smile. “Guess we’re gonna have to cut our date a little short, huh, Omi?”

“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi swallows. “Perhaps being arrested will be the fun end to the day that we were searching for.”

Being arrested is not the fun fucking end to the day that they were searching for.

Especially not when Makki and Mattsun are such vehemently wanted criminals that Kiyoomi and Atsumu are immediately sentenced to execution by hanging come the morning for crimes they definitely have not committed.

No matter how many times they both protest, everything they seem to say is something Makki and Mattsun have already said to get themselves free once before. In the end, Kiyoomi suggests they simply keep their mouths shut when the guards come around, lest they somehow manage to get their execution moved up.

One small mercy, is that they both get thrown into the same cell, one reserved for highly dangerous criminals that is large enough to fit them and not much else. The guards cuff them together, wrist to wrist, with their free hands attached to chains protruding from the walls so they can walk no further than a foot in any direction. The cell itself is Kiyoomi’s living nightmare. It stinks of human waste and rot and the floor is wet with an unidentifiable liquid. It’s dank and dark and the air is stagnant and Kiyoomi’s certain he’s going to throw up if he doesn’t get out within the next ten minutes, but he can’t, because there is no goddamn way out and nobody is going to listen to them.

Atsumu had been furious to begin with, kicking up bits of dirt and cursing the guards through the bars on the door. He’s calm now. He’s sitting down, one arm raised to accommodate the fact that Kiyoomi refuses to sit, the other rolling one of his rings over his fingers in a mesmerising pattern as he whistles to an unrecognisable tune.

“Why aren’t you more concerned?” Kiyoomi snaps when he can’t stand the nonchalance a second longer. It makes him feel as though he should be just as relaxed, as though the very real threat of execution is but a bad joke.

Atsumu looks up at him with a frustratingly unaffected expression. “Why would I need to be concerned? It sucks that we’re here, but I’ve already sent out a distress signal. All we gotta do is wait.”

“A distress signal,” Kiyoomi repeats slowly. “Someone’s coming?”

“Yeah. Samu’s gonna get us out before sunrise.”

Kiyoomi’s chest fills with hope. He’s actually quite impressed. He tries to recall exactly when Atsumu might have dropped a signal. Did he alert someone in the town? Make a certain noise? Does he have allies that’ll relay the message back to the others? One that will get them free before the noose can find their necks come the morning?

“You’ve told Osamu where we are? How?”

Atsumu raises his hand to his temple and taps two fingers against it. “I told him in my mind.”

Kiyoomi closes his eyes as his cumulated hope plummets to the ground and dies a grisly death. He pulls his arm up so that Atsumu’s goes with it and steals his attention. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m dead fuckin’ serious, Omi-kun.”

And he does look serious, too. There’s no mirth in his eyes, no twist to his lips, no lilt to his voice. He genuinely believes what he is saying, and Kiyoomi’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“So what I’m gathering,” he says calmly. “Is that nobody actually knows where we are, and that we are definitely going to die here.”

“No.” Atsumu has the audacity and the arrogance to roll his eyes. “I told ya Samu’s comin’ to get us.”

“I’d sooner believe that Bokuto’s useless messenger parrot will magically save us before I entertain the idea of twin telepathy.”

Atsumu tugs his wrist back so that Kiyoomi’s arm follows it downward. “That sounds like a problem you’ve built for yourself, Omi.”

Kiyoomi tugs it back harder. “It is evidently an us problem. We’re both on death row. Are you completely delusional?”

“I thought you were into science and shit,” Atsumu says, tugging it back again. “You should know that I’m bein’ serious.”

“I am into science and shit.” Kiyoomi pulls it back and the chain rattles. “Which is why I know that your brother isn’t rushing over here having received your dumb fucking brain messages from the other side of town.”

Atsumu yanks the cuffs so hard in return that Kiyoomi stumbles. The only thing that stops his face from making contact with the rancid ground, is one of Atsumu’s firm hands on his shoulder and another at his waist. It doesn’t stop Kiyoomi from having to touch his knees to the ground however, and he winces to supress the full-body shiver that overtakes him when something wet seeps through the fabric of his trousers.

“Oops,” Atsumu says. “Didn’t mean to do that. You good?”

Their faces are close. Kiyoomi is also supporting himself by clutching at Atsumu’s shoulder and it makes the distance between them feel non-existent. The moment Kiyoomi looks into his eyes, wide and honest and warm, he can feel the anger melting away, feel the tension loosening from his back.

For some inexplicable reason, Kiyoomi can’t seem to stay mad at Atsumu anymore. Not when he’s somehow come to represent what Kiyoomi recognises as safe.

“I am kneeling in a dead convict’s piss, Miya. No, I am not good.”

Atsumu’s grip on his waist tightens as he tries to help Kiyoomi regain his balance. “I know ya probably don’t care, but it’s fine. I’ve sat in worse. It won’t kill ya.”

Kiyoomi straightens, but it suddenly feels stupid to still be caring about keeping himself clean when his trousers are already ruined, and his hands are coated in greasy grime from the cuffs and chain he’s been tugging at.

He sits down on the floor next to Atsumu and says, “No, but the noose will.”

Atsumu considers him and shuffles closer so that their thighs align. Atsumu’s is far thicker than his own, stretching the taupe fabric of his breeches. There’s a stain on his left leg, suspiciously finger shaped and the colour of chocolate.

Atsumu interprets Kiyoomi’s blatant staring as thoughtfulness, because he lowers his voice and leans in to say, “I won’t let anythin’ bad happen to you. Trust me.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond with words. He sighs in resignation and holds out his hand, palm upturned and expectant. Atsumu settles his into it and squeezes.

They stay like that for as long as Kiyoomi can stand it, which is probably around an hour – he’s not entirely sure at which speed time is passing, whether or not the sun is beginning its descent, or if it’s still lingering at its peak.

After extricating his sweaty hand from Atsumu’s, Kiyoomi leans his head back against the stone of the wall and closes his eyes to help pass the time faster. He lets his mind wander, tries to concoct other plans of escape should Atsumu’s incredibly unreliable and unrealistic one somehow fail.

Atsumu has other ideas on how to keep himself entertained, however. All of which are incredibly irritating.

He starts innocently enough, rolling one of his rings along the tops of his fingers again. It’s something Kiyoomi can ignore easily, until he starts flipping it in the air and catching it repeatedly with small clangs of metal against nail, over and over and over.

Kiyoomi elbows him lightly in a warning, but that only works for a minute before the noise starts up again.

It's the one-hundred-and-seventy-sixth time he does it that Kiyoomi’s hand finally snaps out, catches the ring in mid-air, and throws it across the room beyond both of their reach. They watch it hit the wall and roll across the stone floor, then Atsumu turns to him and asks, “What the fuck was that for?”

“Stop moving,” Kiyoomi grits out. “You are driving me insane.”

Atsumu huffs. “I have that effect on people,” he says. “I can’t help being born so handsome and charming.”

“A shame,” Kiyoomi laments. “Perhaps if you’d been born ugly, you’d have no reason to brag, and we wouldn’t be here.”

Atsumu looks torn between the hidden compliment, and the subtle shift of blame upon his shoulders. In the end, he decides the compliment is worth more of his energy. “So you agree, huh? You think I’m handsome? So devilishly charmin’ and pretty that you wanna keep holdin’ my hand?”

Kiyoomi looks him up and down. “It is one of your only redeeming qualities.”

“One of,” Atsumu echoes thoughtfully as he shuffles into a cross-legged position opposite Kiyoomi. “So there’s more than one? What else is there? Tell me.”

Kiyoomi shuffles away. “Your one-track mind is astounding.”

“Tell me,” he chimes, leaning forward with a knowing smile. “Tell me, what the almighty Lord Sakusa Kiyoomi thinks of my humble – and sexy – existence! Enlighten me as to my attractions, milord!”

Honestly, there are plenty of things Kiyoomi has learnt about Atsumu over the past week that have forced him to reconsider why he even disliked him in the first place. His readiness to protect Kiyoomi, his consideration for Kiyoomi’s aversion to uncleanliness, his willingness to adapt but also his confidence to push back. Now that he thinks about it, even when Atsumu had thrown the soup over Kiyoomi’s floor, he’d initially brought it out of concern for Kiyoomi’s health, and the pranks he’d pulled never caused Kiyoomi any distress beyond the psychological.

He's reliable and clever, quick, loyal, and strong and more than anything else, Kiyoomi simply enjoys his company.

If anyone should be surprised they’re holding hands, it’s Kiyoomi. He has far fewer qualities to boast than Atsumu, that’s for sure. Especially without a title to back up his less than desirable personality.

He says none of that. Atsumu is the type to profess his own praises often enough. The last thing anyone needs is for Kiyoomi to support his statements and grow his head by three sizes.

Instead, Kiyoomi opts for the coward’s way out by saying, “Anything that does not require you to sing.”

Atsumu’s smile drops comically fast. “Woah, hey, what? What’s wrong with my singin’?”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “I refuse to believe you have lived amongst that crew for as long as you have without being informed that you have the voice of a dying goat.”

“The voice of a—What? I’m good at everythin’, Omi. Singin’ included! I have a great voice!”

“It’s unsalvageable, Miya.”

He tries to cross his arms over his chest but forgets he’s cuffed on both sides and ends up hitting himself in the face with Kiyoomi’s attached wrist. “If this is about the shanties I made for ya, I was singin’ bad on purpose—Don’t make that face! I was tryin’ to piss you off! What, like you can do better?”

Kiyoomi looks away with a badly concealed smile. “I didn’t say that. There’s a reason my parents pushed me towards the sciences.”

After Kiyoomi’s eighth birthday, a music tutor visited the estate to evaluate his proficiency in instruments of every kind, from violin, to piano, to flute, to cello. He’d done so badly at all of them that the tutor had suggested he sing instead. One lesson was all it had taken for Kiyoomi’s parents to lock the musical theory books into the deepest darkest recesses of the library and replace them with ones on scientific theory.

“See? Yer probably fuckin’ worse. Doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll change yer mind right here and now.”

Really, Kiyoomi should have seen this coming. But nothing stops the Atsumu Wheel of Motion once is begins rolling.

He sits up straight and places a hand upon his diaphragm, like that will help in the slightest, then he starts to belt: “99 bottles of rum on the wall, 99 bottles of rum! Take one down, pass it around, 98 bottles of rum on the wall!”

“Miya,” Kiyoomi winces. He really is bad. Just as bad as he’d been that morning on the deck when he’d been ‘allegedly’ pretending to be tone deaf.

“98 bottles of rum on the wall, 98 bottles of rum! Take one down, pass it around, 97 bottles of rum on the wall!”

“Miya, please.”

Atsumu closes his eyes so that he cannot see Kiyoomi’s grimace. He clears his throat and continues, “97 bottles of rum on the wall, 97 bottles of rum! Take one down, pass it around, 96 bottles of rum on the wall!”

“You’ve made your point,” Kiyoomi tries.

He certainly has – if the point is that he’s even worse than Kiyoomi gave him credit for. It’s almost excruciating. Especially in the confined space of a prison cell. Every piercing note seems to reverberate around the stone walls and end up crashing back into Kiyoomi’s skull.

Atsumu mercilessly ups the octave. “96 fuckin’ bottles of fuckin’ rum on the wall, 96 motherfuckin’ bottles of—”

“—Atsumu, shut the fuck up—”

“—rum! Take one down, pass it the fuck around, 95 bottles of—mmph!”

Kiyoomi slaps a hand over Atsumu’s mouth to shut him up and says, “I take it all back. You’re an excellent singer. You should join an opera house. One far, far, far, far, far, far away.”

Atsumu pries Kiyoomi’s hand off his mouth but doesn’t let go of it. “That’s really far, Omi,” he says.

“That’s how good you are.”

When they laugh it’s louder than Atsumu’s song. It feels as though Kiyoomi lets out years of pent up joy. All the times he’s been told not to cause a scene and to mind his manners, all the parties he’s avoided, all the jokes he’s missed sharing with the friends he’s never had, meet at a point spill out of him unhindered, right now, in this moment that should be anything but funny.

If they do die come the morning, Kiyoomi thinks, at least was able to hear the pleasant tune their mingled laughs created first.

When they wind down, there’s a moment in which they simply stare at one another. In which Kiyoomi’s eyes roam Atsumu’s face like it’s a map to a greater treasure than what lies in waiting on Ukai’s Island. He wants to trace his fingers over its landmarks, wants to run his thumb over the peaks of Atsumu’s cheekbones, dip into the valleys of his lips and god, he’s never wanted to kiss someone as badly as he wants to right now.

Atsumu’s hand tightens on Kiyoomi’s.

Kiyoomi’s gaze drops to it, and when it flickers back up to Atsumu’s face, he realises Atsumu is watching him just as intently.

He could lean forwards. Close the minimal gap between them and answer all the questions his brain has been asking about how soft Atsumu’s lips might be against his own, if he kisses as passionately as he fights. But a part of him is still scared. What if a kiss would change whatever they’ve cultivated? What if it ruins the first good thing Kiyoomi has stumbled upon in years?

Kiyoomi internally shakes his head. That is probably the same line of idiotic thinking that Osamu is currently operating under with Suna. The one that makes him look miserable and pathetic.

The truth of the matter is that they might die tomorrow, and if they somehow survive, then a storm could sink them the day after, and more pirates could attack the day after that. Any number of things might end this sooner than any of them would like; Kiyoomi shouldn’t erect needless obstacles for the sake of one anxious thought.

He should seize this now, while he still can—

“Shut the hell up in there!” A guard calls from beyond the door. He whacks at the metal bars with something hard in a warning. “We’ve had noise complaints from down the hall! You’re disturbing the other prisoners!”

“Who the fuck cares?” Atsumu snaps back. It’s the angriest Kiyoomi has ever heard him sound.

The guard stops outside the door. “Who the fuck cares?” he repeats. “I’ll show you who the fuck cares.”

There’s a rustling of keys in the door lock, then it swings open with a slam of hard wood against stone. A lone guard storms in, face red with indignation, free hand carrying a dense metal truncheon.

They separate – albeit reluctantly – and straighten out with their backs against the wall.

He stalks right over to Atsumu, stands towering above him, foot mere centimetres away from touching the hard leather soles of Atsumu’s boots. “You’re already as good as dead,” he tells him. “I don’t think the crowd will mind if your face is crushed so long as you can still hang.”

Atsumu stares up at him, then sniffs and looks away as though the guard hasn’t spoken at all.

“Fucking little brat.” He raises the truncheon, is about to swing it back down upon Atsumu’s head, when Kiyoomi kicks out at the guard’s knee and sends him sprawling. He falls forwards, knocks his bald head against the wall with a sickening crack, and collapses between them both in a heap of armour.

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says. “Did I kill him?”

He can’t really find it within himself to care. Not really. Not when he interrupted whatever was just about to happen.

Atsumu almost knocks his own head against the wall when he throws it back to laugh. “No, Omi,” he wheezes. “I think he’s still breathin’.”

They search the body for the keys it carried. Unfortunately for them, it’s a set that exclusively opens doors and nothing else. They try all twenty-six keys on the ring in each of their shackles, but none are even remotely the right size.

Though Kiyoomi would be happy to carry on where they left off before the interruption, the mood is somewhat ruined and Atsumu makes no move to rekindle the flame.

It is completely dead beyond all hope of resurrection, however, once Atsumu pulls the guard’s unconscious body between them so that he lies flat on his stomach and pats the armour plate upon his back. “You still got your cards in yer pocket?” he asks. “I’ll teach you some tricks.”

Luckily, the guards did not search Kiyoomi for concealed weapons like they did Atsumu. Perhaps the man they think Kiyoomi is supposed to be is known not to carry arms, or perhaps Kiyoomi just looks the sort not to know how to fight. Either way, it means his pockets still carry his coin purse and his two new decks of cards.

He pulls out the one Atsumu didn’t ruin with a shuffle and hands it over. Atsumu then proceeds to use the man’s back as a table and starts walking Kiyoomi through the fundamental basics of a few different games so that he’s not completely clueless when they get back on the ship.

They pass hours that way, but Atsumu never lets him play seriously. He wants to keep their match for later, once ‘Kiyoomi’s skills have sufficiently ripened.’ Whatever that means. At one point the guard wakes and lifts his head with a groan. Atsumu picks up his dropped truncheon and smacks him on the head with it to send him back to sleep, then resumes his lecture on the intricacies of backwards-switch-fish-jack.

The rules are far easier to understand when Atsumu explains them. Kiyoomi’s not sure whether Bokuto and Osamu are just particularly bad at explaining games, or if his personal biases are playing a part, but either way he feels considerably more confident that he understands how to win by the time Atsumu is finished.

When Atsumu moves on to playing a game of solitaire by himself, Kiyoomi knows the night is creeping in, because he can feel the tightening of his stomach that means it’s around dinner time.

“It was tuna night,” Atsumu says sadly. “The best fuckin’ night of the week. I’ve been talkin’ ‘bout it with the staff for days. Cook said she was gonna make me somethin’ special.” He moves an ace to the side and resumes his thinking pose, resting his cheek in his palm. “I’m gonna make it my life mission to find those motherfuckers when we get outta here. If I can’t watch ‘em hang myself, I’ll settle for peltin’ shit at them in the stocks.”

“Not because you’re being wrongfully imprisoned,” Kiyoomi confirms. “But because they’ve made you miss tuna night.”

“Precisely, Omi-kun. I got the straightest priorities around.”

As the hours crawl by, most of which they fill with idle chatter, Kiyoomi’s nerves start to resurface. Every noise that filters through the open door, Kiyoomi thinks is going to result in an Osamu brandishing a key to freedom. Every rambunctious shout from the other prisoners down the hall sounds like one of Bokuto’s.

“You can sleep if you want,” Atsumu tells him when it becomes impossible to stifle a yawn. “I’ll wake ya when Samu’s here.”

He doesn’t argue this time. They roll the guard out of the way and shuffle close again, sitting like they had done earlier with their thighs almost touching. Kiyoomi leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, hoping that sleep might rid his stomach of the rapidly pooling nausea, and Atsumu is especially careful not to make any irritating noises.

Kiyoomi doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up with a start. It’s not completely dark, there’s still some light pouring in from the lit torches beyond the door, but it’s so quiet that the whole jail must be fast asleep.

There’s a weight on his shoulder. One that is warm and Atsumu shaped. He’s fallen asleep too, and his head has fallen from it’s lean against the wall so that his hair tickles the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck. It’s incredibly uncomfortable. Kiyoomi’s back aches with the need to stretch it, and his neck feels as though every muscle has turned to stone, but he doesn’t dare to move. He doesn’t want Atsumu to leave.

He leans his head back against the wall again, ready to close his eyes and return to sleep, when movement in front of him catches his attention.

It’s a shadow against the wall outside, but oddly enough, Kiyoomi can’t hear any accompanying footsteps.

It’s an odd shape too. Like an elongated oval that seems to bob around in jittery movements as whatever it is ascends the stairs.

There’s an odd shuffling noise, the distinct flapping of wings, and then Kiyoomi almost keels over in shock as Banana peeks his head around the open doorframe and says, “Fuck off.”

Kiyoomi wiggles his shoulder. “Miya,” he whispers. “Miya wake up.”

Atsumu groans in his sleep and nuzzles closer into Kiyoomi’s neck. It would be welcome, were Kiyoomi not so scared that he’s already died and woken up in some sort of alternate universe.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says louder, with a more violent shake of his shoulder. “Atsumu.”

Atsumu finally gets up and rubs at his eyes with his hands. “What?” he grunts. “Is Samu here?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says. “It’s—I—It’s Banana.”

With a weak laugh Atsumu drops his head back down onto Kiyoomi’s shoulder and says, “Funny joke, Omi.”

“I wish I was joking.”

“Go back to sleep. Yer probably hallucinatin’ or some shit through hunger or—”

“—fuck off—”

“—what…e…ver…”

Atsumu bolts upright and rubs more vigorously at his eyes. He looks at the door, where Banana is now standing proudly, tilting his little green head at them both and repeating the same curses over and over, and his mouth falls open in shock.

The sound of fighting picks up in the distance, accompanied by hurried footsteps. Kiyoomi distinctly hears Bokuto’s laugh this time, the real one, the sound of Osamu whistling and the jangle of keys.

“Well I’ll be fuckin’ damned,” Atsumu says breathlessly. “The bird isn’t useless after all.”

Chapter Text

Bokuto takes one look at Kiyoomi and Atsumu huddled together on the floor and bursts in to loud, raucous laughter. “Ha! Pay up, Myaa-Sam!” he calls over his shoulder. “I was right.”

“No fuckin’ way.” Osamu’s voice follows close behind, and then he’s joining Bokuto in the doorway with a grimace. They’re both wearing their night shirts, loose white linen that would make them look startlingly ordinary were Bokuto not still wearing his eyepatch and Osamu not carrying his pistol.

Kiyoomi hears Osamu curse more under his breath as he reaches into his pocket, then he hands over a few coins and scowls at his brother. “The one time I bet against yer stupidity and look what it gets me.”

“The hell d’ya mean you were bettin’?” Atsumu scowls back. “Bettin’ on what?”

Bokuto picks up Banana from the floor and pulls a handful of food out for him to peck at. “There are only two reasons Tsum-Tsum would miss tuna night,” he tells the bird in the tone of voice usually reserved for small children. “Getting arrested, and banging Sakusa.”

“Jesus.” Atsumu groans and hangs his head. Kiyoomi would pat his back in consolation, but he physically can’t reach, not without twisting Atsumu’s arm.

“Myaa-Sam insisted you were off being disgusting, but I said Sakusa’s probably got another week or so in him before he finally caves. Which meant you were definitely sitting in a cell somewhere.”

“Jesus,” Atsumu says a little louder. Kiyoomi can almost feel the heat of the blush decorating his cheeks. “Did ya come here to rescue us or to make us wish we were dead?”

“Both,” Osamu says as he walks over swinging several rings of keys around his finger. “I had to cut my meal short for this shit, so stop fuckin’ whinin’.”

“Because ya heard me, right?” Atsumu says, a hopeful twinkle in his eye. “The messages I sent.”

Osamu starts testing keys against the cuffs on Atsumu’s wrists. They must have knocked every guard from the entrance to their cell unconscious to have collected so many. Kiyoomi remembers counting at least seven on their way in. “What messages?”

“The brain ones, Samu,” he says. “I told ya where I was, that’s how ya got here. How you found us.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?” There’s a click as Osamu undoes the cuff attaching Atsumu to the wall, and then he moves over to the wrist that is connected to Kiyoomi’s. “We found ya because we spent the last four hours followin’ the damn bird around town. We had to stop and watch it drink water outta the fountain for twenty-five minutes because Bokkun refused to make it go faster.”

“He doesn’t work well under pressure!” Bokuto cries.

Kiyoomi snorts. “Ah, yes, I see,” he says. “So this is the fabled twin telepathy at work.”

“Twin telep—Aw shit, Tsumu, not this again.” Osamu looks as about as distraught as his perpetually unfazed face will allow. “I told you to stop tellin’ people we have that, ya fuckin’ moron. It’s embarrassin’.”

Atsumu sticks his chin up in defiance. “It’s not embarrassin’, it’s real. That time you got yer foot stuck in the drain, I felt yer distress and found ya.”

“I was a few feet away, Tsumu. You just heard me screamin’ for help.”

He taps his fingers to his temple again. “I felt it.”

Osamu pauses his work on Kiyoomi’s cuffs and looks up at him. “I would apologise on his behalf for all the dumb shit he’s probably said tonight,” he says. “But yer stupid enough to keep hangin’ round with him so you probably brought this on yerself.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Kiyoomi says. He’d had multiple opportunities to cut the day short with Atsumu and had denied them all. In the end, despite the fact that they’d almost died, he doesn’t regret the decision at all. If anything, it was a pretty rewarding experience.

They cuff the unconscious guard before they go. Osamu leaves multiple rings of keys within his reach, but takes the real set with him.

As they descend the stairs, Kiyoomi notices that they did, in fact, knock nearly a dozen guards out in their fight to the top. They’re lying in heaps on the ground, limbs entangled, faces bruised, weapons discarded.

As they walk past cells, Bokuto stops multiple times to ask the people locked inside what they’ve done. The ones he deems wrongfully imprisoned – like the man who stole a loaf of bread, and the woman who pelted horse shit at her abusive employer’s carriage - he throws a set of spare keys to set themselves free.

They find Atsumu’s belongings in a crate of confiscated items near the entrance – his scimitar and pistol, his room key, his coin pouch. He doesn’t stop there either. He shrugs on a stranger’s coat and offers another to Kiyoomi that he refuses on account of not knowing where it’s been. He takes a few more pouches of coins and another impressive-looking pistol, then Osamu has to physically drag him away before he tries to reach for anything else.

It's well into the night when they finally step outside. Kiyoomi welcomes the cold breeze that hits him, embraces the coolness in his lungs as he takes a deep breath in. Spending time locked up in such horrendous conditions really does give him a fresh perspective on life. He’s no longer as disgusted by the circumstances on the ship – perhaps he’ll even try sleeping in the hammock. It can’t possibly be worse than a mouldy stone wall, providing Atsumu has put it up correctly. They hadn’t exactly been on as amicable terms when he’d dismantled Kiyoomi’s bed in the first place.

So as not to risk stumbling into more guards, they stick to the shadows on their way back to the inn and keep their chatter to a minimum. When they do talk it is in hushed whispers – minus Banana who does not understand the concept of stealth and seems insistent on scaring the living daylights out of all of them by squawking at random intervals.

Atsumu retells the story of how they got captured in the first place, of the Sakusa-impersonating tricksters, and their fool proof schemes. Osamu finds it hilarious, and Bokuto swears he’s heard the names Makki and Mattsun somewhere before, though he cannot place where, exactly.

“Maybe you got scammed,” Osamu suggests. “Maybe they sold you the bird.”

“It wasn’t a scam.” Bokuto makes a face. “I think tonight has proven that Banana was worth every gold coin I paid.”

The clock tower chimes midnight as they turn onto the familiar street that houses the inn. It’s by no means quiet when they step inside; Kiyoomi can hear Hinata and Kageyama arguing, and the dull thud of a football being kicked into something made of glass. Suna and Ushijima are waiting in the lobby and force them to retell the story again – this time Suna laughs, and Ushijima claims that Makki and Mattsun are familiar names. They’re a part of Oikawa’s crew, though they tend to do as they please and only sail with him when a particular journey takes their fancy.

Kiyoomi supposes Kageyama really was onto something when he suggested Oikawa be blamed for his misfortunes. The name seems to keep cropping up.

Before he leaves for bed, Kiyoomi thanks Osamu and Bokuto sincerely, to which they both shrug, tell him not to mind, and instead to, “Thank Banana.”

Kiyoomi vows to buy the goddamn bird anything it’s tiny heart desires. He’d relinquish his own title in a heartbeat if it asked, though he’d wager it’d be far happier with an apple.

As they ascend the stairs, one step at a time, shoulders flush against each other’s, Kiyoomi thinks Atsumu is going to turn off towards his room as they reach the second floor. He doesn’t. He continues on wordlessly until they’re both standing outside Kiyoomi’s door.

“How is your arm?” Kiyoomi asks him. He’d forgotten about the injury through all the distractions of getting arrested and almost executed. Now he’s suddenly concerned for the integrity of the stitches with all the fighting and pulling at chains Atsumu has done all day; Kiyoomi can see the red rings of injury encircling his wrists that suggest he’d been rather rigorous with himself.

Atsumu rubs his hand over the wound. “Fine,” he says. “Itchy,” he elaborates when Kiyoomi raises a sceptical brow.

Kiyoomi unlocks his door. “I’ll clean it before you sleep,” he says. “God knows what manner of filth we’ve spent the day steeping in.”

If he has any complaints, Atsumu doesn’t voice them. He follows Kiyoomi into his room again and stands awkwardly beside the desk as Kiyoomi procures the supplies.

“Sit,” Kiyoomi tells him, gesturing to the surface of the table.

Atsumu shakes his head and shrugs out of his new coat. “Don’t wanna get dead convict piss on yer stuff.”

Kiyoomi’s laugh is light. “I’ll clean it later,” he says. “Just sit.”

He ignores that and puts the coat down first, spreading it out like a blanket to stop himself from dirtying Kiyoomi’s desk. Then he sits with a sigh of relief and far back enough that Kiyoomi can stand between his legs to get as close as he needs.

It feels somewhat different when Kiyoomi rolls Atsumu’s sleeve back this time. He’s suddenly aware of how Atsumu’s skin feels beneath the tips of his fingers, how heavy Atsumu’s gaze is, how loud their breaths sound in the stillness of Kiyoomi’s room. It reminds him of that moment they shared in the cell, the moment they’d been clutching each other, leaning in to resolve their bubbling tension before the guard had interrupted them.

There’s no one to interrupt them now.

Kiyoomi moves slowly, holds the underneath of Atsumu’s arm steady and dabs the alcohol-soaked cloth around the wound again in a pattern that has become familiar. Atsumu doesn’t hiss, it’s not painful now that the wound is closed, but he does suck in a breath when Kiyoomi moves his hand to brush a thumb lightly against the sore skin of his wrist.

“You could have torn your skin,” Kiyoomi tells him. He’d gotten close – Kiyoomi can see the angry red grazes that haven’t quite broken the surface, ones that will bruise unpleasantly come the morning.

“That woulda been fine,” Atsumu says. “It woulda given me another excuse to keep talkin’ to you.”

“You don’t need to maim yourself to talk to me, Miya,” Kiyoomi frowns. “In fact, I would prefer not to see another drop of your blood for the rest of my life.”

Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s laugh rather than hears it, an outward huff of breath that tickles his cheekbone. “Sorry ‘bout today.”

“What are you apologising for?”

“If I hadn’t dragged ya out, none of that woulda happened.”

Kiyoomi puts the cloth down and narrows his eyes at Atsumu. Arguably, Atsumu has said some of the most ridiculous things Kiyoomi has ever heard in his whole lifetime today, but this takes the grand prize. “Don’t be idiotic. That wasn’t your fault."

“It was,” Atsumu insists. “I kept takin’ ya places because I was bein’ selfish and wanted to spend more time with you—”

“—Oh, how despicable of you—”

“—and—Shut up. It’s true. If I’d let ya go back earlier, maybe the guards wouldn’t have found us.”

“If you want to play the blame game that badly,” Kiyoomi scoffs, “shouldn’t you be blaming Makki and Mattsun for their schemes? Perhaps you should follow suit and blame Oikawa for putting you on my ship in the first place.” Atsumu makes a face, but Kiyoomi presses on because he hates the way guilt sounds on him. “You could take it one step further again and blame me for choosing Itachiyama over a party, or perhaps my grandmother for being born. The list is endless, Miya.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to protest, then swiftly closes it again. “Wait, what? What’s yer grandmother hafta do with any of this?”

Kiyoomi straightens and clears his throat. “Nothing,” he says quickly. He hadn’t meant to divulge that much. He’d been trying to get the point across that what happened today was not any one person’s fault, rather a culmination of rotten luck and bad timing, not provide Atsumu with ample opportunity to tease him.

Atsumu leans forward, the downturn of his lips swiftly replaced with an interested smile. It would piss Kiyoomi off, were he not so relieved to see it return. “Why were ya on the ship in the first place, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi looks away. “I’ve told you all before. I was attending a lecture.”

With a mischievous hum, Atsumu tilts his head to try and meet Kiyoomi’s eye again. “Yeah, and why were ya goin’ to that? What’s that about a party? Come on, stop poutin’, I’ve toldya all sorts of embarrassin’ shit. Now it’s your turn.”

Kiyoomi supposes that is fair, though there is a fundamental difference between them in that Atsumu loves to talk about himself, whereas Kiyoomi prefers to forget that he actually exists most of the time.

He pretends to busy himself with the salve so that he doesn’t have to look at Atsumu as he says, “My grandmother is turning sixty this month. I suppose she’s the sort of person who not only craves attention, but refuses to settle for mediocrity. She makes it a point to throw the most lavish parties out of those in her social circle, does whatever they do but bigger and better. They go on for days, sometimes weeks. This one was set to fall over the course of a whole fortnight. Perhaps longer.”

“Damn,” Atsumu says. “Yer grandmother sounds like a riot.”

“No,” Kiyoomi snorts. “It’s not the sort of party you are thinking of, Miya. There’s no ale, or strip poker. It’s hours of standing around in ridiculous suits, pretending to strangers like I care a damn about stocks or the economy, or some man’s recent entry into pretentious philosophical poetry. They don’t hand out enough champagne for you to get even remotely drunk, since causing a scene is the equivalent of committing social suicide, and all I seem to encounter nowadays are fathers trying to convince me to court their daughters.”

“Ah,” Atsumu says as his shoulders deflate. “That does sound like shit. You don’t like courtin’ daughters?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says with a twist of his lips. “I don’t, and I’ve made it a point to start rejecting less gracefully than my parents care for. I suppose that’s why they let me leave for the lecture in the first place. It’s not as though my grandmother will miss me sulking in the corner.”

“Betcha wouldn’t sulk as much if I was there though, huh? Maybe I’ll save you the trouble of sailin’ across the country next time and crash it. I think yer grandmother would love me.”

“I mean this in the nicest possible way, Miya, but I’m certain that if my grandmother met you, she’d faint.” That would probably be putting it lightly. If Atsumu opened his mouth in her vicinity, Kiyoomi is almost certain they’d need to skip calling the medic entirely and send a summons for the undertaker.

“Why?” he asks. “Because I’m so devilishly handsome her heart couldn’t take it?”

Kiyoomi levels him with an unimpressed stare. “Because you are the walking definition of a noblewoman’s nightmare.”

Atsumu reaches out and takes the salve from Kiyoomi’s hands. He’s forgotten to put it down himself after finishing up applying far too much to Atsumu’s wound. Atsumu sets it aside now and slyly hooks one of his legs behind the back of Kiyoomi’s to pull him impossibly closer.

“Yeah?” he asks. “What exactly about me screams nightmare, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi glances down at his leg. “Your atrocious manners, for one,” he starts. He brings his hand to the collar of Atsumu’s open shirt and flicks it with a finger. “Your appallingly immodest sense of fashion.” Kiyoomi trails the same hand up to Atsumu’s chin and tilts his head back and to the side so that he can see the glint of his earring. “Piercings and scars that suggest you flirt often with danger.” He moves his thumb up from Atsumu’s chin to his bottom lip and runs the pad of it over the scar. “A mouth so foul it’s almost dizzying.”

Atsumu swallows. His eyes are blown wide and dark as they flicker across Kiyoomi’s face. “Guess the standards must be different for noblemen. If yer still standin’.”

“No, they’re the same,” Kiyoomi admits. “It’s just mine that differ.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says.

“Yeah.”

Atsumu nods imperceptibly. “That’s good. ‘Cause I’m about to act real impolite for a sec.” He leans up and simultaneously pulls at the strings falling loose at the collar of Kiyoomi’s shirt until their faces are inches apart and Kiyoomi has to put a bracing hand on the desk to stay upright. “If ya don’t fuckin’ kiss me right the fuck now, I think I’m gonna fuckin’ explode, Omi-kun.”

“Not even a ‘please,’” Kiyoomi muses, ignoring the deep swooping of his stomach, the light fluttering inside his chest.

“Fuckin’, please,” Atsumu grits out.

“That’s better.”

Kiyoomi has only ever kissed one man before now. A short-lived tryst behind a wall at a social gathering that ended sooner than it began out of fear of being caught. He can’t even remember what the guy looked like, what his name was, only that he had kissed him, and it had been nice enough.

Faced with someone like Atsumu, his inexperience daunts him, but he doesn’t allow himself to overthink it. He doesn’t think Atsumu particularly cares right now.

It’s undoubtedly chaste. A simple meeting of lips that almost makes Kiyoomi sigh into it it’s so soft and warm and pleasant.

Kiyoomi closes his eyes the second time, melts into the third. His hand that was angling Atsumu’s chin moves around to rest below his ear where his shoulder meets his neck. He guides him in to the fourth short kiss, a lingering fifth, a breathy sixth, then realises that Atsumu is still clutching rather uselessly to the front of Kiyoomi’s shirt and nothing else. He leans back and Atsumu frowns at the loss of contact.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks, eyes bright, wild, and searching.

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. He pulls Atsumu’s hand free and grabs his other that is clutching the end of the desk in a white-knuckled grip. He places both of them on his waist then says, “Not anymore.”

Atsumu asks, “You sure?”

“Always.” Kiyoomi kisses him again, and then he throws propriety out of the window when Atsumu’s hands slide teasingly up his spine. He arches into the touch, opens his mouth and lets a small gasp break the kiss again.

“Shit. Yer makin’ me feel like I’m drunk,” Atsumu says against his lips, breaths shallow as he tries to catch them. “Yer intoxicatin’.”

Kiyoomi’s fingers find the short hair at the back of Atsumu’s neck, and he tugs it experimentally. “What smutty romantic novel did you filch that line from?”

Atsumu grins. “Can’t remember the name of it,” he says. “But I do remember what came next. Want me to show you?”

Kiyoomi can do little else other than nod as Atsumu’s hands slide down to the small of Kiyoomi’s back. He dips forwards to recapture Kiyoomi’s lips, this time running his tongue along them until Kiyoomi opens wide enough to let him in.

He’s a little awkward at first, lets Atsumu lead the charge of deepening the kiss as he holds back and takes notes. Atsumu is a great teacher, not just of card games it would seem; Kiyoomi picks it up quickly and responds in earnest, licking into his mouth in such a way that draws gentle noises from Atsumu’s throat and makes him tighten his grip on Kiyoomi’s shirt. It’s been a few hours, but he can still taste the sweetness of chocolate syrup on Atsumu’s tongue and now he thinks it might just be his favourite flavour.

Atsumu groans when Kiyoomi bites lightly at his lip, and he pulls himself away to rest his forehead on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, arms still wrapped around Kiyoomi in a loose hug.

“Something wrong?” Kiyoomi echoes Atsumu’s words from earlier.

“Y-yeah.” Atsumu clears his throat. “Yer gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

With the way Kiyoomi’s heart is beating like the frantic wings of a hummingbird, he thinks he might be in trouble too. Atsumu can probably hear his pulse thumping.

“We should probably get some sleep,” Kiyoomi tells him with so little conviction, he might as well have not said it. He doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to drag Atsumu over to his bed and kiss him until the sun rises, until he forgets that he’s hundreds of miles from home, until he forgets his own name.

“Sleep,” Atsumu repeats without lifting his head. “Yeah, I dunno about that. I think I’m gonna be awake thinkin’ about that forever.”

Kiyoomi finds his chin again and forces him to look up. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Is it?” Atsumu narrows his eyes. “You didn’t kiss you.”

“Do you ever actually stop to think about the words coming out of your mouth?”

“No,” he says. “I’m usually too busy thinkin’ ‘bout what I’m puttin’ in it.”

As he leans in for another kiss, Kiyoomi wonders why, of all people, he had to start falling for Miya Atsumu with his foul mouth, and his bad attitude and his immature tendencies. But when they part again, and Atsumu smiles, eyes creased at the corners, dimple indenting his cheek, Kiyoomi thinks, ah, I suppose I never really had a choice.

Breakfast the next morning is a quiet affair. Most of the crew are off carrying supplies to the ship, stocking it full of food and ammunition and barrels of fresh water for the journey starting early the following morning. Atsumu has still been forced to stay behind, and Suna’s been tasked with ‘watching over him,’ though that feels more like an excuse not to do any heavy lifting than it does a genuine concern.

Nothing noticeable changes between Kiyoomi and Atsumu when they take seats next to each other, aside from the fact that Atsumu keeps sending Kiyoomi bright smiles whenever their eyes meet. Ones so blinding Kiyoomi finds himself looking away out of fear for his own ocular and cardiovascular health.

Midway through their meal, Hoshiumi returns from his excursion at Hirugami’s place, looking bright-eyed and cheerful. “Ah,” he sighs as he takes a seat with a plate stacked so high with food it’s almost spilling over the sides. “Spending all that time with Sachirou has spoiled me. I forgot how incurably ugly you all were.”

Atsumu sputters indignantly, but Suna ignores the jab and gestures to Hoshiumi’s plate. “Did Hirugami even feed you? Why are you suddenly eating for twelve? We’re sailing, not going into winter hibernation.”

“Shut up! I’m a growing boy,” he says. “This meal is specifically tailored to add at least a millimetre to my height by the end of the day if I finish the whole thing.”

Kiyoomi presses his lips into a line to quell his laughter. “Unrelated question,” he says. “But how old are you?”

Hoshiumi narrows his eyes as he shovels scrambled eggs into his mouth. “Twenty-four,” comes his muffled reply. “Why?”

“Ah,” Kiyoomi says. “No reason.” He turns to Atsumu sitting at his left, picking his way through a chocolate muffin. “I learnt the most fascinating thing in one of my books the other day,” he tells him.

Atsumu snorts. “What’cha learn, Omi-kun?”

“According to new breakthroughs in scientific information, humans permanently stop growing around the ages eighteen to twenty.”

Suna chokes inelegantly on his tea and covers his mouth to stop it spilling out.

“Woah, you’re right,” Atsumu laughs. “That is so interestin’. What else did yer book say?”

Kiyoomi hums. “Beyond the age of forty, it’s actually possible to shrink due to the decreased levels of spinal fluid.”

Hoshiumi slams his fist into the table. “That’s definitely not true. You just made that up.”

Kiyoomi sips his tea. “Studies have shown humans can lose up to half an inch a decade. If you live long enough, perhaps some of us will eventually come down to meet you.”

“I don’t need to be tall to rip your face off, Phantom Scholar.”

“Then you’d best eat up,” Kiyoomi smirks. “You’ll need all the energy you can get if you want to jump beyond my kneecaps.”

Atsumu’s laugh is bright with surprise and music to Kiyoomi’s ears.

There’s a shuffle of movement. Hoshiumi scoops a spoonful of egg and hurls it across the table at Kiyoomi. As though it was anticipated, Atsumu’s hand flies out to catch the food before it can hit him, and he throws it back so that it splats against Hoshiumi’s face instead.

Eyes still closed beneath a layer of egg, Hoshiumi points between them with his fork. “What the fuck?” he demands. “Are you betraying the cause, Sakusa? Teaming up with the enemy?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says proudly at the same time Kiyoomi says, “No, of course not.”

Atsumu gapes at him. “The fuck you mean, no?” Kiyoomi can almost see the words What about last night? burning behind his eyes.

“I told you the truce would only last as long as we were on land,” Kiyoomi says with a shrug. Regardless of his feelings, provoking Atsumu is always fun. More so now than ever.

“Yeah, but—”

“Sleep with one eye open, Miya.”

Atsumu huffs and Kiyoomi supresses the urge to kiss his frown away. “I already sleep with them both open. I have no weaknesses. You’re the one that should be worried.”

“He’s lying,” Hoshiumi says, face now clean of egg but coated in greasy residue. “He sleeps like a log. You could throw him overboard and he wouldn’t wake up until he was through drowning.”

“I wouldn’t wake up at all, ya fuckin’ idiot. I’d be dead.”

Hoshiumi sniffs. “Lucky us.”

The peace is shattered. Atsumu gets up tries to climb the table in order to fight Hoshiumi. Suna eggs them on. Kiyoomi warns him not to pull his stitches, drinks the last of his tea, then returns to his room to finish packing.

Kiyoomi doesn’t see Atsumu for the rest of that day. He disappears somewhere, despite the fact that they’d pledged to stay indoors lest guards find them again, and he doesn’t return until dinner. He shows up far later than everyone else, once they’re all seated and already placing their orders. He walks right up to Kageyama, who’s sitting in the seat next to Kiyoomi, grabs him by the collar and pulls him to his feet.

“A-Atsumu-san,” he protests, voice cut off by his own shirt cutting into his windpipe.

“Go sit next to one of yer shrimps, Tobio-kun.”

He does, rubbing at his throat with a frown as Atsumu slips into the now empty seat.

“That was so unnecessarily rude, Miya,” Kiyoomi drawls quietly with the unimpressed raising of a brow.

“Tough shit. I couldn’t stand to be apart from ya any longer,” he says with a wink.

Kiyoomi grimaces. “I could.”

The elbow Atsumu throws into his side is light. “Liar,” he laughs. “And I would know. Samu says I’m a habitual one.”

“That is not something to be proud of.”

It’s their last meal before they’re due to get back on the ship the next morning. Ushijima treats them all to wine after food and lays the map out on the table to go over the route while they drink it in high spirits.

“How did you even come across such a map?” Kiyoomi finds himself asking after Hoshiumi and Hinata are through loudly theorising what kinds of gemstones they’ll find when they arrive.

“We first heard word of it from a bard called Saeko,” Hinata explains. “Atsumu-san beat her at blackjack but she’d run out of money and paid with a map instead.”

Atsumu grins proudly. “It was intentional. She’d been braggin’ about it all week at the tavern, sayin’ it was a legendary piece that led to a prize so big it’d take two trips to bring the cargo home. So, I bided my time ‘til she was broke then challenged her for it.”

Kiyoomi points to the map spread open before Ushijima. “That one?”

Atsumu shakes his head. “Saeko’s map led us to a clocktower in Miyagi. There was another map hidden behind a stone in the wall.”

“That one took us to a farm in Hyogo where we got given another map after beating this really weird family in a series of duels with wooden swords. That led us to a small island nearby, and we spent a whole week there, digging up sand ‘til we found a chest,” Bokuto adds.

Ushijima reaches beneath his shirt and pulls out a chain. There’s a key attached to it, an old, rusty-looking thing with a head that resembles a crow similar to the one on Kageyama’s dagger hilt. “The chest contained this key, the map, and a journal containing instructions on how to safely disengage Ukai’s traps.”

“Traps?” Kiyoomi asks.

Ushijima nods. “If the journal is to be believed, Ukai did not want anyone to take his treasure unless they’d earned the right by finding his notes.”

“We’ve been waiting to do this trip for years,” Hoshiumi says. “We’ll be so rich we’ll be set for life!”

Kiyoomi hadn’t believed there would be any treasure waiting for them before now. He was certain they’d arrive upon Ukai’s island, find it empty, and then he could simply enjoy the long journey home. Now, after hearing the story, after seeing the key for himself and the conviction in the crew’s eyes, he is, at the very least, intrigued.

It will take them two weeks to sail there, Ushijima says, if the weather is permitting. Should the winds travel against them, it might take closer to three. They’ve procured enough fresh food to last them the journey there, but they’ll have to make do with the blander stuff the journey back, unless they can find anything substantial to hunt or forage on Ukai’s island.

“We’ll make one last stop for more food once we’re done,” Ushijima says, “then we’ll get you home, safe and sound.”

Kiyoomi nods amicably at that. A month, give or take, before he gets to return to normality. It’s better than not at all.

Once the map is rolled back up and safely stored inside Ushijima’s pocket again, the talk devolves from anything substantial into drunken nonsense. Kiyoomi himself is not drunk. He is coherent and in control of his own body, but the warm buzz of alcohol emboldens him, draws laughs out of him for less when the crew reminisce about ridiculous stories from their past. The longer the night goes on, the more Atsumu leans into Kiyoomi’s side, and the more Kiyoomi leans into his, craving the warmth of his skin.

It is all Atsumu allows himself to do, even inebriated. Perhaps he’s conscious of inviting unnecessary attention unto Kiyoomi while surrounded by so many who would readily tease them, or perhaps he’s suddenly shy. Kiyoomi’s not sure, but it’s endearing; the way Atsumu’s hand sometimes reaches for his beneath the table and suddenly stops short and falls in an aborted motion.

Ushijima imposes a curfew at eleven. He forces everyone to leave for bed at the same time so that they can all get up for the early start without complaining.

Atsumu hangs back to blow Kiyoomi a sloppy kiss on the stairs before they part ways, and his habit of lying must be rubbing off on Kiyoomi somewhat, because he pretends to gag in response, whilst simultaneously wrestling a smile from the corners of his mouth.

Climbing back aboard the ship is odd. It feels as though a lifetime has passed since Kiyoomi was last walking its boards. He was relieved to leave it four days ago, and now, somehow, he is also relieved to return.

After taking his luggage back to his room, Kiyoomi returns above deck to watch Ushijima order the crew about as they prepare to set sail once again. Bokuto and Kageyama pull up the anchor, while the rest adjust the rigging and the angle of the sails to get them moving in the right direction. Once they’re done, Hoshiumi climbs the mast, flag in tow, ready to reassemble it after being forced to take it down at the port, and then they are as normal again, as though they never stopped.

The morning air is refreshing, if not a little too cold for Kiyoomi’s liking, even wearing his new thickly lined coat. It gets substantially colder still as they finally move beyond the realm of other ships coming in and out of the harbour, as the wind picks up and blows out the sails.

Oddly enough, it’s Osamu who finds him first once everything calms down. He sidles up next to Kiyoomi as he’s watching the harbour disappear and says, “Help me with the food,” in a tone of voice that suggests it’s simply an excuse to get Kiyoomi alone.

Kiyoomi shrugs and agrees. He’d felt kind of useless watching on as everyone else worked around him; he can at the very least peel vegetables to make himself feel better.

Osamu is very obviously used to the kitchen. He moves about effortlessly, plucking ingredients from bags and crates and shelves. He hands a box of carrots and potatoes to Kiyoomi, along with a knife and a peeler and tells him to skin and chop them all atop the counter.

Meanwhile, Osamu gets to work stoking a fire inside the stone stove and bringing some water to boil in a huge cauldron-like pot. “Somethin’ happened,” he says cryptically. “Between you and Tsumu.” Kiyoomi sends him a questioning look, and Osamu shrugs. “He didn’t tell me anythin’. He didn’t have to. He just suddenly stopped talkin’ bout ya every other minute. Thought you’d crushed his dreams for a second, but then I saw ya both last night and that’s obviously not the case. Guess Bokkun’s timeline was kinda out.”

The sound of Kiyoomi peeling a carrot is suddenly deafening in the ensuing silence. “Perhaps the concept of twin telepathy isn’t so far-fetched after all,” Kiyoomi says which earns him a curse and a complaint. “Is this the obligatory protective family member warning? Hurt my brother’s feelings and I’ll gut you and salt the wounds, etcetera etcetera.”

Osamu’s laugh is sharp. “Fuck no. God knows Tsumu’s treated enough people like shit in his lifetime for him to deserve it in return.”

“Then what is this about?”

“Guess I’m just curious, is all,” he says as he starts chopping lumps of beef. “As to why a guy like you would even be interested in a guy like Tsumu. He’s an asshole.”

Kiyoomi hums tiredly. “Will me humiliating myself by singing Atsumu’s praises make you feel better about your own miserable attempts at a love life?”

Osamu drops his knife on the floor with a clang. “Shit,” he says as he retrieves it. “Don’t worry. I think I get it now. You were made for each other. Yer both fuckin’ assholes.”

Kiyoomi isn’t fazed; if anything, he agrees. It’s what drew Kiyoomi to Atsumu in the first place. “I simply don’t understand how you and Suna can yearn for each other so openly and yet do absolutely nothing about it.”

The moment Kiyoomi had come to terms with his own desires for Atsumu, he’d wasted no time in acting upon them. Pretending as though your feelings don’t align for the sake of… Kiyoomi’s not even sure, exactly, seems ridiculous. Especially in a profession as risky as piracy.

“Tsumu says that all the time,” Osamu grumbles. “It ain’t that simple. I’ve known Suna all my life. I don’t wanna mess things up.”

“You told me the other day that I had to be stupid if I couldn’t see Atsumu’s feelings. There’s no way you aren’t perfectly aware of Suna’s.”

Kiyoomi refuses to believe either of the Miya twins are that foolish.

He moves on to chopping a carrot and putting the slices into a bowl for Osamu to use, and he can’t help but to smile internally at the thought of how his parents might react if they could see him now, peeling carrots and preparing his own meals. His mother would probably cry.

“It’s not the same,” Osamu says quietly. “Tsumu’s always been loud about his affections. Suna’s complicated. I could be readin’ him all wrong.”

God, Kiyoomi thinks. Thank the heavens Atsumu isn’t as emotionally constipated.

“While I am flattered you are confiding all of this in me, there’s a reason I’m not a counsellor,” Kiyoomi tells him. “And it’s because I’m far too blunt a person to bother coddling my advice. Just stop being a coward, kiss him and deal with the consequences later. All wounds heal eventually. Probably.”

Osamu looks thoughtful for a moment, like he’s weighing the pros and cons of Kiyoomi’s words, then he says, “There’s a reason yer not a chef either. Those carrot slices look like fuckin’ shit.”

Kiyoomi looks down at his work. “What’s wrong with them?”

“I forgot you’ve probably never touched a peeler in yer whole life,” he scoffs. “Yer hopeless.”

“Birds of a feather flock together or something, wasn’t it?”

Osamu rolls his eyes and turns back to cubing meat. “Fuck off.”

Chapter Text

Osamu kicks Kiyoomi out of the kitchen once he’s through chopping the vegetables, so he returns to his room for a while to test the durability and safety of the hammock. Climbing into it is one of the most challenging tasks Kiyoomi has ever subjected himself to, and he’s enormously grateful that nobody walks past his empty doorframe to witness his failures. Once he’s finally steady, it’s not so bad. It’s longer than his bed was, so he’s able to stretch his legs further, and the net supports his elbows so that it becomes easier to read whilst lying down.

Four hours of simmering later, Osamu calls out across the ship that lunch is ready. It’s a beef stew, served alongside some fresh loaves of bread that Bokuto picked up from the bakery before setting sail.

Like moths drawn to a flame, the crew pull up stools and assemble around the pot as Osamu ladles it into bowls. Sailing must be hungry work, because they all dig in immediately, and it’s the quietest Kiyoomi’s ever heard them.

That is, until Atsumu starts dramatically choking and coughing, thumping his fist into his chest to dislodge something. “Who the fuck cut these carrots?” he wheezes.

Osamu doesn’t hesitate in saying, “Sakusa did.”

Atsumu’s gaze snaps over to Kiyoomi and his eyes bulge in surprise. Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow as if to say what? and Atsumu puts his spoon down to raise a thumb. “Best damn carrots I’ve ever eaten in my whole life,” he says, chest jolting to supress his coughs, eyes red-rimmed and watering. “You should cook more oft—mmph!”

“He’s kidding,” Suna says, hand covering Atsumu’s mouth. “You don’t have to burden yourself with cooking. You really, really, don’t. Samu can do it just fine.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto adds with a frantic nod. “I’ll teach you something else. Anything else.”

Kiyoomi really doesn’t think the carrots and potatoes are that bad. Perhaps they are more… triangular in shape than Osamu’s usual, and perhaps some others might be a little too thick, but they’re edible, definitely cooked all the way through.

Still, he’s not one to turn down a good opportunity when one presents itself. “Fine,” he says. “Then teach me how to shoot.”

Bokuto cocks his head. “A pistol?”

Kiyoomi’s seen Hoshiumi’s crossbow, and the communal composite bow that gets passed around and shot to settle the disputes that rock-paper-scissors cannot, but neither are as decisive in a battle as a pistol. Kiyoomi wants to make sure he’s not caught off guard again should more pirates attempt to board.

He nods, and Bokuto claps his hands. “Sure thing! We’re all due some aim practice anyway,” he says. “Hoshiumi’s our best shot. He can run you through the basics.”

Hoshiumi’s face twists like he’s just been told to walk the plank. “Are you sure it’s even wise to weaponize him?” he asks.

“We don’t know what we might encounter on Ukai’s Island, and if we do happen to encounter more pirates, it certainly would be a sensible idea to teach you some self-defence,” Ushijima says. “There are spares in the orlop. You may take your pick and keep it.”

“What if he uses it to silence us all in our sleep?” Hoshiumi narrows his eyes pointedly at Kiyoomi. “He’s meaner than you all realise. I think he’d do it.”

Kiyoomi waves him off. “I’m not stupid,” he says. “I’d at least wait until you got me close enough to home first.”

There are more than a few spare pistols in the orlop. All taken from the bodies of the pirates that attacked. Kiyoomi tugs his gloves on and rifles through the collection, testing the weight of each in his hand. They’re all filthy, staining Kiyoomi’s white gloves with gunpowder residue and dirt – he can hardly make out the intricate patterns in the enamel of some through all the grime.

“Don’t use any of those,” comes Atsumu’s unmistakable voice from behind him. “They’re all shit.”

Kiyoomi turns to find Atsumu standing in the doorway and clicks his tongue. “Isn’t the first rule of gun safety not to startle a man holding one?”

Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest. “Nope. The first rule of gun safety is to keep it pointed somewhere non-lethal.” He nods his head towards the pistol in Kiyoomi’s hand, the one that’s aimed carelessly in Atsumu’s general direction.

Kiyoomi turns it to the floor.

“It’s fine,” Atsumu laughs. “None of them are loaded.”

Kiyoomi throws it back into the crate alongside the others, half expecting Atsumu to be lying and for it to explode upon impact. “Which one should I be using then?” he asks. “If none of these?”

Atsumu walks over and stops right next to Kiyoomi. He reaches for his belt and unholsters a familiar pistol from it. Kiyoomi recognises it immediately as the one Atsumu stole from the prison. It’s a dark mahogany, with accents of a silver metal wrapping around the barrel, carved to resemble bloomed roses and thorny vines.

“I cleaned it up for ya,” he says, holding it out for Kiyoomi to take. “I was gonna teach you how to use it myself. Y’know, gun date.”

Atsumu hasn’t just ‘cleaned it up’. He’s polished it to a gleam. Kiyoomi turns it around in his hands to inspect it, but he cannot find so much as a single speck of dust trapped within the carvings. He wonders when Atsumu found the time, having been out the whole day previous.

“Ah yes,” Kiyoomi hums. “The fabled gun date. A spectacular way to follow up the ‘death by hanging’ date that’s so rampant in all the popular romance novels these days. You are spoiling me.”

“Mark my words, it was gonna be the best goddamn date of yer life. Kita used to tell me I’m so good at talkin’, I could teach a fish to fly if I put my mind to it.” He sighs dramatically and leans against one of the beam supports. “I guess yer gonna have to make do with Hoshiumi though, huh? He’s a shit teacher. Won’t even give you a kiss afterwards.”

Kiyoomi grimaces. “I should hope not.”

“It’s fine,” Atsumu says. “I doubt he could reach ya anyway.”

Kiyoomi looks down at the pistol, runs his gloved thumb over the carvings thoughtfully. He can hear the crew shouting in the distance, even from all the way down in the orlop, and the creaking of wood around them as the boat sways, but nothing is as loud as the need Kiyoomi feels in his bones to pull Atsumu close and kiss him again like the other night.

“Perhaps,” he says, “if I still find myself lacking, I’ll come to you for a personalised lesson.”

Atsumu straightens from his lean, undoubtedly intrigued. He looks especially good today, hair loose and tousled by the wind, shirt a bright white that complements his tanned skin. Or perhaps he looks the same as always, and it’s just that with each day that passes, Kiyoomi unearths another of his plentiful charms that hopelessly endears him.

“I’m available twenty-four hours for you, Omi-kun,” he says, something undoubtedly suggestive in his voice. “All you gotta do is say the word.”

“That’s awfully convenient,” Kiyoomi hums. “Which word do I have to say to kiss you again?”

“You don’t hafta say any.” He steps closer in a challenge. “Just do it.”

The hand that isn’t clutching tightly at the pistol finds the back of Atsumu’s neck, though Kiyoomi can no longer feel the warmth of his skin through the layer of glove fabric. He guides his mouth to Atsumu’s and closes his eyes as Atsumu’s infectious warmth and stability washes over him, grounding him, even out at sea.

They are not as timid this time. Atsumu’s hands are far more explorative, and he deepens the kiss a lot sooner, presses forwards with each meeting of their lips and tongues and forces Kiyoomi to back up to accommodate him until his knees hit a stack of crates. Kiyoomi leans cautiously against them, careful not to topple them over as Atsumu moves his mouth to the side of Kiyoomi’s neck and mouths at the skin there.

“Ya taste like lavender,” he mumbles, and Kiyoomi feels the vibrations of his voice setting every nerve ending he possesses alight.

Kiyoomi drags him back up to kiss him again, and waits until they break again to say, “And you taste like mutilated carrots.”

Atsumu snorts inelegantly, his thumb rubbing idly at the nape of Kiyoomi’s neck. “Don’t take it personally, Omi-kun. Everyone’s gotta be shit at somethin’. For example, I’m bad at bein’ bad at things.”

“That’s just your delusional arrogance talking, Miya. You’re bad at plenty of things. Keeping your mouth shut, for one.”

“There’s an easy way to solve that,” Atsumu says with a grin. “A really easy way.”

“Throwing you overboard?”

His face drops into an exaggerated frown. “Well yeah, I mean, objectively speakin’ it’d probably be a whole lot quieter for ya if you threw me over, because I’d be busy tryin’ not to—mmph!”

Kiyoomi kisses him to shut him up. He is right. It is the easiest and most effective method to get him to stop talking.

“See? This is so much nicer for everyone,” Atsumu says breathily as Kiyoomi takes his turn in kissing down the column of his throat. He smells of the sea; of salt and fresh air, and maybe Atsumu wasn’t talking nonsense when he called Kiyoomi intoxicating, because Kiyoomi suddenly thinks it would be quite easy to get drunk on the taste of Atsumu.

Suddenly, a loud bang sounds above them. One loud enough to startle them apart and make them stand straight with tension.

“Yo! Ghost man!” comes Hoshiumi’s voice from the top of the stairs. “Where the fuck did you go? I don’t have all day! Pick a gun and get your ass up here before I change my mind!”

“Yeah,” is all Kiyoomi’s brain can pathetically think to call back. It’s much too full of thoughts pertaining to Atsumu and the rise and fall of his bare chest.

“Oh, one more thing,” Atsumu says before he lets Kiyoomi go. He undoes one of the many belts from his waist, the one he drew the gifted pistol from. “You’ve gotta have some place to keep yer piece safe.”

Atsumu leans in as though he is about to hug Kiyoomi, both hands behind the small of Kiyoomi’s back as he positions the belt there. In one smooth movement, his hands run along the length of the belt until they meet at the front. He tugs at the two ends, so that Kiyoomi has no choice but to take a stumbled step closer, and Atsumu’s lips quirk into a sly smile as he starts to pull it tight.

Kiyoomi watches Atsumu’s hands intently as they poke the spike through the leather notch and fold the excess length into the buckle. It’s not the sort of belt that threads through the belt loops of trousers. It hangs lopsided at Kiyoomi’s waistline, and droops even lower when Atsumu takes the pistol and slots it into place. There’s also a pocket on the other side, one that when Kiyoomi opens, finds is already packed full of ammunition.

Atsumu leans back and admires his handy work. “Suits ya,” he says with one of those huge smiles. “Yer lookin’ more like a pirate every day.”

Hoshiumi is an awful teacher.

His explanations are vague, but at the same time extremely lengthy, and he gets increasingly more agitated the more times Kiyoomi asks him to elaborate.

“You put it at half-cock, open the… this, put half the stuff in—only half, not too much or you’ll fuck it—then you close it, point it that way, pour the rest down that thing, push the cartridge in with the stick—you get that from here, see—then you squish it down and—”

“Slow the fuck down,” Kiyoomi snaps, one hand holding the pistol, the other trying to work out how to get the paper cartridge open whilst wearing gloves. “Which way should it be pointing?”

Hoshiumi stops and looks Kiyoomi up and down. “You are seriously testing my patience Sakusa,” he says. “It’s really not that difficult.”

Kiyoomi scowls. “No, I don’t suppose it would be if you’d relay the instructions in a language other than gibberish.”

“Ha? I’m speaking total sense! It’s not my fault that you’re stupid.”

“A dog could give me clearer direction.”

Hoshiumi lowers his own educational pistol and scowls back. “Then go and find a dog.”

“Maybe I will. It would at least be able to tell me what the different components are called. This and that thing are hardly very helpful.”

“You don’t need to know what they’re called. Just stop whining and do what I do!”

Hoshiumi starts to explain again, this time moving a slight bit slower as he walks Kiyoomi through the motions. Then a shot sounds, followed by another, and another in quick succession. When Kiyoomi looks up, he finds that Atsumu, Osamu and Suna have all fired their guns at their glass bottle targets on the ship’s ledge and all three have hit in an explosion of broken glass.

They start to bicker over the rules of their internal competition, over whose shot was objectively better, cleaner and more precise despite there being no lawful way of knowing. Atsumu gets pretty animated as he debates the logistics, hands working simultaneously to reload his pistol. He moves the gun with ease, tears the paper cartridge open with his teeth and—

“You’re not even paying attention! You can’t fire if you can’t even reload. Stop watching them and focus. I’m gonna show you one more time, then you’re on your own. I want to shoot too.”

Step by painstaking step, Hoshiumi walks Kiyoomi through the process again, this time with a little help from the nearby Kageyama who knows each of the component’s names and recites them with ease.

“Move the cock to the half-cock position,” Hoshiumi says, flicking the compartment at the top of the pistol. Like Atsumu, he tears open his paper cartridge with his teeth while his other hand holds the pistol steady. He pours half of the cartridge of powder into the flashpan, then closes the frizzen. “Then you pour the rest of the powder in the barrel and shove the paper in there too. That’s where the bullet is. Then you get the stick—"

“—the ramrod, Hoshiumi-san.”

“The ramrod, yeah, whatever. Then you push it all the way in like this.”

Kiyoomi mirrors him and tries not to show outward panic at having to tear the paper packet open with his teeth. He swears he can taste the gunpowder on his tongue afterwards, and it makes him crave a drink to swill it away.

“Once you’re done with all that, you can move it to full-cock and fire when you’re ready.”

Hoshiumi changes when he concentrates. He applies his full focus to what he’s doing; relaxes anger and impatience and indignance from his face until he’s so calm, he looks like a different person. When he shoots, his eyes are intense, as though they are the guiding force to his bullet, willing it in the direction of his choice. The gun fires in a crack of light and smoke, but Kiyoomi’s not watching it, he’s watching the glass bottle explode a few feet away as Hoshiumi hits it precisely.

Hoshiumi is a marginally better teacher when it comes to aiming and firing, but not by much. He still talks in riddles that not even Kageyama can help decipher. If anything, Kageyama makes it infinitely worse, adding absurd sound effects to explain the movements like Kiyoomi can understand whoosh, and bwah better than he can this and that thing.

He teaches Kiyoomi how to stand, what his eyes should be aiming for, and how to hold his arm so that the backfire doesn’t knock his shoulder out of its socket.

When Kiyoomi finally fires the gun for himself, he is surprisingly good at it. He’s able to keep his wrist steady, and his aim, according to Kageyama, is above average for someone who has never fired a pistol before now. Kiyoomi thinks his steadiness has more to do with his rapier training than any innate talent, but he takes the compliments graciously, and improves his reload times significantly.

After a few practice shots, he starts to consistently hit the bottles placed on the ledge and Hoshiumi starts to challenge him to take more steps backwards and fire from further distances.

An hour later, the whole crew are lining up to challenge him. He’s moved back a good fifty yards, has changed the bottles from rum bottles to small spice jars, and still manages to hit them every time he’s asked. The only other member of the crew who’s managed to do the same is Hoshiumi, and he takes all the credit for having trained Kiyoomi in his image.

“There’s no way you’re new at this, Omi-san!” Hinata whines. “I’ve been practicing for years and I still can’t do that.”

Kiyoomi wants to say that he cannot flit about and control a knife with the same precision and skill that Hinata does, but he doesn’t get the chance. Kageyama elbows Hinata out of the way and says, “Move, dumbass. It’s my turn.”

Kageyama reloads with such force that Kiyoomi is concerned he might break his own pistol. He fires it, misses, then his head snaps around to Kiyoomi to start furiously asking, “How did you do it? What’s your secret? Do you hold the pistol differently? Do you do something with your eyes? How much tension do you put in your forearm? What was the wind strength and direction at the time you decided to fire?”

“Woah, woah, relax, Tobio-kun.” Atsumu places a hand on his shoulder and pats it in consolation. “Let the master take it from here.”

“You are not the master,” Hoshiumi says. “I am. Look at what my protégé has achieved in a mere hour under my guidance. I have taught him so much—”

“You hardly taught me anything,” Kiyoomi scoffs. Under anyone else’s guidance, he might have gotten to this point in a whole lot less time, in fact.

“And you’re still this good. Imagine what you’d be capable of if I respected you enough to teach you seriously,” Hoshiumi says, unperturbed.

Atsumu demands silence for his shot. The whole crew quietens as he dramatically lines up his shot. Kiyoomi watches him in amusement as he licks his finger and tests the winds as though it makes a difference to a bullet. “Watch closely, Omi-kun,” he says over his shoulder with a smirk. “This is how ya fire a pistol.”

It takes him another minute or so to adjust himself, to aim, and take a deep breath. Just as he’s about to fire however, Osamu makes a loud noise that throws Atsumu off and makes him miss so terribly he shoots a hole through their pirate flag above them.

There’s a stunned silence.

Kiyoomi breaks it by clapping, and Osamu adds to it by shouting, “Woah! Where were ya aimin’ Tsumu? The fuckin’ sun?”

“Samu!” Atsumu yells, turning furiously on his brother. He holds up his smoking pistol and scowls. “Yer so lucky this is empty, or I’d use it to shoot your useless fuckin’ dick off!”

Osamu’s own laughter has brought him to tears. “That’s fine,” he wheezes. “You’d probably miss anyway.”

“I’ll show ya some fuckin’ pinpoint accuracy ya scrub, come here.” Atsumu stomps over to his brother and kicks him so hard he falls over. There’s a scuffle, then Osamu sweeps Atsumu’s legs out from under him and he hits the deck with a yell and a thud.

Ushijima looks between the twins brawling and the bottle on the ship’s ledge with a question in his eyes. “Was that your official attempt, Miya One?”

“No! That wasn’t my—ah! Stop fuckin’ aimin’ for my eyes—That wasn’t my attempt!”

“It was his attempt,” Suna says. “Just shoot.”

Ushijima misses. Suna misses. Atsumu and Osamu stop fighting and also miss, and so does Bokuto, even after removing his eyepatch for greater accuracy. In the end, they settle for a shoot off between Hoshiumi and Kiyoomi directly, even going so far as to throw the glass bottles in the air like they’re skeet shooting. There are bets placed. Atsumu champions Kiyoomi, more to piss Hoshiumi off, Kiyoomi thinks, than through his bias, and gloats excessively when Kiyoomi wins him and Ushijima a sizeable pool of gold.

Practice disbands after Hoshiumi takes a set back from Kiyoomi, and the evening winds make it more difficult to keep the bottles steady on the ship ledge. The crew return to their tasks, and Kiyoomi stands starboard as he cleans up his pistol after a long day spent firing.

“Seems like you should be the one givin’ me personalised lessons, huh?” Atsumu says as he slings an arm around Kiyoomi’s shoulders.

Kiyoomi does not think about how if that were anyone else, he’d have thrown his heel into their kneecaps. “Lesson one would be not to aim at the sky,” Kiyoomi says, making a point of looking up at the hole-riddled flag above them.

“I did that on purpose,” Atsumu says. “To add character to my design.”

Arguably, there isn’t much of Atsumu’s design left. The bullet tore a huge hole through the middle that has only grown larger after flapping about in the strong winds all day.

“You’re right,” Kiyoomi says. “It’s improved significantly.”

Atsumu nudges him with his hip. “Fuck you. It’s art.”

“It certainly is something.” Kiyoomi holsters the pistol and tucks his handkerchief into his pocket. He turns slightly so that he can see Atsumu’s face and asks, “Is there a particular reason you’ve come to bother me?”

Atsumu removes his arm from Kiyoomi’s shoulder and crosses it over the other to lean forward against the ship ledge. He looks up at Kiyoomi. “You said I didn’t need a reason to come talk to ya.”

“I said you didn’t need to maim yourself.” He reaches over and picks up Atsumu’s chin to tilt his face to the side. His fight with Osamu earlier has bruised him. Kiyoomi can see the indent of one of Osamu’s rings upon the peak of his cheekbone that had gotten a little too close to his eye, and two lines at his jaw most likely made by nails. It would be a cause for concern, if they didn’t immediately get back up and act as though nothing had happened a minute later. “Though I suppose I can’t really blame you if it’s your brother doing the maiming.”

“Aw, you worried ‘bout me, Omi-kun?”

“Objectively speaking, you have a nice face,” Kiyoomi says, letting Atsumu’s chin go and turning back to look at the sea. “It would be a shame if something were to spoil it permanently.”

Atsumu snorts. “Objectively speakin’, huh?”

Kiyoomi hums and a short silence follows it. When he glances over at Atsumu he catches him smiling out at the horizon. Not his flirtatious smirk, or his bright blinding grin, just a small, relaxed smile that’s not meant for anyone but the sea. The wind tousles his hair, and the setting sun illuminates him, makes him look as though he’s glowing.

Unobjectively speaking, Kiyoomi thinks, Atsumu is probably the most handsome man he’s ever met.

Unobjectively speaking, the sun never really sets with Atsumu around.

Kiyoomi involves himself a whole lot more in ship life after that. The next morning, Atsumu teaches him how to tie knots in thick lengths of rope and how to operate various aspects of the sails and rigging. He says it’s essential, but Kiyoomi’s certain Atsumu is simply using it as an excuse to get closer.

He learns how to climb up to the crow’s nest, and how to safely climb back down, though he doesn’t take as instantly to that as he did to shooting. The height and sway of the ship unnerve him, and by the time his feet are back on the boards again he’s vowing internally not to climb back up unless the situation absolutely demands it.

After another failed attempt at cooking, Osamu bars him from the kitchen and puts him on a watch list alongside Kageyama and Ushijima for unforgivable crimes against food. It works out well in the end; he ends up practicing cards against his fellow bad chefs with his new decks and actually gives a sober Kageyama a run for his money at backwards-switch-fish-jack.

He gets better at both poker and blackjack, follows Atsumu’s advice and is able to spot when Osamu and Suna are cheating. He helps the crew clean the deck - far better than they were managing before as far as Kiyoomi is concerned – and when Hinata comes knocking on his doorframe asking to be taught about ‘sciencey-stuff’ he complies and starts giving him lessons in astronomy.

He doesn’t forget about the war, either. On the fourth morning at sea, after an awful, windy night spent tangled in the damned hammock, he sneaks into the crew’s sleeping quarters before they’ve woken and draws an exaggeratedly curled handlebar moustache and beard onto Atsumu’s face with ink. Hoshiumi was right – he sleeps as though he is dead and doesn’t even flinch as Kiyoomi carefully dabs it on. It dries long before he wakes, so that he doesn’t realise it’s there at all as he goes about his daily tasks.

The crew not taking Atsumu too seriously is already a regular occurrence – he laughs along with them when they crack up, thinking he’s said something unintentionally funny, that his bad jokes are finally landing. Not even Suna and Hinata, his supposed allies, bother to tell him the truth, far too preoccupied with laughing themselves into tears behind their hands.

He somehow lasts all day with it on, and Kiyoomi must work extremely hard to keep a straight face when he shows up at his door to have his stitches removed that afternoon. He sits in his usual place, atop Kiyoomi’s desk, sleeve rolled up ready. As always, he watches Kiyoomi intently, like the action of removing his gloves is the most interesting thing in the universe.

“Oh,” Atsumu says and reaches out and grabs one of Kiyoomi’s hands. “What’s this? Ink?”

Kiyoomi has been able to hide the stains atop his fingers all day behind gloves; he’d forgotten about them completely up until now.

“Ah, I got bored earlier and decided to dabble in a little drawing,” Kiyoomi lies easily.

Atsumu traces his fingers over Kiyoomi’s, massages his palm with his thumb. “Bet yer real good at that,” he says. “You’ve got steady hands.”

He’s not. He’s as bad at art as he is at music, but he lets Atsumu believe that for now.

Kiyoomi tries not to look at the inky moustache. “My work has been known to bring tears to the eyes of those who behold it.”

That makes Atsumu laugh. “And they call me arrogant, huh?  I’ll be the judge of that.”

Kiyoomi takes his hand back and starts cleaning them with alcohol. “You should ask around the crew,” he says. “A few have seen my latest piece already. Osamu was particularly moved.”

“What the hell? Why haven’t I seen it?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “I suppose you will eventually. You’ll have to come and find me again when you do, to let me know what you think.”

Atsumu lets him work with that, though his brows do furrow in confusion. Kiyoomi cleans the ink off his fingers and gets to work removing the stitches the way Hirugami instructed him to. The wound has healed nicely, only light scabbing and a red scar remain. The red will fade with time, into a pale line that cuts down the whole length of his forearm, but it’s not too bad, considering what the wound had looked like originally.

“Finally,” Atsumu groans once Kiyoomi is done. He swings his arm around and rubs his hand over it, subtly trying to scratch at the scabs. “Longest week of my life. Thanks for keepin’ me alive, Omi-kun.”

“I suppose there’s nothing I can say that will encourage you to take better care of yourself.”

Atsumu makes a show of thinking, humming as his eyes arc around the room. “A kiss might,” he says when his gaze lands back on Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi can’t help the laugh that bursts forth at seeing Atsumu act so unabashedly flirtatious whilst his face is still adorned with a wonky, ink moustache. He has to turn away to contain it; Atsumu is probably going to disassemble his entire room and throw it overboard when he finds out, but it’ll be worth it entirely, especially after the night Kiyoomi endured in the hammock.

“Woah,” Atsumu says, taken aback. “I’m on a roll today. Am I really that funny?”

The way he says it so earnestly, so excitedly, makes Kiyoomi want to kiss him regardless of whether he’d just asked.

“Hilarious,” Kiyoomi says. He leans in without tipping Atsumu’s chin as he usually likes to, careful not to ruin his masterpiece, and presses a single kiss against his lips. Atsumu chases it, but Kiyoomi pushes his forehead back with his finger. “There. Now get the fuck out of my room. I’m supposed to help Bokuto with something.”

“Fine,” Atsumu sniffs. “I hope whatever it is, is so damn borin’ you spend the whole time wishin’ you’d blown him off to blow me instead.”

“Out.”

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says. “You want me to what?”

Bokuto gestures wildly with his arms. “I mean it doesn’t have to be explicit, but they like that kinda thing, y’know? Please, Sakusa! Who else am I supposed to ask? Kageyama? His vocabulary is limited to dumbass and idiot. Two of the most unromantic words I know!”

Kiyoomi’s face twists. “I am not helping you write erotic poetry to your significant others.”

Kiyoomi hates poetry. It’s far too flowery and abstract – he much prefers to tell people how he feels directly, rather than to subject them to a riddle disguised as art. Erotic poetry is beyond so many realms of his expertise, it exists in another dimension.

“Fine, then can you just read over what I’ve already written and tell me if it makes sense?”

Kiyoomi eyes him. That doesn’t sound so terrible. Bokuto has already stated that he hasn’t written anything too extraordinary, so Kiyoomi can just get this over with by pointing out any grammatical or formatting errors and sending him on his way. He nods warily and Bokuto hands over three sheets of parchment.

His handwriting is large. Not terrible, but unnecessarily capitalised and blotchy where he’s held the quill down a little too long and a little too hard. That is the least of Kiyoomi’s worries however, because the words they form make him want to pour cleansing alcohol into his retinas.

“Fucking Christ,” Kiyoomi chokes once he finishes the first page. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes in a deep steadying breath. He hopes whoever ‘Tetsu’ is has a healthy heart, or else Bokuto is going to inadvertently kill his own partner.

“Is it good?” Bokuto asks.

Kiyoomi slowly puts the parchment sheets down on his desk in an attempt to forget they exist, and blinks at Bokuto. “I’m going to be honest with you,” he says. “If I had to choose between reading another line of that, and being painstakingly eaten alive by ravenous rats, I would choose the rats in a heartbeat.”

Bokuto stares at him, lips pressed into a firm line, finger tapping idly at his chin. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Kiyoomi’s never wanted to cry so badly in his whole life. Not even when faced with his own execution days prior, did he feel as totally devoid of will to live as he does now. Bokuto must be fucking with him; there’s no way one person can be so shameless.

Luckily, the Atsumu Egg Timer rings before Kiyoomi’s lack of response becomes awkward. Socks fall from Kiyoomi’s ceiling as Atsumu shoves something through the holes to knock them out of place.

“Omi!” he calls through one hole in particular. His voice echoes around Kiyoomi’s room and Bokuto looks up, amazed and amused. “Omi, you motherfucker! Can you hear me?”

“Clear as day, Miya,” Kiyoomi calls back.

“You have shattered the peace!” he shouts. “There shall be no future truces henceforth!”

Kiyoomi smiles. “I take it you finally found my latest piece; did you like it?”

“No, I didn’t fuckin’ like it, you bastard!”

“I think it looks really handsome on you, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto calls up. “You should try growing a real one out!”

“Shut the fuck up, traitor! Yer all dead to me!”

“I did warn you,” Kiyoomi reminds him. “You informed me you’d be sleeping with both of your eyes open. Imagine my shock when I found them both opportunistically closed.”

“You lulled me into a false sense of security, Omi! I let my guard down because yer cute! Never again! I’m gonna get you back so good, you’ll be beggin’ mercy, just you wait!”

Kiyoomi hears Atsumu stomp away after that, and Bokuto shakes his head. “Kinda sick of you to make me listen to that level of shameless flirting,” he says.

“You just forced me to read a five-hundred-word poem detailing you and your partner’s genitalia. Please tell me you are joking.”

“So it was good?”

Kiyoomi pretends to skim over the other letters and hands the sheets back. “I couldn’t find a single error,” he says with a grimace. “You should get them off this ship as soon as possible. I’m sure your partners will love them.”

“Great!” Bokuto cheers. “I’ll go tell Banana.”

Atsumu’s revenge is masterful; Kiyoomi does not see it coming until it’s far too late, by which time he’s already played too far into Atsumu’s hand to salvage any dignity.

It starts like this: Atsumu continues as normal, as though nothing is amiss. That night at dinner, he sits close to Kiyoomi as has become ordinary, knees touching, arms brushing. His face is finally clean of ink, though smudges of it remain around his chin, and he lets Kiyoomi clean it off with a smile and a suggestive quip.

It is the next morning, during their knot-tying lessons, that Kiyoomi should have noticed what Atsumu was up to. He’s usually handsy, tracing his fingers needlessly over Kiyoomi’s to guide them correctly, but today he is especially so. He rests his hand on Kiyoomi’s thigh whilst he watches him repeat his instructions, walks around to Kiyoomi’s back to encircle his hands around his waist and demonstrate what the knot should look like from Kiyoomi’s perspective. He presses close, speaks lowly in Kiyoomi’s ear until his face is undoubtedly red and his heart is in his throat.

They’re alone, occupying a corner of the deck nobody is paying attention to, so Kiyoomi thinks that when Atsumu leans forwards, he’s going to finally kiss him the way he’s been hoping for all morning. Instead, he tucks a wayward section of Kiyoomi’s hair behind his ear and starts relaying instructions for another knot.

Things only get worse as the day wears on. As they’re cleaning the deck under the midday sun, Atsumu sheds his shirt and continues to chat casually to Kiyoomi as though he is oblivious to the effect he is having. He’s seen Atsumu shirtless before, but only now, after kissing him countless times, does it distract him beyond words. Kiyoomi makes a fool of himself; he kicks a whole bucket of water over, almost snaps his mop in half, and stumbles over his own feet with how often his eyes keep darting to the side to watch Atsumu sweep soapy water across the wooden boards.

“You doin’ good, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu asks with a knowing smirk as he straightens and wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Ya seem a bit clumsy on yer feet today.”

“It’s the waves,” Kiyoomi snaps back.

“Hm? But the weather’s great?”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

Atsumu laughs and continues on, body glistening beneath the heat, smile widening every time he catches Kiyoomi staring.

When they’re done, Kiyoomi tries to find Atsumu around the ship, to throw him against a wall and run his hands over Atsumu’s skin for himself, to feel the scar he recently discovered on Atsumu’s right shoulder blade, to kiss at his collarbones. But no matter what, Atsumu always seems to be busy with someone. He’s arguing with Osamu or playing cards with Bokuto. He’s engaged in competition with Hoshiumi and Kageyama, or he’s discussing something with Ushijima for so long that Kiyoomi gets bored of waiting and gives up.

At night, the crew assembles as usual for dinner. Osamu has managed to make something with rice that goes down especially well, and with a little accompanying alcohol, they forgo the stools and get comfortable sitting on the deck, leaning against the ship’s supports and walls, delving into more stories of their pasts. Kiyoomi still doesn’t tell any of his own, happy enough to listen to the others as they humiliate themselves.

After Hinata and Kageyama finally get through their story about a nobleman and an awful wig, Atsumu shuffles over to Kiyoomi, pushes his legs apart and sits in the open space between them. It doesn’t draw a reaction from the crew; Hoshiumi has long since done the same to Kageyama, and Osamu and Suna are leaning against each other’s shoulders so closely it looks as though they might fuse into one being.

Though his efforts are valiant, Kiyoomi finds it impossible to ignore him. Especially not when Atsumu leans so that his back is flush with Kiyoomi’s chest and his head fits beneath Kiyoomi’s chin. Infinitely more so when he starts drawing patterns absentmindedly onto Kiyoomi’s thigh as he listens to Bokuto talk. He tilts his head back to smile up at Kiyoomi whenever he asks a question, grips Kiyoomi’s knee when they laugh, pulls Kiyoomi’s hands so that they settle around him in a loose hug.

It almost drives Kiyoomi to madness; he spends the whole night pulling Atsumu closer, but the moment he tries to close the last gap of distance and kiss him again before they part ways to sleep, Suna calls Atsumu’s name and he leaves with a smile and a wink.

Honestly, Kiyoomi has never felt so pathetic in his life; watching Atsumu walk away like he’s some kind of pining idiot named Osamu. Atsumu is right there, and yet he’s also annoyingly out of reach for some sordid reason.

It continues the next day too, moments in which Atsumu will purposefully rile Kiyoomi up with touch, with words, with feelings and then refute Kiyoomi’s advances when it matters the most. He thinks, for a moment, that Atsumu might be having second thoughts, but that is evidently not the case. Not when that evening, Kiyoomi is suddenly being backed up against his own desk after an hour spent bantering with him over nonsensical topics.

Atsumu leans in, brings his mouth tantalisingly close to Kiyoomi’s, only for him to back away at the last moment.

Kiyoomi doesn’t let him this time, however. He grabs the front of Atsumu’s shirt and pulls him back in. “For fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with you? Kiss me already,” Kiyoomi demands.

Atsumu laughs and cups a hand around his ear. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Kiss me, Atsumu,” he says.

Atsumu’s eyes widen imperceptibly, his mouth slackens and his grip on Kiyoomi’s leg loosens, but he regains his composure. “Can’t do that,” he says, eyes very obviously falling down to Kiyoomi’s lips, tongue darting out to wet his own. “I haven’t heard ya beg for mercy yet. I said I would.”

“Ah,” Kiyoomi says, eyes narrowing as all the pieces click into place and he starts to feel like the world’s biggest idiot. “This was your revenge scheme all along? How petty and childish.”

Atsumu smirks. “And treating my gorgeous face like a drunk man’s easel wasn’t?”

“Absolutely it was. It was also a stroke of genius.”

“Yer right ‘bout that,” Atsumu sighs. “Wish I’d thought of it. Best I could come up with was this, and to be honest with ya, Omi, I’ll wager it’s been torturin’ me way more than it has you. Yer real cute when you pout, anyone ever told you that?”

No, Kiyoomi thinks. He’s heard, “Stop frowning, Kiyoomi,” and “Try your best to smile this evening, won’t you?” Nothing close to the sweet things Atsumu tells him on a daily basis, most of which he finds pretty hard to believe.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Atsumu says quietly after Kiyoomi’s prolonged silence. He brings his hand up to Kiyoomi’s face and settles it at his cheek. “Well, they should. You’re so damn pretty that sometimes I think you can’t be real.” His hand moves to the back of Kiyoomi’s head and brings his face close so that their foreheads rest against each other’s. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m still drunk at the port, and that my brain hasn’t just picked all its favourite things to dream about.”

“Jesus,” Kiyoomi breathes. “Perhaps you really should consider poetry.”

Atsumu hums. “I dunno. I think I might get old pretty quick. All I’d ever wanna write about is you.”

When they finally kiss, it feels a whole lot like coming home.

Chapter Text

“You’ve hammered it in the wrong way.”

“I haven’t hammered it in the wrong way. It’s the right fuckin’ way.”

“It is obviously not the right way. That’s supposed to be on the outside.”

Atsumu looks down at the wooden slab in his lap and chews his lip. “Shit,” he says. “I’ve hammered it in the wrong way.”

After putting the war on hold again on account of all clean and non-life-threatening ideas being exhausted, the very first thing Atsumu does with his healed arm is offer to finally reassemble Kiyoomi’s bed. He finds all the pieces from where he’d hidden them around the ship and returns them all to the floor of Kiyoomi’s room in less time than it takes for Kiyoomi to take down the hammock.

There are more pieces involved than Kiyoomi realised; six large ones, at least a dozen or so long slats, smaller rectangles that comprise the legs, and a pouch full of nuts and bolts and nails - most of which Kiyoomi is certain weren’t a part of the original construction.

They’ve been sitting in Kiyoomi’s emptied out room all morning, opposite each other with the pile of pieces between them, trying and failing spectacularly to work out the wooden puzzle. They’ve made little to no progress. It feels more like Kiyoomi has entered an odd time loop in which the same two pieces of wood keep getting nailed together and ripped apart.

“Destroyin’ this shit was a whole lot fuckin’ easier, lemme tell ya.”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi drawls. “I bet it was.”

Atsumu turns the piece he’s hammered around the other way and starts knocking it back out of place to try again. “It’s a shame yer fancy tutors never taught ya carpentry,” he says above the noise. “You might have been able to do somethin’ other than just sit there and look pretty.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. Clearly, Atsumu is out of his depth here. He’s been short with Kiyoomi all morning, swearing profusely, snapping at the slightest of remarks, though Kiyoomi takes no offence. If anything, it’s amusing to watch him struggle in fixing his own idiotic mistake. “I don’t think my parents ever foresaw me encountering a need to rebuild my own bed after having it destroyed by a raving neanderthal.”

“Charmin’ neanderthal, thank you very much.” The board isn’t budging, so Atsumu smacks the hammer against it a little harder and something cracks both audibly and worryingly.

“I can put the hammock back up if this is proving too much of a challenge for your caveman brain.”

“No, no, no.” Atsumu shakes his head, the hand holding the hammer outstretched as though he’s delivering a heartfelt soliloquy. “I shall not see milord sleep in a musty old hammock for a single day longer. How it pains me so, to observe my dearest Omi-kun crack thine own neck in discomfort.”

“I’ll have to retract the poetry thing,” Kiyoomi grimaces. “If you’re going to insist on talking like that.”

“Talketh-ing like what, sire? Thoust does not claim to know what thine speaks of.”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi says. “Then I’ll start talkin’ like this and see how you fuckin’ like it. Fuckin’ scrub motherfu—”

“Ack! No!” Atsumu drops the hammer on his knee and chokes on a scream. There’s a tear in his eye as he rubs at the forming bruise. “I promise I’ll stop, just go back to talkin’ sexy! In fact, y’know what? You’re gonna have to get out. I work better when yer not around. Yer distractin’ me.”

“I’m distracting you,” Kiyoomi repeats.

“Yeah. Gimme an hour and I’ll have it done. Can’t keep workin’ when yer…y’know.” He gestures widely in Kiyoomi’s direction. “Doin’ all that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

He grins. “Ya don’t have to.”

Kiyoomi understands that all too well. “And what happens when I leave and there’s nobody to tell you that you’ve hammered the wrong side in place?”

“Then you ignore the fact that yer bed is inside-out and be grateful ya have one at all.”

Kiyoomi gets up and slaps the dust from his knees. Honestly, he’s thankful for the chance to stretch his legs after sitting for so long in such a cramped space. “If you break it,” he warns. “I’m going to bludgeon you to death with the headboard.”

“Sure,” Atsumu waves him off, distracted with the pouch of nails. “If you can stop starin’ at my tits long enough to find it.”

Kiyoomi picks up one of the slats and throws it out of his reach before he leaves.

It takes Atsumu until the evening to fix the bed. From the deck, he watches Osamu, Suna, and Bokuto disappear and return after being summoned, and even with their help, it still takes a while before Atsumu emerges with a smile and grabs Kiyoomi by the hand.

“It’s better than before,” Atsumu says. “I made some improvements.”

As they descend the stairs, Kiyoomi eyes him warily. “That is mildly concerning.”

“No it ain’t. Yer gonna love it!”

The last time Kiyoomi saw his room, it was a jumbled pile of wood. Now, it actually resembles what he remembers it looking like before the prank war began – sans the missing door.

The ‘improvement’ is a shelf nailed into the wall made to look like a small bedside table. Atsumu has manoeuvred the whole room around to accommodate it, but it all fits nicely, and he’s already placed Kiyoomi’s current book atop it. Kiyoomi’s not sure where he’s gotten the spare wood to build it. He’s not sure he wants to ask.

“Good, right?” he says nudging Kiyoomi’s arm with his own.

“It’s actually the most intelligent thing you’ve done since I’ve met you,” Kiyoomi says in genuine surprise. It’ll make it a whole lot easier to read at night; Kiyoomi can bring the lantern down and place it on the table and subsequently blow it out without having to get up.

“I’m gonna ignore the nasty shit you said and focus on the part where you called me a genius.”

“Let’s not go that far. I haven’t had a chance to sit on the bed yet. It could all be a distraction.”

“Be my guest,” Atsumu says proudly. “I’ve already put it through rigorous testin’.”

Ah, Kiyoomi thinks. That’ll be why Bokuto returned rubbing at his head with a pained expression.

Atsumu hasn’t just built the bed, he’s made it too. It’s messily done - though Kiyoomi doesn’t say as much out loud - and he’s folded an extra blanket at the foot of it into a shape that if Kiyoomi squints, tilts his head to the side, and steps back four paces, might resemble a flower. “For when it gets cold,” Atsumu explains. “And look!” He points up at the ceiling where he’s also nailed squares of wood to the holes he’d once carved.

Kiyoomi takes a seat on the bed and when it doesn’t immediately collapse, he looks up. “Thank you, Atsumu,” he says, unable to form a snarky quip through the thickness of genuine appreciation in his throat. Besides the fact that Atsumu was the one to destroy it in the first place, it’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for Kiyoomi, born out of a want, rather than a clause in an employment contract.

Atsumu blinks. “Yeah,” he says. “Uh, no problem.”

After slipping his boots off, Kiyoomi slides onto the bed proper, rests his back against the headboard, sighs contentedly, and grabs his book. Atsumu stands there shuffling awkwardly on his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck as he looks from Kiyoomi, to the bed, to the door.

He clears his throat and Kiyoomi looks up at him again. “Can I, uh…”

“Can you what?”

“Can I sit with you?”

Kiyoomi taps a finger against the spine of his book. “I don’t know, can you?”

“Fuck off.”

Kiyoomi scoffs and moves slightly aside so that there is a sliver of bed available between him and the wall. Atsumu’s eyes light up when Kiyoomi pats the empty space, and he kicks his own boots off to climb in beside him.

The bed, arguably, is not built for two people, but Atsumu makes it work by laying most of his weight on Kiyoomi. He dips under Kiyoomi’s arm so that he’s forced to wrap it around Atsumu’s shoulders, and they lie there like that, Kiyoomi reading one handed, Atsumu just content to rest his head in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck and watch him.

“Whatcha readin’?” he asks after a whole glorious minute of silence.

Kiyoomi tilts the book to show him the cover. It’s the one he picked up from the bookstore about nautical myths and mysteries at sea. “Nonsense, mostly,” Kiyoomi says. The stories that claim to be real events are so ridiculously far-fetched that Kiyoomi has read the first few chapters with a perpetually raised brow of scepticism.

“Huh,” Atsumu says. “They got the one about the Sea Dragon? I saw that motherfucker once.”

Kiyoomi crosses his arm over Atsumu’s face so that he can flip to the contents page two handed and runs a finger down the list of chapter names. “No,” he says, then closes the book and places it on the newly constructed shelf-table. “Tell me about it. It’ll probably be more interesting than whatever that gibberish about the Kraken’s long-lost twin, the Wraken, was.”

Atsumu laughs and makes himself comfortable, wrapping an arm around Kiyoomi’s front and pulling him close.

He starts to tell Kiyoomi about the Sea Dragon; a mythical being that lives deep beneath the ocean and surfaces on rare occasions to swim alongside ships. It only ever appears at night – the moon reflects off of its scales beneath the waves to create the most beautiful colours known to the human eye. It is said to bring good luck to the sailors who see it, immortality or eternal wealth to those brave enough to jump ship and touch it.

“I mean, it mighta been ‘cause I was three sheets to the fuckin’ wind and seein’ triple,” he shrugs. “But I’m gonna keep tellin’ people it was the Sea Dragon. Went right under us, but I was the only one awake to see it.”

“As seems to conveniently be the case with most mythical sightings,” Kiyoomi drawls, snaking his free hand beneath the sleeve of Atsumu’s shirt and tracing the unevenness of the scar on his skin.

“Shut up. It must have been the Sea Dragon. Can’t have been anything else.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Atsumu sniffs. “I saw it a coupla nights before we docked, and then I met you. That’s probably what made me stumble outta the tavern when I did. What allowed Bokkun to overhear yer crew that mornin’. Sea Dragon’s luck.”

“Or curse.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu snickers. “That why yer heart’s beatin’ so fast right now? You cursed, Omi?”

He looks down at Atsumu, at his dimpled smile and soft hair and feels something twist pleasantly in his gut. “Definitely,” he says.

The next morning brings the start of their second week at sea. Osamu’s culinary options start to wear thin as the only vegetables yet to turn bad are potatoes, carrots, onions, and radishes, but the crew’s spirits never dampen. Kiyoomi remembers the stories Atsumu told of his long journeys to places farther away than Ukai’s Island and wonders what, if anything, could stop them all from chanting shanties as they work the sails.

He doesn’t have to wonder long.  When the rain falls that morning, it is despised unanimously by all. According to Bokuto’s knees, it’s just ordinary rain, not the kind that precedes a storm, but it still messes with the sails so that they must work harder than usual to stay on course.

Kiyoomi is able to help this time. He ties the knots that Atsumu taught him, and he keeps the rigging steady as the others climb to move the sails. They struggle to hear each other over the sound of rain hitting the waves and the sharp snap of the sails in the wind, but the crew is more than used to dealing with it by now, it’s just Kiyoomi that finds himself fumbling. He would feel guilty for slowing them down, but the others just seem happy to have an extra set of hands helping out.

The rain only lets up as the sun dips towards the horizon and evening sets in. Kiyoomi changes out of his wet clothes ready for food, but he still feels the dampness of rain on his skin and in his hair no matter how hard he tries to dry himself.

They clear out space in the sleeping quarters to eat, since the deck is still wet and slippery. Kiyoomi brings his spare blanket and wraps himself up in it as he eats Osamu’s soup of the day, but he only gets a few mouthfuls in before he’s forced to accommodate Atsumu wheedling his way inside too. Luckily, Atsumu naturally runs warm. His body pressed into Kiyoomi’s side helps to finally ease his shivering, along with the accompanying bottle of rum they pass back and forth between each other.

It's Hinata that suggests they play a few rounds of poker.

It’s Bokuto that suggests they make it strip poker.

“Put yer cards away, Samu. We’re playin’ with my deck, ya cheatin’ fuck.”

Bokuto and Osamu grumble about that somehow being unfair, but the rest of the crew seem relieved. Atsumu hands the cards over to Ushijima for him to deal, since he apparently still does not understand the rules enough to play himself, and then he takes a seat opposite Kiyoomi rather than next to him.

“Hope yer ready to get scandalously naked, Omi-kun,” he says.

“In your dreams, Miya,” Kiyoomi sniffs. “I don’t plan on losing any hands.”

He’s been practicing all week, joining every game that doesn’t include Atsumu. There’s a sizeable pouch in his room of Bokuto’s fake poker coins that he’s won. At the very least, he won’t be worse off than Hoshiumi who insists on only ever trying to win with a royal flush, or Kageyama who could not control his facial expressions if his life depended on it.

Atsumu grins. “We’ll see ‘bout that.”

Bokuto hands out coins – ten each, before they’ll have to start betting their clothes – and declares that each article of clothing is worth a subsequent two coins.

“Jewellery counts, socks and shoes are now classed as individual items after twingate chapter twenty-seven, and underwear stays on because last time I got a splinter in my assho—"

“I am going to deal you some cards now,” Ushijima announces. He shuffles the deck like a pensioner, slowly and meticulously. Eight pairs of eyes encourage him to hurry up about it, but nobody dares to prompt him out loud. He deals each card one at a time, and the crew take it in turns to snatch them up.

“There’s no such thing as trust in a poker game,” Osamu had told Kiyoomi once after he’d inquired as to why everyone holds their cards so closely to their chest. “Don’t let any motherfuckers see yer hand, and don’t expect anyone to play fair. It’s every man for themselves. If ya think Hinata is peekin’ he absolutely fuckin’ is.”

Each round is also preceded by a drink; Kiyoomi accepts them readily as they come, craving the warm buzz to fend off the cold now that Atsumu is no longer glued to his side.

His first two cards are awful. He folds immediately, to Atsumu’s displeasure, and sits back nursing the bottle of rum he’s now claimed as his own as the rest of the round unfolds.

Kageyama’s scowl is transparent, but he doesn’t have the good sense to quit, Hoshiumi folds with a roll of his eyes, Bokuto, Suna, Osamu, and Hinata all waggle their eyebrows at each other mysteriously, and Atsumu immediately raises the bet by pushing all of his coins into the centre of the floor.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, here we fuckin’ go again,” Osamu sighs. “Can’t ya just play normally?”

“You can fold if yer scared,” Atsumu shrugs.

Osamu bristles and pushes all of his coins in too, closely followed by Bokuto, Hinata, and Kageyama. Suna winces and folds.

Ushijima flips the first of five cards over, and the next round of bets begins. Atsumu raises the pot one of his rings and everyone calls it by offering rings of their own. By the time the fifth card is flipped, all five are still in contention having pledged a mountain of accessories between them.

“Expose yourselves,” Ushijima says to a round of complaints about his wording.

Osamu goes first, his face harrowed and eyes dark; aside from the pair of threes already in communal play, he has a pair of twos. Kageyama has absolutely nothing of worth, Bokuto holds up a single ace, and Hinata boasts a pair of nines. Judging by the smirk on Atsumu’s face, Kiyoomi thinks he’s about to showcase a spectacular hand. What he puts down, however, is an unremarkable pair of tens that only narrowly wins him the round.

“Better luck next time kiddos,” he says, pulling his winnings towards himself once everyone has shed their fingers of gold. “Looks like I’ll be stayin’ warm tonight.”

Atsumu plays like that for the next few rounds. He goes all in on every hand, no matter how shoddy. It makes it impossible for Kiyoomi to work out his tells; he’s been watching closely, not just because he likes to watch Atsumu, but because he wants to be the first to figure him out. It is an impossibility, however. When Kiyoomi thinks he spots something in the downturn of Atsumu’s lips, something subtle that spells a bad hand, Atsumu will reveal a straight flush. When he thinks Atsumu’s confidence is quieter than usual, a sign his hand might actually be good, he’ll reveal a pair so low after scaring everyone off that the crew will groan and throw their clothes at his head.

“Told ya I was an ace at poker,” Atsumu grins at him from across the circle. “Maybe you could find out for yerself if ya actually bet insteada just foldin’. I’m startin’ to feel real cheated.”

“I will bet,” Kiyoomi says. “Once I get a hand worth my time.”

Atsumu waves him off. “Ya don’t always need a good hand,” he says. “You just gotta make me believe it is.”

Atsumu is undoubtedly the best player, but he does lose a hand every now and then. When Hoshiumi actually collects his royal flush and cannot control his excitement, Atsumu folds and refuses to raise the pool any higher. When Hinata’s four of a kind beats his straight, he graciously pushes his coins across the floor and wins them all back the next round with a cocksure smile.

Kiyoomi wants to knock that smile off his face so badly the need is almost palpable.

It takes another four rounds and a whole bottle of rum for him to do so.

Kiyoomi is drunk. Almost as drunk as Kageyama who cannot sit straight without Hinata propping him up. He’s shed his blanket and rolled his sleeves up, fully warmed through with the buzz of intoxication. His ears are ringing being sandwiched between Hoshiumi and Bokuto, and his cheeks are most likely red with blush, but he’s having the most amount of fun he’s ever had playing cards in his whole life. Enough fun not to care when his hands touch the floor, or when a half-naked Bokuto throws arms around his shoulders in celebration.

Laughter runs thickly and freely, Kiyoomi’s smiles come easily and without judgement. It strikes him then that many might assume Kiyoomi is the luckiest of the bunch. He will get to return home to an estate in a few weeks, will sleep in silk sheets and have each and every of his whims answered with a ‘yes sir.’ And yet, he will insist until his dying breath that this crew is luckier. This family he has grown to love, that has shown him more acceptance, more joy and care and friendship than his real family ever has – they are the lucky ones for finding each other.

For the first time since leaving, Kiyoomi finds himself thinking of home sourly – what is it compared to this new home he has forged here, after all? An austere dinner party, a lonely night in the library, a ride around the grounds on a horse that wants him dead; those are paltry, unthinkable ideas, when compared to a single moment spent watching Miya Atsumu laugh.

And he knows it’s not just his drunken mind talking. He will feel the same way in the morning. He will feel the same way next week, and the week after, and the months that follow when he’s back at home withering beneath the pressure of his family’s expectations.

With another swig of rum, he folds and watches the rest of the round with a quiet smile. Kageyama and Hinata bet their shirts after already losing their shoes and socks, Bokuto pledges his breeches, and Osamu grumbles curses as he undoes his belt.

Atsumu wins the round again, dimples pressing into his smile, making Kiyoomi want to stop the game so he can climb across the circle and kiss them. The losers undress to the sound of Atsumu and Suna’s wolf whistles, and then Ushijima is dealing a new round after shuffling with a geriatric hand.

This time, when Atsumu pushes a pile of coins into the centre to start off the betting, Kiyoomi calls it, sliding everything he owns into the middle. It’s a decision his sober mind would never have made, but he’s too far gone now to care an ounce.

The crew all cheer and Atsumu lights up. “Now we’re talkin’,” he grins. “You musta finally got somethin’ good, huh?” He glances down at his cards. “So have I. Let’s see who the dragon’s favourin’ tonight.”

As Ushijima flips cards and Atsumu continues to raise the betting pool, more members of the crew fold until it’s just Kiyoomi and Atsumu left. Kiyoomi has already pledged all of the available items of clothing on his body just to keep up with Atsumu, to the point where if this goes wrong, he’ll be penniless and sitting in his underwear for the rest of the night.

The room splits into two sides. Those who look over Atsumu’s shoulder at his cards, and those who look over Kiyoomi’s.

“You sure you don’t wanna fold this time?” Atsumu asks him as the last card turns over. “Yer probably gonna have to get naked either way.” He waves the two cards in his hand. “Nothin’s gonna beat this.”

Kiyoomi holds up his own cards and blinks blearily at them. “I’m pretty certain this will,” he says slowly, despite the fact that his brain has next to no idea what it is currently supposed to be doing other than ingesting more rum.

“You are absolutely fucked if this goes wrong for you,” Hoshiumi whispers in Kiyoomi’s ear. “So am I. I really don’t want to see you naked.”

Kiyoomi scowls at his hand, trying to count the number of spades on one of his cards. “It’s not going to go wrong,” Kiyoomi tells him. “This is the best hand I’ve had all night. Probably.” He looks to Atsumu. “Do you believe me yet?”

“Not at all, Omi-kun,” Atsumu snorts. He nods at the cards in the centre of the circle. “Last chance, before I humiliate ya with the hand of the century.”

Kiyoomi goes to take another swig of rum, but the bottle is annoyingly empty. “I believe the same applies to you, Miya,” he says. “Perhaps you should attempt to preserve a little of your dignity for a change of pace.”

“I never had any to begin with. Bring it on, pretty boy.”

The final bets are placed; Kiyoomi physically cannot raise the pool any higher on account of Bokuto’s no underwear rule and Hoshiumi insisting nobody wants his books.

“Reveal your hands on three,” Bokuto says, starting up a drumroll by thumping his fists against the floor. The rest of the crew join in with a chanted, “One! Two! Three!”

They both throw their cards down and the room falls into silence.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.” Osamu chokes on his rum, spilling it down his front and coughing dramatically.

“What?” Kiyoomi asks, swaying slightly to the side. The waves must be choppy this evening, Kiyoomi thinks, for the room to be spinning so much.

“How fuckin’ drunk are ya, Omi?” Atsumu laughs. “Look.”

Kiyoomi looks a little harder at the cards placed in front of them. It’s all a blur of numbers and pictures, but when he concentrates all of his attention into their cards specifically, he works out two things.

One: Atsumu’s hand is a king and a seven. When paired with the communal cards, it lands him a pair of kings.

Two: Kiyoomi’s hand is…also a king and a seven, and that’s not because he’s seeing double. They really do have identical cards.

Kiyoomi makes a face. “That was your great hand?” he asks. “That’s shit.”

“Yours is exactly the fuckin’ same!” Atsumu’s laughter is light and uninhibited. Kiyoomi can hear it louder than any other laugh around the circle; it sounds far sweeter, like woodwind amongst a sea of brassy percussion.

The rules state that the pot should be split in the event of a tie. Even then, Kiyoomi must forgo most of his clothes to pay his half. He’s left with his shirt, underwear, and a single sock that he also loses in the next game because he momentarily forgets how to play, and then Bokuto is forcing him to sit out once he starts promising more items from his suitcase.

Two games later, nobody is coherent enough to play - except Atsumu, who hasn’t been drinking nearly enough rum and is only mildly tipsy. They end up putting the cards away in favour of talking, shouting, arguing, and laughing long into the night until the rain is forgotten and all that remains is bone-deep exhaustion.

Kiyoomi’s never let himself get so drunk before. He’s always been afraid of what he might do, whether it be causing a scene, acting on his repressed feelings, or touching something a sober Kiyoomi would be distressed about touching.

He doesn’t feel that here. Never feels that here. He can cause all the scenes he likes, can kiss Atsumu until his lips are numb, has already touched unspeakable gunk on a prison cell floor and lived to tell the tale.

Kiyoomi knows he will wake in the morning, and the only regret he will feel, is that he drank enough to induce a hangover.

“Come on, let’s get ya to bed,” Atsumu says a while later. He pushes Hoshiumi off Kiyoomi’s shoulder from where he’s fallen asleep and watches him thud against the floor remorselessly, then he winds a careful hand around Kiyoomi’s back and helps him up onto his feet.

“I’ll just sleep here,” Kiyoomi grumbles into his neck, barely able to keep his eyes open. He smells of rum and rain.

“I spent a fuckin’ lifetime buildin’ that bed,” Atsumu says as he drags Kiyoomi towards the door. “You’ll sleep in it, Omi.”

To Atsumu’s credit, he’s steady on his feet. Even when Kiyoomi falls into him multiple times as his legs refuse to cooperate, he never wavers. Just tightens his grip wordlessly around Kiyoomi’s waist as he guides him.

“You’re still wearing a shirt,” Kiyoomi gripes as they hobble up a floor. “I was told you wouldn’t be.”

What was it Kageyama had said? He takes his clothes off even when he’s not playing. Kiyoomi feels cheated, bamboozled, scammed.

Atsumu hums. “If ya wanted to see me shirtless so bad, maybe ya shoulda tried a little harder to beat me.”

“Can’t,” Kiyoomi says. “Poker is too hard.”

He gets by fine during games, but it reminds him a little too much of the social scene back home. Trying to work out everyone’s feelings beneath the masks they wear, trying to decipher hidden meanings in words, constantly trying to look as though he’s carrying the upper hand despite not carrying anything at all. Kiyoomi isn’t cut out for that sort of thing. Like Kageyama, he’s a touch too blunt and inept at concealing his true feelings on matters.

Kiyoomi had said Atsumu would make his grandmother faint, but after tonight, he’s pretty certain Atsumu would fit right in amongst the nobles with how easily he can slip between facades. He can picture Atsumu on his arm, discussing all sorts of fabricated bullshit to the lords and ladies that he meets. He’d do a far better job than Kiyoomi, that’s for sure.

“Guess we’ll just have to find another game then,” Atsumu says.

“Strip chess,” Kiyoomi suggests immediately.

“That ain’t fair,” Atsumu scoffs. “I don’t know the next thing ‘bout chess.”

“It’s fine. You don’t need to know how to play.”

“That right?”

Kiyoomi slips his hand into Atsumu’s back pocket and leans further into him. “Mhm. All you need to do is lose and undress.”

Atsumu tips his head back and laughs as they reach the top step. “Sounds sexy,” he says. “But how are we gonna play without a board? I don’t think Banana’s gonna be able to get us one. Bokkun says he’s been doin’ weight trainin’, but we all know that’s horseshit.”

“We don’t need a board,” Kiyoomi says against his neck. “Because you won’t win anyway. We can skip the playing altogether and just get to the part where you take off your clothes.”

He stumbles for the first time as they reach Kiyoomi’s hallway. “Shit, Omi,” he hisses. “I don’t think you should get drunk anymore. Yer gonna kill me.”

Kiyoomi stops cooperating and turns to face Atsumu. He stumbles again, backwards into the wall this time, and Kiyoomi cages him against it with an unsteady arm. “No. I’m gonna kiss you.” He pauses. “That okay?”

Atsumu holds his hands up. His face is flushed red and his eyes dart nervously down to Kiyoomi’s lips as though he hasn’t kissed them a hundred times already. “Go ahead,” he says with a small smile. “If you can stand up long enough on yer own to manage it.”

Kiyoomi leans down and kisses him, open mouthed and lazy in his inebriated tiredness. Atsumu keeps his hands at the wall, lets Kiyoomi kiss him as he pleases - his mouth, his neck, down to his collarbones - and only moves them to Kiyoomi’s waist when Kiyoomi wobbles unsteadily.

“Shit,” Atsumu says on a sharp intake of breath as Kiyoomi’s hand dips into his open shirt and explores the expanse of his back. Kiyoomi finds his lips again and pushes him further back against the wall, breaths heavy with want, hands inquisitive. “Ah! Okay, that’s enough!” Atsumu breaks away and practically yelps when Kiyoomi presses a knee between his legs. “Yer drunk, and I’m gonna pass out at this rate.”

Kiyoomi lets go, albeit reluctantly, and cooperates again as Atsumu takes him back to his room. He’s a lot more unsteady this time, swaying when Kiyoomi loses his balance. They stumble into the walls a couple of times, Atsumu has to brace them both with his hand against it the last leg of the way, calls Kiyoomi an insatiable bastard when he tries to slip his hand back into Atsumu’s pocket.

Atsumu deposits him onto his bed. Kiyoomi reclaimed his trousers after the poker game, but his socks and shoes are still missing amongst a mixed pile of others back in the crews’ sleeping quarters. He has no need to change out for bed, so Atsumu pulls back the covers for him and waits until he’s settled before pressing one last kiss to his lips and turning to leave with a carefree “Goodluck with the hangover, idiot.”

“Wait.” Kiyoomi reaches out and grabs Atsumu’s hand, tugging him back towards the bed. Atsumu looks at him quizzically. “Stay,” Kiyoomi tells him.

He looks down at Kiyoomi’s hand around his own in amusement. “What? Haven’t had enough of me yet?”

Kiyoomi tugs him again in response, so hard that Atsumu tumbles and falls atop his bed with a grunt and a curse. “Never,” Kiyoomi says because if nothing else, alcohol seems to make him more brutally honest than normal.

Atsumu shifts so that they’re lying like they did the other day, only this time, Kiyoomi is the one to rest on Atsumu’s chest rather than the other way around. He wraps an arm and a leg around him like a leech and says, “Sleep here. I’ll behave.”

“Forget what I said earlier,” Atsumu replies, resting his chin on Kiyoomi’s head. “You should get drunk more often. Maybe this ain’t such a bad way to die.”

Kiyoomi hums in agreement and closes his eyes. The room still spins when he does so, but he grounds himself by listening to the melodic beat of Atsumu’s heart beneath his ear.

“I’ll be honest,” Atsumu says quietly into Kiyoomi’s hair. “I thought you were gonna run away the second we touched land last week. I’m really glad you didn’t. Even if this can only last a little while, I’m really, really glad ya kissed me that day.”

Kiyoomi hugs him tighter. “I’ve not cared for someone as much as I care for you before,” he replies. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

Time aboard this ship seems to drag, every day feels like two, every week a month. He has known Atsumu only a short amount of time, and yet it feels like forever. Sometimes it frightens him how much he’s come to care. How just one of Atsumu’s smiles can make him feel as though he is floating. How things Kiyoomi once thought impossible are suddenly made easy with Atsumu at his side.

When he wakes, he does not frown at the thought of the day, he smiles, knowing that Atsumu will feature in it somehow. When he dreams, he dreams of a life in which there is no looming deadline on whatever this has become, in which he sails forever over crystalline seas with Atsumu’s hand wound tightly around his own.

He can feel Atsumu’s throat bob as he swallows. “That’s the alcohol talkin’,” he says in an oddly thick tone. “Yer absolutely trashed, Omi.”

Kiyoomi extricates himself from Atsumu and sits up. He grabs Atsumu’s cheeks with one hand and tilts his face until they’re looking into each other’s eyes. “No,” he says. “This is me talking. Ask me tomorrow when I’m sober, I will tell you the exact same thing.” Atsumu blinks at him and Kiyoomi continues, “You have made me feel more in the last three weeks than I have in my whole life. You say you are glad? Well, I am too. You say I am a figment of your imagination? Well then you must be of mine. Sometimes I look at you and I think you were made by the sun; that I exist in your orbit is more than I deserve.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Kiyoomi’s breaths come quicker with the passion of his speech, but he does not look away. Does not give Atsumu a chance to misconstrue the feelings he’s trying to convey, the sincerity, the severity of his words.

“You actually drunk? Or are ya just fuckin’ with me?” Atsumu says breathlessly, mouth trying hard to form words beneath Kiyoomi’s squishing of his cheeks.

Kiyoomi lets him go. “I am obliterated,” he says as he lies back down.

Atsumu finds Kiyoomi’s hand and brings it up to his mouth to kiss his knuckle. They both close their eyes and settle back down; Kiyoomi synchronises their breathing so that he rises and falls as Atsumu does. He can feel tendrils of exhaustion snaking up his legs, weighing him down, dragging him towards sleep.

“Ask me again in the morning,” Kiyoomi yawns. “I’ll tell you as many times as you need.”

“It’s okay,” Atsumu whispers. “I believe you.”

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi wakes and immediately wishes he was dead. There’s a rhythmic pounding inside his skull, one that seems to grow worse with every agonisingly conscious second that passes, and a horrid noise assaulting his left ear, one that sounds eerily similar to a foghorn or a rhinoceros. When he cracks open a bleary eye and checks for the source, he finds Atsumu splayed out across his chest, mouth open and emitting a snore so loud it rattles Kiyoomi’s ribs.

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi groans, pawing blindly at Atsumu’s face.

Atsumu does not shut up. He slept through Kiyoomi painting his entire face with wet ink, he could probably sleep through a storm. Even when Kiyoomi cards his fingers through his tousled hair he still does not budge, nor when he tugs a little harder in a tired warning.

Kiyoomi is probably supposed to be thinking something nice, something romantic, like how beautiful Atsumu looks in the peace of sleep or how lucky he is to have permission to see him in such a vulnerable state. He’s not. Atsumu is heavy. He’s drooling on Kiyoomi’s favourite shirt, making enough noise to rival the call of a whale – the only thoughts running through Kiyoomi’s mind are ones of murderous intent.

Another inward breath, another rippling snore. Kiyoomi gives up on trying to hush him nicely and rolls Atsumu off him into the wall with a thud that still does not wake him.

Sitting up is something Kiyoomi regrets almost instantly. A wave of nausea hits him and forces him to close his eyes again to stop the room from spinning. His arm is numb and his neck is stiff after lying at an awkward angle all night to accommodate Atsumu’s inability to share, but he is, at the very least, warm.

A few light footsteps patter about above him, which tells Kiyoomi that the sun has risen but breakfast has yet to be served. The mere thought of food makes his stomach lurch, and he takes another deep breath in to stop himself from throwing up.

Kiyoomi doesn’t intend on going back to sleep, but it happens anyway in the moments that he leans back against the headboard. It feels as though he blinks; one moment, he is sitting up with Atsumu snoring beside him and the next he is lying down flat, blankets tucked up beneath his chin, alone.

Waking the second time is worse. His headache has tripled in severity, and his body now feels as though it has been left a little too long inside a trouser press. He sits up and massages at his temples, glad for the first time that there are no windows for the sun to blind him through.

“Oh! You’re awake.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t bother to open his eyes or look up; he would recognise Atsumu’s voice ten feet deep below the waves.

“Regrettably,” Kiyoomi grumbles.

The weight of the bed shifts as Atsumu sits next to him, then warmth tickles the skin of Kiyoomi’s hand and he cracks an eye open to see that Atsumu has brought him a hot drink of some description. It has an odd smell, medicinal yet also citric. There’s something else, too, something Kiyoomi can’t quite place that brings forth a new surge of nausea.

“Samu’s hangover cure,” he says. “Usually, I tell people not to ask what’s in it, but I’m gonna tell ya anyway ‘cause I think ya might kill me otherwise.”

He runs through a list of ingredients. Kiyoomi hears ginger and willow bark and then zones out for his own good.

“Does it work?” Kiyoomi asks once he’s done. That’s all he can think to care about whilst the inside of his head is being worked at with a pickaxe.

“Like a charm.”

A memory resurfaces, one of Atsumu bouncing around chipper and alert after a night of heavy drinking. It was the day they went visiting the shops around town, the day they got arrested. If this concoction will give Kiyoomi even half as much energy as Atsumu had had that day, maybe it’ll be worth it. He already feels as though he’s dying anyway; should this drink somehow finish him off, it’d be merciful.

Kiyoomi pinches his nose and gulps the concoction as fast as he can. As hard as he tries not to taste it, it is inevitable that he does. Before now, Kiyoomi has had nothing but compliments for Osamu’s cooking, but this drink is beyond mortal description. It makes Kiyoomi groan and curl up into a foetal ball of misery, makes his mind vow never to touch a bottle of rum ever again.

“That bad?” Atsumu laughs.

“You know it is,” Kiyoomi says into his pillow. “Bastard.”

“Yeah, I do.” Atsumu pats Kiyoomi’s leg and stands up. “Hurry up and sleep it off, yeah? I’ve got a surprise for ya later. I need you at least semi-conscious for it work.”

“A surprise,” Kiyoomi repeats, turning and cracking one eye open to look at Atsumu.  “What is it?”

He’s wearing the red silk shirt he wore when Kiyoomi first met him. It looked good on him before; it looks sinful on him now, especially when paired with the smile Kiyoomi has come to crave like he’s suffering some sort of incurable addiction.

“Can’t tell ya yet. But I’ve been waitin’ eons for this,” Atsumu says. “I can’t wait another day, not because of a hangover. Yer just gonna have to stop bein’ a fuckin’ baby and get better by the afternoon, ‘kay?”

“If I was capable, I’d throw something at you.”

As it stands, it would probably cause Kiyoomi more discomfort to move and find something substantial enough to hurl, than it would Atsumu to get hit by it.

“You can throw me a kiss,” Atsumu suggests, puckering his lips from the doorway.

Kiyoomi closes his eyes again with a long-suffering sigh. “I was thinking more along the lines of book, or boot. Perhaps the lantern, though I’m not keen on breaking it.”

Atsumu’s face turns smug. “Hm? What happened to my super sweet and romantic Omi-kun who tells me he adores me? He was nice. Made me feel real special. Couldn’t keep his hands off me either.”

“He threw himself overboard,” Kiyoomi says. “He couldn’t stand the ungodly volume of your snoring a moment longer.”

“Ha! Nice joke! Everyone knows I don’t snore. You musta been hearin’ yerself or somethin’.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t bother to dignify that with a verbal response. He elevates a middle finger for as long as his exhausted arm will allow, then lets it flop back down at his side.

“Samu left ya food in the kitchen if ya feel like it. Meet me on the deck when yer ready, yeah? You’re gonna love it. Promise.”

Kiyoomi grunts in response and Atsumu shuffles in the doorway. Kiyoomi hears him tap his fingers against the wood as though contemplating something. He thinks Atsumu going to leave it at that, but then he clears his throat lightly and says, “Seeya later, Kiyoomi!”

Kiyoomi falls asleep for the third time with an immovable smile on his face and Atsumu’s voice repeating his given name over and over and over in his head.

Osamu’s miracle potion works; the next time Kiyoomi wakes he feels vaguely human again. He’s not quite as sprightly as Atsumu, but his headache has ceased, and his nausea has abated enough for him to feel hungry. He tugs on a coat and a new pair of boots and makes his way to the kitchen where true to Atsumu’s word, there is a bowl of food waiting for him that he eats inelegantly fast.

Now that the rain has given way to a bright, near windless day, the crew have little to do. When Kiyoomi arrives above deck, he spots a group of them shouting around about the helm and he slips himself into the small crowd alongside Atsumu.

“What the fuck is happening?” Kiyoomi asks Atsumu under his breath because Bokuto is currently standing on the ship’s ledge proffering Banana up to the sky with Hinata and Kageyama holding his feet steady.

Atsumu jumps slightly when Kiyoomi speaks, then he turns and breaks into an instantaneous smile. “Oh, hey, Omi-kun. Did it work? You feelin’ any better?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” Kiyoomi nods in the direction of The Debacle. “Just in time to witness the public execution of a parrot, apparently.”

“Hey, hey!” Bokuto shouts. “Glad you could make it, Sakusa! Banana’s about to embark on his maiden voyage!”

Kiyoomi offers Bokuto a weak smile, then drops it and turns back to Atsumu. “Please don’t tell me this is your big surprise.”

“Pfft, no,” Atsumu snorts. “I just wanna see if that stupid little bastard is actually gonna fly with all that shit stuck to it. I’ll take you to yer surprise after we’re through watching him fall into the ocean.”

“He’s not going to fall into the ocean,” Bokuto says. “He’s going to fly. What do you think I’ve been training him for?”

Kiyoomi’s not sure where Bokuto has gotten all of this specialised equipment; Banana is clad in a tiny belt - to which a small cylinder is attached - and there’s a miniature pirate hat sitting on his head with one of his own feathers poking out of the brim as stylised decoration.

“If this works, we’ll be able to send letters anytime, anywhere!” Hinata shouts over his shoulder. “I have so many people I need to write back to!”

“If this works, I’ll eat my own boots,” Atsumu scoffs.

Kiyoomi elbows him. “As entertaining as that would be to watch, you’d best take that back before you regret it.”

Atsumu looks to him, probably for confirmation of a joke, but he does not find one, because Kiyoomi is serious. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” he says, working his way through four stages of grief in under three seconds. “You’re tellin’ me you believe that bird is gonna fly all the way to Nekoma and back on sheer instinct? It’s a parrot, not a fuckin’ hawk. It’s just gonna scram the second Bokkun lets it go. C’mon, Omi. Yer better than this.”

Far stranger things have happened over the last few weeks. Kiyoomi has learned to accept nothing at face value, and to question absolutely everything. He raises an eyebrow at Atsumu. “Have you forgotten who got us out of that jail cell, Miya?”

“‘Course I haven’t, it was—"

“Say twin telepathy. I dare you. See what happens.”

Atsumu grins. “My twin tele—Ah! Ow! Let go, let go! I yield! It was the fuckin’ bird!”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes and lets Atsumu’s arm go from where he’s currently twisting it behind his back. Bokuto clears his throat. “If you’re quite finished fornicating in front of our innocent eyes,” he says as though his bird isn’t carrying his explicitly detailed erotic fiction, “it is time to commence The Ceremony.”

The Ceremony is nothing more than a badly sung song, a five-minute speech pertaining to Bokuto and Banana’s short friendship, and then the intense relaying of instructions to the home of Bokuto’s partners. Bokuto holds Banana up to his face so that their foreheads touch. “Deliver this safely to Keiji, Kenma, and Tetsu, my son,” he says as Banana nibbles the string of his eyepatch. “You know where to find them. I’m counting on you.”

Just like that, he throws Banana into the sky, and they all watch in stunned silence as he flaps about in a circle and then darts off west.

“Is that the right way?” Kageyama asks.

“Probably not,” Atsumu says flippantly.

“He’s just taking a little detour first,” Bokuto says as he climbs back down from the ledge. “He’ll be fine.”

They stand and watch for a while longer as Banana continues to disappear beyond the clouds, then the crowd disperses until only Kiyoomi and Atsumu remain staring out at the sea.

“Well, that was fuckin’ boring,” Atsumu sighs, finding Kiyoomi’s hand with his own and interlocking their fingers. “Guess we should go fornicate in private now, huh?”

Kiyoomi grimaces at the phrasing and lets Atsumu lead him below deck. There’s a bounce in his step that Kiyoomi must walk a little faster than usual to keep up with, and it makes him wonder what on earth Atsumu could have planned while cooped up on a pirate ship for a week. It also makes him wonder if perhaps he should be more concerned; their ideas of fun contrast wildly, after all.

Atsumu leads him all the way down to the orlop, and when they step inside, Kiyoomi tilts his head in confusion. It was a mess the last time they were there looking at guns. Crates and boxes and barrels were strewn about anywhere and everywhere, sacks of clothes and supplies were laying haphazardly around, and spare weapons pulled from pirate corpses were gathered in cluttered heaps. Now, everything is pushed aside, neatly organised and framing a large, open square of space in the middle of the room.

“You… cleaned the orlop?” Kiyoomi tries. “Thanks? But you’ve all made it abundantly clear this isn’t my boat anymore. I couldn’t care less what you do with it.”

“That ain’t the surprise, ya fuckin’ idiot,” Atsumu scoffs. He releases Kiyoomi’s hand and brings his palm up to cover Kiyoomi’s eyes. “Keep ‘em closed,” he says lowly in Kiyoomi’s ear. His voice draws a shiver from Kiyoomi’s spine, one that instinctively makes him reach out to curl his fist in Atsumu’s shirt. “Don’t open ‘em ‘til I say.”

Kiyoomi complies and reluctantly loosens his grip as Atsumu disappears. He hears vague noise - indistinct clicking, footsteps, the shuffling of wood against wood - then Atsumu is saying, “Okay, open!” and Kiyoomi is looking down at a long wooden box being offered to him.

Atsumu doesn’t give Kiyoomi time to ask questions. He opens the lid with a “Ta-da!” to reveal the glint of a freshly forged rapier sitting upon a bed of black velvet.

It is the finest piece of weaponry Kiyoomi has ever seen – steel, polished to a gleam, with a knuckle guard that curls around the handle like a tangle of thorned vines.

Kiyoomi cannot bring himself to do anything more than blink at it in amazement.

“I had it commissioned back when we were docked,” Atsumu says with a proud smile. “S’why I couldn’t take ya to the bladesmith that time. Would have spoiled the whole surprise. D’ya like it?”

Like it? Mere like? Kiyoomi cannot think of a word strong enough to label the feeling bubbling up in his chest. His old rapier pales in comparison, the one still collecting dust beneath his bed. He used to take it out to admire it between lessons, polish it and maintain it daily despite barely ever getting to use it. He’d always thought it his most prized possession, the only thing he owned that he was truly proud to call his own. Now it seems plain and pitiful, for what is a blade picked out merely for its high price tag, when compared to this beautiful gift of sentiment? This blade could be made of chalk, it could fall apart or shatter the moment Kiyoomi picks it up, but it will still be from Atsumu; it will still mean more to him; it will still be wonderful.

“It is exquisite,” Kiyoomi says quietly, lifting the blade out of the box to admire it further. It’s a slight bit heavier than what he is used to, but the weight feels more familiar than that of a broadsword. The blade itself is sharpened expertly, the balance is perfect, the markings carved by a hand so experienced it looks as though it hasn’t been carved at all. “This must have cost a fortune, Atsumu, especially on such short notice. Wha—How di—Why?”

Atsumu walks to the side of the cleared area to put the box down somewhere safe. He rubs at his neck, back turned so that Kiyoomi cannot see his face when he says, “I wanted to thank you properly for what you did for me. I know it must have been a lot, y’know, with all the blood and stuff, but you still helped me anyway. Even though I didn’t deserve it, even after I threw yer books and yer door in the ocean, you kept me alive. Made sure I wasn’t scared. Ya didn’t have to take such good care of me.”

“But I did,” Kiyoomi says contemplatively. “Because I wanted to. Even then.” He doesn’t allow himself to say more than that, fearful that his words might get caught on the lump in his throat.

“But ya did,” Atsumu repeats more for himself than for Kiyoomi. He turns around and there’s an unmistakable blush colouring his cheeks. “At first I got it ‘cause I knew you’d like it – you lit up when you were talkin’ ‘bout yer old one. Figured it meant more than you were lettin’ on. Also, I still really want to fight ya.”

“Of course you do,” Kiyoomi scoffs. Atsumu has been begging to spar with him since he saw Kiyoomi wield a blade that day during the battle. He’d thought Atsumu would thrust a broadsword into his hand the moment he was able to fight again, not gift him something so precious as a newly forged rapier to fight on even ground. “And what about now?”

Atsumu chews on his bottom lip for a moment. “Now I still wanna fight you,” he says, gaze dropping to the floor. “But I also just wanna make you happy. As much as I can. However I’m able.”

Kiyoomi looks down at the rapier in his hands and thinks Atsumu has already done that plenty, through every one of his smiles, every kiss, every gentle touch and snarky ‘Omi-kun’.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” he says.

Atsumu looks up, eyes searching, and Kiyoomi smiles back; not a smirk, or a sneer, or a smug grin, but a smile born of genuine happiness, of adoration. He winds his hand around the handle and points the blade in Atsumu’s direction. “Nothing will make me happier than to knock you on your ass.”

A laugh escapes Atsumu, the bright, surprised kind. “Ha! Finally!” he says, drawing his own scimitar from his belt. “Let’s go, pretty boy! I’ve been waitin’ a long fuckin’ time for this.”

They step into the middle of the cleared floor. Atsumu has created a large enough space to hold a duel, and Kiyoomi sheds his coat and walks the perimeter of it a few times, twirling the blade around in his hand to warm up his wrists and shoulders. His hand fits the knuckle guard snuggly, and the length of the blade is perfect for his height; it cuts satisfyingly through the air with sharp whooshes of wind as he runs through some basic movements his tutor taught him.

“Are you sure your arm is up for this?” Kiyoomi taunts despite knowing how greatly Atsumu outclasses him when it comes to swordsmanship. “I’d hate for it to seem as though I’m bullying you.”

Atsumu maintains his distance opposite Kiyoomi, matching his walk around the space. He’s balancing his scimitar hilt on the tip of his finger as he waits for Kiyoomi to sufficiently acquaint himself with the blade. “I coulda taken you with one arm,” he says. “But Samu made me promise I wouldn’t lift my sword ‘til I was healed. Bribed me with tuna and threatened me with Kita.”

“Ah, so he does possess a modicum of common sense.”

It’s been over a week since their conversation in the kitchen, and Osamu still refuses to do anything about his feelings for Suna. Kiyoomi is exhausted on his behalf, and Atsumu’s, for how often he ends up caught between the crossfire of their yearnful stares.

Atsumu shrugs. “Aran always said Samu was born with logical intelligence, and I took all the emotional stuff. I think that’s bullshit. I got both. Samu got neither. He’s fuckin’ stupid.” He throws the blade into the air and catches it by the hilt. “You done warmin’ up yet, old man?”

Kiyoomi swings the blade one last time and rolls his shoulders. “I suppose so,” he says. “What manner of uncivilised pirate rules do you spar by? Any ridiculous clauses I should be made aware of? Hidden conditions?”

“What?” Atsumu asks. “Still don’t trust me yet, Omi-kun?”

“When it comes to games, I trust you about as far as I can throw you, Tsumu. Ones involving a blade even less so.”

“Yeah, well, there’s only one rule to pirate sparring.” Atsumu holds up one accompanying finger. “Don’t kill each other. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Atsumu echoes, then lunges forward with his blade.

Kiyoomi parries him easily with a clash of metal, but Atsumu’s scimitar is far denser than Kiyoomi’s rapier; it forces him to throw both of their blades to the side in a wide arc to dispel the momentum. The movement leaves the whole left side of his body vulnerable. If they were fighting for real, Kiyoomi would likely have a bullet or a dagger lodged into his ribs by now. Atsumu, however, doesn’t call out or capitalise on the mistake. Not like he would have against one of those attacking pirates.

To put some distance between them, Kiyoomi darts backward, rapier extended, eyes narrowed. “Case in point,” Kiyoomi tuts.

“Apologies, milord. Did I forget to bow first?” Atsumu drops into a low bow. His eyes fixate on Kiyoomi’s, and his mouth stretches into the wild smile he wears when he fights. It makes the hairs on the back of Kiyoomi’s neck stand on edge, to be become the prey of that predatory gaze.

Though Atsumu is merely jesting, Kiyoomi actually does feel rather lost without the fussy routine of etiquette and propriety to guide his hand. Against his tutor, Kiyoomi would spar in contained bouts, bow before and after the first meeting and last parting of swords, strike only when his opponent was ready and alert. Even against Motoya, he would fight with respect, wait patiently for him to get back to his feet after knocking him down, lest his tutor scold him for fighting like a barbarian.

Atsumu doesn’t care for any of that. His attacks are sporadic, reckless – he crouches low and swipes with surprising strength, forces Kiyoomi further back with awkward upswings of his scimitar that are hard to judge due to the curvature of the blade. When Kiyoomi attempts attacks of his own – short thrusts, and cuts in an attempt to disarm him - Atsumu deflects them with ease or dips effortlessly out of the way.

The fight is by no means boring. Atsumu doesn’t give Kiyoomi a chance to demonstrate his training; Kiyoomi struggles entirely to keep up with Atsumu’s onslaught, can barely parry in time to avoid the scimitar cutting through his shoulder, and yet it is still far too timid for Kiyoomi’s liking. He hasn’t hit the ground once, hasn’t felt the bruise of a punishing jab for his clumsiness when deflecting Atsumu’s flurried attacks, hasn’t felt the pang of metal against his hand from a knock against the knuckle guard.

Each time Atsumu ignores a blatant opening, Kiyoomi finds his agitation growing. It's not like Atsumu is underestimating him. His footwork is exemplary, his stance leaves no openings at all for Kiyoomi to exploit, but there is still something hesitant about the way he fights. When Atsumu gets too animated, too greedy, when Kiyoomi starts to get a little excited that he’ll finally get to fight against the tenacity he admired that day during the battle, Atsumu suddenly reigns himself back in steps back to let Kiyoomi breathe.

When their blades meet this time, Kiyoomi does not throw the scimitar aside. Instead, he holds it between them, pressing forward to lean over the blades. “Stop holding back,” he snaps.

Atsumu tilts his head. “What?”

“You think I haven’t noticed? You wouldn’t have thought twice about throwing Hinata during that last bout. Stop with the preferential treatment. I won’t break.”

“I don’t need to throw ya ‘round to spar with ya, Omi,” Atsumu scoffs, a guilty strain to his smile. “We can just—Aack!"

Kiyoomi sweeps Atsumu’s feet out from under him whilst he’s distracted running his mouth and watches him tumble to the ground with a thud. His gaze flies up to Kiyoomi, shock widening his eyes before giving way to confusion.

“If you’re not going to fight properly, I’ll go back to bed.”

Atsumu studies him for a moment, waiting for the compromise, but Kiyoomi refuses to back down. This whole time they’ve been getting to know each other has been a back and forth of meeting the other half-way. The other day it was Atsumu putting aside his pride to fix Kiyoomi’s bed, today Kiyoomi wants to be the one to bend, to throw away some of his comforts, to feel what Atsumu feels. He’s spent his whole life being pampered and spoiled. The maids and butlers are afraid of him while his parents and the other pretentious nobles neglect to take him seriously at all; Atsumu is not scared of him. Atsumu takes him seriously. That is why he wants to fight him like any other member of the crew would, without bias, without reluctance.

“Fine,” Atsumu says with a grunt as he gets to his feet. “But remember you fuckin’ asked for this.”

Kiyoomi readies himself, but the effort is futile. Nothing could have prepared him for how Atsumu comes at him this time. Within a few seconds of him raising his scimitar, Kiyoomi is on his back looking up at the wooden ceiling whilst his rapier rolls uselessly out of his hand and reach. Atsumu kneels on his chest, blade resting at his throat, eyebrow raised in a question. “Happy?”

Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu dazed and confused, not a breath to be found in his lungs. There’s a vague throb in his ankle as his brain starts to process what just happened, and it spreads to his lower back and up to his hand that had once held his rapier. “Yes,” he wheezes. “Get off. Go again.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes and helps Kiyoomi to his feet with a gentle hand around his arm. “No matter what it looks like,” Atsumu tells him. “I won’t actually kill you, ‘kay?”

Kiyoomi flicks him on the forehead. “Just shut up and fight.”

It takes a few times falling over for Kiyoomi to work out what Atsumu is doing: he always starts with two quick strikes of his scimitar that, against the thin length of a rapier, force Kiyoomi to shuffle immediately out of his familiar stance. It is in that moment, that Atsumu simultaneously slams his hilt into Kiyoomi’s knuckle guard and hooks a foot around Kiyoomi’s ankle to sweep him off his feet. No matter how conscious he becomes of the action, no matter what he does to try and avoid it, Kiyoomi falls every time and Atsumu helps him back up just as quickly.

It takes another dozen tumbles and a few blunt hits of Atsumu’s hilt to his side in a proclamation of “Killed ya!” for Kiyoomi to work out and successfully implement a counter. He starts to get used to Atsumu’s speed, starts to disregard his training and work on pure instinct rather than statistical prediction. He watches every move that Atsumu makes, starts to learn his style and mirror it as best as he can with a weapon that differs so enormously.

“I knew this would be fun,” Atsumu grins after Kiyoomi lasts a whole bout without falling or dropping his weapon. “After ya trounced us all at shootin’ I knew you’d take to this too. Yer a fast learner. Scary fast.”

They walk to opposing sides of the room to catch their breath and readjust themselves. Atsumu is sweating now that he’s actually putting forth real effort, now that Kiyoomi can keep up and pose a considerable challenge. It’s forced him to unbutton his shirt a little more, and he keeps pulling at the loose fabric to wipe the beads of exertion from his forehead.

“There’s probably something to be said about the teacher this time around,” Kiyoomi says, rolling back his sleeves after Atsumu accidentally ripped one of the buttons at his wrist loose.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Atsumu asks as he leans against a nearby beam. “Handsome?”

Kiyoomi pointedly looks him up and down. “Wildly.”

“Talented?”

“Exceptionally so.”

“What about charmin’?”

Kiyoomi makes a face. “Not so much.”

Atsumu laughs at that and straightens back up out of his lean. “Ah, so I’ve taught you how to lie, too, huh? Thought you said you didn’t make a habit outta that.”

“I’ve said and done a lot of things over the past few weeks I vowed I’d never do,” Kiyoomi drawls in correction. “What’s one more?”

“I also remember you sayin’ you were gonna knock me on my ass. When’s that happenin’?”

Kiyoomi finishes rolling up his second sleeve and walks back into the duelling space. “Soon,” he promises. “I’m almost there.”

“Uh-huh,” Atsumu says with a deft twirl of his scimitar around his wrist and a confident smile. “Sure.”

He does not expect Kiyoomi to attack first this time. There’s a clumsy clashing of metal as Atsumu rushes to parry it and the smile gives way to a frown of concentration. He throws the tip of Kiyoomi’s rapier upward with one hand and blocks the kick Kiyoomi is attempting to send into his side with the other.

“Oh?” Atsumu raises an eyebrow at him as he puts some space between them to regain his stance. “That wasn’t very proper of ya, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi huffs and goes at him again, rapier outstretched. It’s difficult to use this sort of weapon in a high-octane battle, especially against a weapon as fast as a scimitar. Kiyoomi is always fighting at a disadvantage, only able to stab and cut shallowly for as long as he keeps Atsumu beyond arm’s length – which isn’t very long at all. Atsumu knows exactly how to counter him, and stays frustratingly close no matter how many steps back Kiyoomi takes.

Over the next few bouts he continues to adapt his old training, to incorporate moves he’s seen of Atsumu’s into his own repertoire. With the hand that isn’t wielding the rapier, Kiyoomi will slice at Atsumu’s neck, throw punches below his ribs, or at his shoulder to strike him off balance. Most of them get blocked, because Atsumu is no stranger to brawling either, but the few that Kiyoomi lands allow him to make better use of his blade.

Once he’s comfortable doing that whilst simultaneously blocking Atsumu’s onslaught, he moves on to working on his footwork. It’s already stable, thanks to his previous training, but a slight tilt of his body and left foot allows him more stability and strength on the side that gets left open most often.

When Atsumu’s fist darts out, Kiyoomi finally manages to catch it and he twists so that Atsumu has no choice but to twist with it. With the back of him exposed, Kiyoomi kicks at the back of his knees. Atsumu buckles and tries to regain balance, but Kiyoomi twists his arm again until he falls.

“Killed you,” Kiyoomi says, placing a foot upon Atsumu’s chest and pointing the tip of his rapier at Atsumu’s throat.

Atsumu lies there panting, eyes boring into Kiyoomi’s. “How ‘bout that?” he says breathlessly. There’s a loud clatter of metal as he drops his scimitar, then he sits up slightly and pushes back against the blade resting at his throat in a challenge until a small bead of blood collects on the tip of it.

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue and retracts the rapier, wiping it clean on Atsumu’s breeches.

“One out of a hundred ain’t half bad,” Atsumu grins, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips.

“I’ll take those odds,” Kiyoomi says, dropping down so that his knees rest either side of Atsumu’s legs. He carefully sets the rapier aside and grabs Atsumu by the front of his shirt to pull him up the rest of the way into a bruising kiss.

It’s all outward breaths and desperate hands, and Kiyoomi welcomes and swallows each of the husky groans that leave Atsumu’s mouth whenever Kiyoomi bites at his lips or tugs at his hair. They’ve kissed countless times over the last week, but this one feels different. It simmers with tension, with want, with need: Atsumu could give him everything and somehow it still wouldn’t be enough.

Atsumu’s hand snakes beneath the hemline of Kiyoomi’s shirt and back up to smooth over the newly forming bruises on Kiyoomi’s ribs. The skin of his palm is warm with sweat and exertion, it makes Kiyoomi sigh into Atsumu’s mouth and tug harder at his hair when it explores the expanse of his back.

Each kiss winds Kiyoomi tighter, like he’s a coiled spring of energy that might explode if it doesn’t release somehow. Atsumu seems even worse off – his hips buck beneath even the slightest friction, his breaths are uneven, and his nails keep digging eagerly and unconsciously into Kiyoomi’s skin.

He's not finished giving yet; Atsumu’s rapier and consequent sparring lesson will take some catching up to.

Kiyoomi mouths his way down the column of Atsumu’s throat and stops when he reaches his collarbone, hand continuing down until it arrives at his belt. He tugs at it and asks, “Can I?”

“I dunno. Can you?” Kiyoomi looks up to glare at him and his laugh is breathless. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “But you don’t have to, not if you don’t wanna—”

“I want to, Atsumu.”

“Shit.” He swallows and leans forward until his forehead rests on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Okay. Shit. Yeah. Knock yerself out.”

With fumbling hands, Kiyoomi tries to undo the first of many belts Atsumu is wearing. There’s one for his pistols, one for his scimitar, and one to keep his breeches up, but all three seem to be tangled around each other in the world’s most complex puzzle of leather and buckles.

“Why do you have to wear so many fucking belts?” Kiyoomi hisses.

“I dunno,” Atsumu says, mouthing at Kiyoomi’s neck while he struggles. “They look hot when they’re on, but I guess I’m never gonna wear one ever again after th—ah!”

Atsumu’s breath hitches audibly in Kiyoomi’s ear when he finally gets the buckle loose enough to dip his hand below the waistline. He’s already hard, a culmination of sparring excitement and frantic kissing. Kiyoomi takes his time, working him slowly in tandem with his heaved breaths, threading his other hand into Atsumu’s hair again to keep him upright as both of Atsumu’s move around to curl in the front of Kiyoomi’s shirt.

“Yer real good with yer hands, huh?” Atsumu huffs, voice thick and trembling. “You can go a little faster. I won’t break.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at having his own words thrown back at him and complies, picking up the pace. “Your impatience will kill you one of these days,” Kiyoomi tells him.

Atsumu hums through a smile. “Not before you do.”

Kiyoomi watches him as he climbs, as his breaths come faster, as his eyes screw shut and nonsensical words tumble from his lips. Atsumu is beautiful many ways; this might just be one of Kiyoomi’s new favourites.

He kisses him again, overwhelmed with feeling in the quiet stillness of the orlop. He tastes the metal of Atsumu’s earring as he mouths at the shell of his ear, sweat and the sea salt as he kisses his neck, and increases his pace further as he does so, adds slow circles over the tip with his thumb until Atsumu has to break away to gasp, “I’m—ah— I’m gettin’ real close, Omi.”

“Then hurry up,” Kiyoomi says against his lips. “Since you like rushing so much.”

His release comes with a slow, almost obscene groan that Kiyoomi must smother with another kiss lest it find its way above deck, then he wipes his hand clean on Atsumu’s breeches – thankfully for the both of them, they’re black today – and waits for Atsumu to calm down.

When he finally loosens his grip of Kiyoomi’s shirt, it’s bunched up and wrinkled beyond redemption. “If I’d known that was how today was gonna end,” he says between breaths, “I’d have told Samu to go fuck himself and his tuna days ago.”

Kiyoomi shuffles and sits back atop Atsumu’s shins, rather than his thighs. The sight of him now - lips kiss swollen, eyes blown wide and dark with lust, sweat dampening his hair, neck red and bitten – makes Kiyoomi’s gut twist pleasantly. Maybe they should have done that sooner. Maybe Kiyoomi will tear a door from some other room and figure out a way to attach it to his own just for the privacy to do so, to hear Atsumu’s voice strangled with pleasure at his ear again.

Kiyoomi nods, unable to think of anything else beyond the tightness in his own trousers.

Atsumu glances down. “Need some help?” he asks, hand reaching out to tug at Kiyoomi’s much-less-confusing-and-considerably-easier-to-access belt.

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to say something embarrassing like I would let you do absolutely anything you wanted right now, but footsteps thunder down the staircase and before either of them can think to move, Hoshiumi is standing there, running his huge mouth in the doorway.

“Miya One, we need you above deck, are you don—Aah! Jesus Christ!” He dramatically covers his eyes, as though Kiyoomi and Atsumu are sitting naked, rather than just slightly dishevelled. “I knew there was a reason Suna told me to come down here to get you, the motherfucker!”

“Whatever it is, go get Samu to do it instead,” Atsumu snaps. “I’m fuckin’ busy.”

Hoshiumi peeks through his fingers. “Miya Two is already helping! The wind picked up suddenly - we’re going off course and we need more hands to adjust. Which you would probably know, if you weren’t too busy hiding down here, being unhelpfully indecent!” He turns to Kiyoomi. “And really, Sakusa, I thought your standards would be waaay higher. You know there’s another one, right? One that’s a whole lot less annoying and a whole lot better at cooking.”

“I like this one just fine, thanks.”

Hoshiumi mimes throwing up. “Whatever,” he says. “Just get your ass above deck before we end up in Nekoma with Bokuto’s pet budgie.”

He storms off as quick as he arrived, boots slamming unnecessarily hard against the wooden steps, muttering curses and proclaiming his revenge on Suna.

Atsumu sighs, an edge of frustration tainting it, and Kiyoomi pats his thigh. “I’m fine,” he says. “Next time.”

“Next time?” Atsumu lights up, eyes roaming over Kiyoomi’s face, looking for the bad joke. When he doesn’t find it, his smile turns wicked. “Next time,” he repeats with purpose.

The rest of the week passes in the blink of an eye. Much like before, Kiyoomi still helps out with the sails, still plays cards, still reads, and shares his meals with the crew. Hinata brings Kageyama along for his astronomy lessons that have now just turned into lessons about whatever the pair get curious about, and he partakes in the odd games Bokuto fabricates that constitute as ‘training’.

The only difference to Kiyoomi’s routine, is the addition of their sparring sessions. After their nightly meal they return to the orlop and Atsumu teaches Kiyoomi how to wield more than just a rapier. They fight with broadswords, scimitars, cutlasses, and shortswords. He teaches him how to effectively wield a dagger, when to fire his pistol, and how to brawl properly without breaking his knuckles. Kiyoomi gets better at fighting; the times he falls down lessen, or rather even out to about as many times as he gets Atsumu to fall down too. It always ends the same way however, with one or both of them coming undone.

Sometimes it’s Atsumu putting his mouth to good use and unravelling Kiyoomi against the crates, other times Kiyoomi takes them both in one hand until they’re resting their heads on each other’s shoulders, panting each other’s names into the collars of their shirts. On the only night they don’t spar, Atsumu finds his way to Kiyoomi’s room and slips beneath the covers, keeping them both awake a while longer for Kiyoomi to placate him with one hand down his trousers and the other over his mouth to stifle the noise.

They become intimately familiar with one another, on a level Kiyoomi didn’t think possible until now. Atsumu knows him awake, in sleep, overcome with desire, with frustration, when he’s tired, happy, anxious; he continues to know him when he’s being blunt, grumpy, mean-spirited, and prickly too, despite how often Kiyoomi’s parents insisted his awful personality would earn him a lifetime of loneliness. Atsumu knows him entirely, and yet he still wakes up next to Kiyoomi each morning with a smile and the repetition of his ridiculous nickname on his lips.

The days pass so fast in a blissful blur, that before Kiyoomi knows it, Ushijima’s horn is blaring above deck at the end of the second week and the whole crew is assembling to look out at the morning horizon.

“There it is,” Ushijima says, pointing to a distant spike of mountainous land spoiling the otherwise barren seascape. “We’re finally here.”

The crew whoop and cheer far too loud for such an early hour as Kiyoomi winces and rubs at his sleep blurred eyes. It’s barely visible without a spyglass, but it is there nonetheless: the impossible, fantastical, and quite frankly ludicrous, Ukai’s Island.

Chapter Text

Though they reach the shore of Ukai’s Island the very same evening, they wait until first light to disembark the ship. The anchor gets lowered a little way from the shore, and instead, they spend the night packing supplies, filling up on a decent meal, and getting plenty of rest in preparation for the days of exploration ahead.

Over dinner, Ushijima rereads Ukai’s journal aloud for the crew one last time. He briefs everyone on the traps they are due to encounter and how to disarm them quickly and safely. There are so many that Kiyoomi wishes he could have his own copy just to remember them all. There are spike pits and rolling boulders, complex string mechanisms, swords concealed in tree branches, huge nets beneath leaves and sharp sticks of bamboo pulled back and ready to snap against intruders.

When the morning does come after fitful sleep, there’s an odd sort of excitement that overcomes them. Kiyoomi can feel it buzzing around, a hum of energy that makes them bounce around and louder than usual. Even Ushijima finds it hard to keep still; he paces the deck with his hand wrapped protectively around the key at his neck, as though he is afraid something might swoop from the sky and take it from him.

Once they’re ready to move, everybody takes off their boots and stuffs them into a sack. Bokuto and Kageyama descend the ladder first with a wooden raft, and the rest of the crew lower their supplies down onto it, including the communal shoe sack. When the raft gets too heavy with food and shovels, Bokuto and Kageyama ferry it to the shore, then return for the rest.

Kiyoomi’s briefcase is amongst the second load. By default, he’s been cast as the resident medic. Last night he emptied his case of belongings and filled it instead with all the medical supplies the ship had to offer from scissors and alcohol, to tweezers and bandages. He spent an additional hour or so shredding spare bed sheets into cloths and makeshift slings, and another twenty minutes raiding Osamu’s kitchen for anything with even the slightest hint of a medicinal property.

Atsumu had asked him multiple times that night between kisses if he was okay with the responsibility, but Kiyoomi cannot think of anyone else he would trust with such a job. The thought of Hoshiumi or Bokuto dressing a wound seizes his body in a shiver, and he’d already been packing a smaller kit for personal use since there is no telling what they might encounter in the wild.

It takes a while for them all to climb down from the ship and wade their way to the shore – a process that does not come without its share of drama. Kageyama gets bitten by several crabs and vicious creatures, which in turn makes Kiyoomi fearful for his own life and the safety of his vulnerably bare feet.

Dry sand is a monumental relief, but it doesn’t last long. As they dry off and pull their boots back on, Kiyoomi notices that the island itself is wildly unkempt and overgrown, nothing at all like the paradise he’d been imagining like the ones from novel pages. The sand is dark and muddy, the water that surrounds it murky. Beyond the line of sand there is a dense forest thick with trees and bushes, with unfamiliar plants and flowers that look more thorn than petal. It’ll make spotting traps much harder than any of them had been anticipating. Each step will need to be a cautious one. However long the journey to the treasure will take will likely be lengthened by double, possibly triple the time if they want to make it there alive.

“We should be able to hunt somethin’ for the journey back,” Osamu notes, pointing his scimitar at the forest. “Prime conditions for boar.”

“Then we shall set some traps of our own,” Ushijima says. “And hope we get lucky by evening.”

They do so on the forest edge as the rest of the crew set up a camp, because regardless of how far they get in their journey today, Ushijima wants them all back safely by the time the sun sets to avoid any unnecessary danger. It takes an hour or so of yelling, but they erect a string of mediocre tents from wooden rods and bedsheets along the sand. They also dig a sizeable hole, place the extra food and water they don’t need for the trek inside, and cover it with the wooden raft to keep the local wildlife at bay.

“Stick together,” Ushijima announces before they set off. “We do not yet know the exact location of the treasure, so stay vigilant for any signs or clues as to its whereabouts. Most importantly, if you see a trap, call it, stop, and disarm it. Nobody is to move until it is dealt with safely.”

There is a chorus of “Yes, captain!” One that even Kiyoomi finds himself joining, and then they are moving, nine pairs of boots trudging in tandem across uneven ground.

Ushijima leads the charge, and the rest take up positions in a double-file line of pairs to reduce the chances of triggering traps. Hinata and Kageyama follow first, cutlasses slashing through vines and branches to clear a way for everyone else. Atsumu and Osamu are next in line, arguing about whose boar trap is more likely to catch them dinner. Kiyoomi and Suna succeed them, and Bokuto and Hoshiumi bring up the rear, blunderbuss and crossbow readied in their hands to deal with any threats that might creep up behind them.

The terrain takes its toll on Kiyoomi faster than he expects. It’s tough to kick through vines, to climb muddy inclines and leap over rocky streams, all the while keeping up with a crew of pirates who never seem to tire.

It is even harder to quash the horrendous sensation of insects crawling over what little skin Kiyoomi exposes to the elements. He’s already seen more spiders than he cares to count, watched Atsumu slap at a dozen more mosquitos, and, perhaps most unsettlingly, he’s also watched Suna name the cricket making a home on his shoulder. Kiyoomi must bite his tongue and curl his fist tightly around the handle of his briefcase to stop himself from running back to the beach and springing a hundred traps along the way, no matter how badly he wants to do otherwise.

They can only have been walking for an hour, and yet there have been multiple calls to stop already. Kageyama cuts through a bamboo trap before Hinata steps on it, Hoshiumi pauses the march to shoot a crossbow bolt at a length of rope holding a netful of rocks above their heads, and Ushijima has cut through multiple hidden wires connected to sword traps.

The line is uncharacteristically quiet; everyone is so preoccupied with concentrating on the traps that they forget to speak. It’s unnerving, to be surrounded by nothing but the sounds of heavy footsteps and chirping cicadas, having gotten so used to the perpetual level of noise the crew create on a daily basis.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Hinata says somewhere into the second hour of walking. “Let’s sing a song to pass the time faster!”

“No,” Kageyama says frighteningly fast. “Not after the last time.”

There’s a grumble of assent, one that Kiyoomi does not understand. He turns to Suna and asks, “What happened last time?”

Directly ahead, Atsumu holds up a hand over his shoulder and waves Kiyoomi off. “Not important, Omi-kun. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

Kiyoomi’s heard enough stories over the last few weeks to know that that sort of reaction means past-Atsumu has done something embarrassing again. Kiyoomi has taken to collecting such anecdotes. He wants as many as his hands can hold, like twigs of kindling that’ll keep him warm throughout the lonely winter back at the estate.

Suna leans in close and whispers back, “It was when we were on the last island, the one we found the key and the map on.”

“Shut the fuck up, Suna,” Atsumu warns. He tries to glare over his shoulder whilst walking forward, but he stumbles, and Osamu has to save him from knocking himself unconscious on a low hanging branch.

Suna continues unbothered, “Tsumu got bored while we were digging and decided it was as good a time as any to start singing 99 bottles of rum.” He looks up at Kiyoomi. “You know that song?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says with a pained wince. “Unfortunately.”

Suna nods. “His voice was so bad that the seventieth bottle of rum called down a flock of ravenous gulls to attack Kageyama.”

“How many times do I have to say that was ‘cause of his face, not ‘cause of my singin’!”

“It wasn’t because of my face. If it was, then they should have also attacked Hinata,” Kageyama grumbles quietly from in front. “He’s about the same size as a shrimp, they should have mistaken him for foo—”

“Don’t finish that!” Hinata yells, pointing his cutlass at Kageyama in a warning. “Geez, all I wanted was to lighten the mood a little. Look what that gets me! Atsumu-san starts crying again, and Grouchy-yama starts blaming me for the fact that all animals hate his ugly face.”

“It’s not because of my face,” Kageyama says again.

“Is.”

“Isn’t.”

“Is.”

“Isn—”

“How about we play a game, instead?” Ushijima interrupts loudly. Kiyoomi hadn’t thought he’d been paying attention with how intensely he’d been concentrating on cutting a path, but evidently, he has been. “I shall pick.” He pauses for the briefest of moments, then says, “I Spy.”

Everybody groans in protest, but nobody counts themselves out of the game when Ushijima starts with, “Something beginning with the letter T.”

“Tree,” Hinata tries first.

“Yes,” Ushijima says in genuine surprise. “Congratulations. I believe it is your turn now.”

Kageyama sputters indignantly. “You can’t just pick tree, Ushijima-san. There are…” He stops to point and count, and Kiyoomi doesn’t have to be looking at his face to know he’s mouthing the numbers as he goes. “Over twenty trees,” he concludes. “That’s too obvious.”

“Shut up,” Hinata says as he elbows him. “Stop being a sore loser. It’s my turn. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with…A.”

“A dumbass,” Kageyama says.

Hinata sticks his tongue out at him. “No. Next.”

Osamu hums contemplatively for a solid minute, looking about in all directions, then he finally says, “Apple.”

“Where the fuck do you see an apple, genius?” Atsumu asks.

“There.” Osamu points above Atsumu’s head, and when he looks up to try and spot it, Osamu slaps his exposed cheek.

“Asshole,” Atsumu says as he whirls back around with a raised fist.

“Nope. Next.”

“Wait, Shouyou, that wasn’t my gue—”

“Another tree,” Suna cuts in.

“Yes!” Hinata claps. “Your turn, Suna-san!”

Atsumu throws his hands up into the air in exasperation. “I’m not playin’ this game anymore.”

“Then don’t,” Suna says. “I spy something beginning with R.”

Sharp eyes turn onto Kiyoomi for his response. Suna is craftier than most. His answer is likely impossible, or obscure enough to last them another hour of ridiculous guessing and petty arguing. Kiyoomi supposes he might as well attempt to draw first blood. He looks pointedly at Osamu’s back, then at Suna. “Requited pining,” he says.

Atsumu’s snort is obnoxiously loud. “Ha! Nice one, Omi!” He holds out a hand behind him, and Kiyoomi claps it in a low five.

“No,” Suna says, narrowing his gaze into a scowl. “The answer was roach because you have one sitting on your—Oh. Shit.” He stops mid-sentence, scorn dying on his tongue and giving way to urgency. “Stop.”

All sound ceases again as everyone grinds to a halt.

Ushijima turns around. “What is it?”

Suna glances down at his own feet and swallows. “Does the uh, does the book say anything about buttons in the floor?”

“Buttons?” Ushijima asks with a frown. He pulls the journal free from his pocket and starts flipping through it with a frown. It’s a useless endeavour; they all know the answer. Of all the traps it documents, trap doors are definitely not among them.

With the foot that isn’t currently pressing down a stone button, Suna clears a small area of leaves and dried dirt. It reveals that both he and Kiyoomi are stood on a rectangular patch of ground that differs to the rest of the terrain. It’s made of solid rock rather than layers of compacted dirt and gnarled tree roots, with something illegible etched into the stone surface.

“Omi,” Atsumu says quietly, reaching out a hand. “Come over here, yeah?”

“No,” Ushijima says. “Do not move. The trap might be pressure sensitive.”

Atsumu’s face twitches. “If it was, the rest of us woulda tripped it already.” He beckons Kiyoomi over again, urging him to take his hand against Ushijima’s instruction. There’s something in his eyes that almost makes Kiyoomi throw caution to the wind and take it, something slightly desperate and afraid. He nods at the floor. “Suna’s fucked,” he says. “You’re not. Come on.”

“Shut up,” Osamu says, punching Atsumu’s shoulder. “Suna’s fine.”

Kiyoomi’s gaze falls to the floor, and something catches his eye, something in the carved stone that seems familiar. He crouches down, and with his gloved hand, clears away the rest of the dirt to reveal the whole design. “I don’t think it’s a trap,” he says. “Look.”

What he points to, is a drawing of a crow. The same crow that features on Ushijima’s key, Kageyama’s dagger, and upon multiple pages of the journal. Its wings are articulated in a specific way: its right wing is tucked close to its body, while its left is outstretched. “I think it might be a clue,” Kiyoomi continues. “I think it might be pointing the way to the treasure.”

“Cool!” Bokuto says. “Lemme see!”

He moves forward to get a closer look, stomps over without a care in the world, and before anyone can object, he steps on another concealed button and the ground gives way beneath their feet.

Falling is an odd sensation. The world seems to tilt, seems to grip tightly at Kiyoomi’s stomach and force it to lurch sickeningly. His legs lose their weight, his spine tingles, and his mind whirls until it all gets eradicated by the pain of hitting the ground.

Kiyoomi lands awkwardly atop his briefcase. It digs into his side and knocks the breath out of him, sends a shockwave of pain through his ribs and up to his shoulder. For a brief moment, Kiyoomi can see that they have fallen into an underground cavern of sorts; the walls are made of dirt and the ground is rocky and uneven. But then the only light source – the hole above their heads – starts to cover itself over and everything gives way to darkness.

“Kiyoomi!” he can hear Atsumu shout before the stone closes. “Omi, are ya okay?”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi coughs out, though he’s not sure if the sound is strong enough to make its way above the ground. The stone slides back into place entirely before he gets the chance to shout again.

“Great job, smartass,” Hoshiumi snaps. Kiyoomi cannot see him, only hear his irritated voice cut through the darkness from somewhere behind him. “Why the fuck did you drag me in with you?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Bokuto says. “I was hoping you’d save me, but you’re too sm—I’m too big.”

“Whatever. Still don’t think it’s trap, Phantom Scholar?”

With a groan, Kiyoomi pushes himself up onto his knees and tries to catch his bearings. It stinks of damp earth, makes it feel like every inward breath is coasted in mildew and dust. He reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief and holds it up to his face. “No, I don’t,” he says. “If it was, we’d probably be dead.” Or still alive, bleeding out on a bed of spikes, according to the journal.

“Okay. So what now? We just sit here and wait for those idiots to work something out? I don’t trust the Miyas to wake themselves up in the morning, there’s no way they’ll—Aaah! What was that?”

“Stop screaming,” Bokuto says. “It’s just me. I’m trying to find everyone.”

“You could have warned me! I thought I was getting mannapped.”

Kiyoomi makes a face that nobody can see in the darkness. “What the fuck does ‘mannapped’ mean?”

“I’m not a kid,” Hoshiumi says. “So, I can’t get kidnapped. Man-napped.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto says. “Okay. Suna, where are you?”

“Here,” Suna says unhelpfully, though there’s a pained edge to his voice that stops Kiyoomi from saying so.

“You’re hurt,” he says instead.

“Just twisted my ankle landing,” he says. “Nothing serious.”

Kiyoomi reaches around for his briefcase and feels along the top of it for the clips. “Everyone sit down,” he says. “I have matches in here somewhere, but I have to find them first.”

He hears Bokuto and Hoshiumi comply with shuffles of dirt and fabric, then he takes off his gloves, and with one hand still holding the handkerchief to his mouth, starts rummaging carefully through the contents of his briefcase. He has no choice but to take his time – there are sharp implements tucked away in there and judging by the sound he heard as he hit the ground, a few glass vials containing various herbs have smashed.

“Let’s play I Spy again while we wait,” Bokuto says. “I didn’t get my turn, so I’ll start. Something beginning with D.”

“Darkness,” Hoshiumi says.

“Yeah! Your turn.”

“Okay. Something beginning with M.”

“More darkness,” Kiyoomi says as he continues patting around.

Hoshiumi sniffs. “Yup.”

“Inspiring. Something beginning with E.”

Suna hums. “Even more darkness?”

“Yes—ah. Found it.”

Kiyoomi strikes a match and a sliver of light illuminates three shadow-haggard faces. Suna looks as pained as he sounds, holding his ankle with a wince, Hoshiumi’s white shirt is ruined with dirt, and Bokuto has somehow managed to get a twig stuck in his hair.

There is nothing particularly interesting about where they’ve fallen when Kiyoomi looks around. Or that is what he thinks, until Hoshiumi points over his shoulder with wide eyes and says, “Look!”

It’s a fire torch, hanging upon the wall inside a metal bracket. “Ukai must have put it there,” Bokuto says as Hoshiumi wrestles it free. It takes some pulling – the thing has been there for so long it’s stuck with rust and muck – but he gets it free eventually, just as the match in Kiyoomi’s fingers burns out and plunges them back into darkness.

“How many do you have?” Suna asks as Kiyoomi lights another.

“Twenty.”

“This should last us a long time,” Hoshiumi says shaking the torch. “Wrap some of that cloth around it and it’ll last even longer.”

They burn through two more matches assembling the torch, and another two to try and get the damned thing to light. When it does catch, after a few drops of alcohol are added, it illuminates a whole lot more than the flimsy match was able to.

It’s not just a pit, but a long tunnel that extends both ways: left from the way they were walking, and behind them to where the beach is.

“It must be a shortcut!” Bokuto cheers. “A trap-free shortcut!”

“Yeah, look here, Sakusa was right!” Hoshiumi rushes over to the left wall and holds the torch up against it. There’s another crow carved into the dirt, identical to the one on the stone slab, pointing to the turning up ahead. “It’s pointing the way! Let’s go!”

“What about the others?” Kiyoomi asks. They’re probably still above ground, looking for a way to get to them. It’d be safer to stay put until everyone is reunited, no doubt.

“Fuck them,” Hoshiumi says. “We’re going to get to the treasure before them all and get first dibs on whatever we find.”

“We have to be back by nightfall anyway. We’ll reunite then if we don’t find them beforehand,” Suna says as he climbs slowly to his feet. He tests his ankle in a hesitant walk, but he cannot put more than a moment’s pressure on it before he hisses and returns to standing on one leg. “Also, take it from me, you’re not going to want to be in the vicinity of the twins right now.”

“Yikes,” Hoshiumi says. “Yeah.”

Kiyoomi looks between them. “What?” he asks. “Why?”

Bokuto hands his blunderbuss off to Suna and turns around in an offer to carry him. “Tsum-Tsum’s gonna be really mad that he couldn’t save you from…whatever this is. You probably know by now how…y’know, into you he is. He gets really protective when he cares.”

Hoshiumi nods. “He once held me at gunpoint for throwing his pet rock into the ocean when we were kids.”

Kiyoomi sighs. He hadn’t said it outwardly, but Kiyoomi knows the reason Atsumu had opted for walking ahead rather than beside him had been so that he could subtly test the ground and spring any traps before Kiyoomi got the chance. He’d also been cutting back the vines even more so than Hinata and Kageyama so that Kiyoomi didn’t have to touch anything to move it out of his way.

Suna hops onto Bokuto’s back and wraps his arms around his neck. “Samu will try to calm him down, but he’ll stick his foot in his mouth somewhere along the line. Atsumu will probably get back at him by saying something about me, and then they’ll fight about it for hours. We’re better off down here where it’s nice and quiet.”

Kiyoomi glances around in uncertainty, an odd, vacant feeling turning his chest cold and his hands clammy. “You’ll survive without seeing each other for a few hours,” Suna scoffs. “I promise.”

“Plus, you’re with me!” Bokuto says with a thumbs up before he grabs Suna’s legs. “I won’t let anything bad happen to anyone.”

He’s seen Bokuto in action and heard enough of the twin’s arguments to know that is sound advice, but it still leaves a bad taste in his mouth to go on without Atsumu. He sort of wishes it had been the other way around, with Atsumu falling down here and Kiyoomi stuck above ground. Kiyoomi wouldn’t have worried for Atsumu’s safety – he’s so competent that Kiyoomi knows he could survive just about anything.

Perhaps it’s about time Kiyoomi proved the same.

He fishes out some willow bark from the briefcase, then closes it and stands to follow Hoshiumi. He hands the bark over to Suna – it won’t eradicate the pain of his injury entirely, but it’ll definitely take the edge off.

“Who knows,” Suna says as he chews it. “Maybe Ushijima will use a few of his braincells and remember what you said about the crow. Maybe we’re actually racing them to the finish line right now.”

“No!” Hoshiumi cries. “We have to win! Come on, move faster!”

He darts off, taking the light with him, and both Kiyoomi and the Bokuto-Suna combination have no choice but to run to keep up or get left behind again in the dark.

Ultimately, Kiyoomi’s not sure which of the two routes is worse. Above ground may be teeming with bugs and hard to traverse, but below ground is dank and suffocating and he spends the whole time worrying that the ceiling will cave in and bury them alive.

They turn so many corners and wind around so confusingly, that Kiyoomi thinks they’re going to end up right back where they started.  But the crows on the wall keep changing, keep pointing different ways, towards something that must be more than just Even More Darkness.

They also pass more stone slabs in the ceiling, and every now and then Kiyoomi will glance up at them, expecting Atsumu to drop down into the tunnel, but no matter how long they wait around each one, no such thing happens.

“I’ve decided that I’m going to buy a tavern with my share this time,” Hoshiumi says wistfully. “And all of you are going to be banned from entering.”

“Wherever you buy it,” Suna replies, “I’m going to buy out the town’s entire supply of eggs and tomatoes to throw at it.”

Hoshiumi hums, as though that is an acceptable compromise.

“I’m going to buy another bird,” Bokuto says. “Maybe I’ll buy two, or three. Maybe I’ll start a sanctuary!” He turns to Kiyoomi and smiles. “What about you, Sakusa?”

Kiyoomi almost stops he’s so taken aback. “What?”

“With your share,” Bokuto repeats. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I—I wasn’t aware I had one,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m not a part of this crew.”

Not since he found out that they’d be going on this journey had he ever expected a share from the winnings. The understanding was always that as long as Kiyoomi tagged along without causing trouble, he’d get escorted home safely, nothing more, nothing less. The fact that he’s gotten so involved is only because the crew gave him no other choice, because Atsumu carved a place for himself in Kiyoomi’s solitude and Kiyoomi let him keep digging.

Hoshiumi, Bokuto, and Suna all turn on him. “Of course you are!” Bokuto says. “You help us with the sails, you share meals with us, and you clean the deck better than all of us combined!”

“You’re acceptable at cards,” Suna adds.

“And when you’re not busy sucking his face, you help us bully Miya One,” Hoshiumi finishes.

“See?” Bokuto grins, wider this time. “Family.”

Family.

The word echoes around in the emptiness of the tunnel, each reverberation hitting Kiyoomi like a sucker punch. He’s considered this weird little group his family for quite some time now; they’ve certainly acted more like one than what Kiyoomi is used to at home. Though he has siblings, he’s always felt the outcast – the youngest of three born a little too late to be all that close. They dote on him whenever they visit, but that has become something of a rare occurrence these days, now that they’re busy with families of their own.

Kiyoomi had always thought himself alone in thinking that way, like it was a stupid, embarrassing secret he was keeping with himself. The crew are already so close with each other, having grown up in the same orphanage, having spent their whole lives together at sea. Kiyoomi had thought himself an outsider here too, and yet they keep staring at him like the fact he is apart of their family is obvious, like Kiyoomi is a fool for having thought otherwise.

Kiyoomi blinks, words lost on his tongue.

“What? No snarky comeback?” Suna laughs. “Looks like we finally broke him.”

Hoshiumi moves the torch to his other hand and claps Sakusa on the shoulder. “Nothing changes,” he says with a sage nod. “You’re still ugly, and annoying, and mean, and—”

“Alright, I get it,” Kiyoomi huffs, picking Hoshiumi’s hand up and moving it away with a grimace. “I’ll generously donate my share into researching a cure for being under six feet.”

“There it is,” Suna smiles. “The Sakusa Snipe.”

Hoshiumi’s face pinches. “Fucker.”

There’s a newfound warmth in Kiyoomi’s chest as they continue onward, one that he’s starting to accept as affection, rather than an oncoming heart attack.

They burn through two fire torches like that, walking leisurely, chatting about potential ways to spend their earnings. Kiyoomi cannot think of a single thing he wants, but it’s amusing to listen to the others list outrageously impractical things like taverns and streets, and whole islands.

Kiyoomi almost forgets he’s underground he laughs so often. Almost.

It’s impossible to tell how far they’ve walked without the sun to guide them, but Kiyoomi’s certain the torches are lasting around twenty minutes after he wraps them back up with cloth and lights them.

Midway through the usage of the third torch, there’s a low grumbling sound that stops them all in their tracks.

“What was that?” Hoshiumi asks, waving the torch around to illuminate more of the tunnel. Kiyoomi half expects something to leap out of the darkness it sounds so ominous. He keeps his breaths short in his chest and his grip on his briefcase tight in preparation, but nothing happens.

“Dunno,” Bokuto says. “Maybe it was a—”

The ceiling opening up cuts him off. Light floods the tunnel and all four of them shout like hissing vampires as sunlight assaults their eyes for the first time in a long time.

There are two extra screams as bodies hit the floor, then the stone slab replaces itself with a resolute slam just as quickly as it had opened.

“You’re alive!” Hinata shouts, grabbing Kageyama’s arm and shaking it. “Look, Stupid-yama! They’re alive!”

Kageyama rubs at his back with a scowl. “Nobody said they weren’t, dumbass.”

Under the torchlight, Kiyoomi can see that they’re covered in a sheen of sweat and caked in dry, cracking mud. Perhaps being underground was the better of the two options after all – they look thoroughly exhausted.

“Aw shit, not you two,” Hoshiumi groans. “Go back up. We don’t want you down here.”

“Better us than the Miyans,” Hinata pouts. “I think Ushiwaka-san is gonna shoot one of them in the head if they don’t shut up soon.”

Kageyama nods along, his eyes distant with painful memories. “Miya One pushed Miya Two into a net trap on purpose and we had to cut him down. The rope had strands of steel wire in it,” he says with a grimace. “It took us forever.”

“Not as long as it took Osamu-san to try and drown Atsumu-san in that stream afterwards.”

“Is that why it took you so long to get down here?” Suna asks. “We passed so many doors, I thought you might have found us sooner.”

“It was hard,” Hinata says. “The mud got really wet, and the plants got too thick to see the ground, but we did find a few. None of them worked though, no matter how many times Atsumu-san swore at them or hit them with his sword.”

“I found that one,” Kageyama says, pointing at the ceiling. “When Hinata and I stood on the buttons, it worked right away.”

“I think this island can sense desperation,” Hinata adds.

“Or it’s punishing idiocy,” Kiyoomi says with a roll of his eyes. Maybe his feelings are blinding him, maybe he’s been giving Atsumu a little too much credit.

Though Hoshiumi complains, Hinata and Kageyama fall into step amicably with the rest of them. Another torch burns through, and another, and as they go to light yet another, Kiyoomi realises they’re down to their last five matches – the next will be the last torch they can light before they’re forced to walk in perpetual darkness.

Kiyoomi eyes the flame as they continue. Watches as it transitions from strong and dense, to frantically short as it flickers and clings to life.

Thankfully for everyone, they reach what seems to be the end of the tunnel before it dies out. Hoshiumi finds another torch in the wall and lights it with what remains of theirs. He wrestles it free of the bracket and uses it to show them all the perimeter of the room.

It’s not just a dead-end, Kiyoomi soon realises. There’s a door built into the dirt wall, one made of iron, most likely, which makes it impossible to knock down with Bokuto’s brute force.

“It’s locked,” Hinata learns after a few wiggles of the handle and a few kicks of the door.

“We most likely need the key,” Kiyoomi says, pointing at the crow carving on the handle. “We’re going to have to wait for them here.”

Simultaneously, they all look up, and surely enough, there is another stone slab in the centre of the ceiling. This one is bigger than the others, and rounded off into a large circular shape rather than the smaller rectangles the others fell through.

“Well, we’ve got a long wait ahead of us,” Hoshiumi says with a yawn and a stretch. He puts the torch back into the bracket and sits down against a muddy wall. “Might as well rest while we can.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t need to be told twice, but he does wait for Bokuto to lower Suna down first, so that he can take a seat next to him and open his briefcase. “I should probably wrap that,” he tells him, nodding towards his ankle.

“I’m fine,” Suna says with a shake of his head. “The bark helped.”

“Is Miya idiocy contagious?” Kiyoomi drawls, searching for the bandages regardless. “Should I be concerned?”

The face Suna pulls says a thousand words, all of them begging not to be associated with the Miyas’ definition of fine. He slumps back against the wall in resignation and offers up his ankle.

“Take your boot off,” Kiyoomi tells him.

“Shouldn’t you do that for me? I’m the one who’s injur—alright, shit. Stop with the face.”

If nothing else, Suna is at least truthful and realistically self-aware. His ankle is most likely sprained, judging by the swelling, not broken, or fractured. Kiyoomi wraps it tightly to keep the swelling down, and hands him another piece of willow bark for him to keep if the pain gets too unbearable later on.

Suna thanks him and doesn’t bother to retie his boot. He leaves it beside him and leans back against the wall to nap.

Kiyoomi gets up to give him some space and finds his own spot against the wall on the opposite side. No sooner does he sit down to relax, however, does Kageyama approach him with his hand thrust outward. “I cut my hand,” he says almost inaudibly. “On a tree.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at him and Kageyama shakes his hand in emphasis. “Do I need it amputated?”

It’s just a surface level cut, nothing too deep, though it does need cleaning and dressing to stave off infection. “No?”

Kageyama nods. “Okay. Good.”

He sits down and Kiyoomi gets to work fixing him up. By the time he’s finishes, there’s a small queue forming for his services; Hoshiumi scraped his knee falling into the pit, Bokuto got bitten by something that’s making him itch, and Hinata burned himself touching the flame torch.

It’s the first time any of them other than Atsumu have trusted Kiyoomi to treat their wounds. Usually, they grin and bear whatever pains or ails them the way they’ve gotten used to all their lives. Now, it seems, they trust Kiyoomi enough to come to him for even the smallest and most insignificant of grievances – Hinata’s burn is barely a tiny red mark on the tip of his finger, and yet he acts as though it needs urgent attention, like his life hangs in the balance.

The work tides him over until the final torch snuffs out and they’re forced to sit in darkness. Kiyoomi should hate it, should be terrified, and hysterical, but something about the crew’s atmosphere calms him. As the minutes bleed into each other, he simply sits and listens as Hinata and Bokuto come up with bird names, as Suna snores softly, and Hoshiumi starts up a game of Guess the Impression that as it wears on, becomes something of a Slander Atsumu game exclusively.

It’s calming, - feels like the nights Kiyoomi would spend over his cousin’s house as a child, before he started to worry about the world and its many dangers. It stays that way for a long while, until the rumbling sound starts up again and the ceiling gives way to sunlight. Any semblance of peace they’d cultivated immediately shatters when Atsumu, Osamu, and Ushijima come hurtling through the hole and land with thuds against the ground.

Though the other’s groan and click their tongues in annoyance, Kiyoomi finds himself sighing in relief that Atsumu is alive and well enough to still be strangling his brother.

The slab doesn’t close after them, so the midday sun bleaches them all in dusty light. The three of them are far worse off than Kageyama and Hinata had been. Not even Ushijima has escaped the mud; it cakes the hemline of his coat and boots, and there’s a streak of it that looks suspiciously like a hand marking his cheek.

The twins, however, are another story entirely. They’re not just covered in mud, they look as though they’ve been rolling in it for sport. Atsumu’s red shirt is stained four shades darker, and his hair looks brown rather than blonde, dripping wet and matted. Osamu, on the other hand, looks as though he’s been dipped feet first into a vat of grime and left out to dry in the sun.

“Ah,” Ushijima says, patting himself down and surveying the crew lining the walls in varying states of relaxation. “I see you have all arrived safely.”

That gets Atsumu to stop killing his brother. He looks up and his eyes frantically scan the circle of his friends until they land on Kiyoomi. They’ve only been apart for a few hours, they spend more time away from each other on the ship, and yet something in the way Atsumu’s face lights up so honestly makes Kiyoomi’s mind run blank.

“Omi!” he cries, battling Osamu’s hand away as it tries to push his face. He throws him aside and rushes over, stumbling in his haste. “You’re alive!”

“Yes, I am alive,” Kiyoomi says, stretching a foot out and lodging it in Atsumu’s chest to keep him at bay. “Do not touch me while you are currently wearing an island’s worth of filth, Atsumu.”

Atsumu leans against Kiyoomi’s foot to try and get closer, arms outstretched, but Kiyoomi pushes back harder, eyeing the odd, slimy substance on his shirt with wary disgust. His resolve crumbles, however, when Atsumu’s shoulders sag and he looks at Kiyoomi with pleading eyes like a puppy that’s just been kicked.

He lets Atsumu drop to his knees beside him, and with a gentle hand, he takes Kiyoomi’s chin and tilts his head left and right, careful not to let any of his ruined clothes touch Kiyoomi’s. “You’re okay, right?” he asks, voice slightly hoarse yet nonetheless sweet. “If you’re not, I’ll beat every single one of them senseless for not doin’ a better job of—”

“He’s fine, ya big fuckin’ baby,” Osamu snipes, eyeing Suna’s bandaged foot with a nervous shuffling of his feet. “Suna’s the one dyin’.”

Atsumu quickly glances over at Suna to confirm that, “Suna’s not dyin’.”

Suna stretches his arms lazily behind his head and yawns his nap away. “I am dying,” he says, laying a dramatic hand to his forehead and feigning faintness. “Ah. The pain. It is agonising.”

Kiyoomi takes Atsumu’s wrist and lowers it from his face. There are scratches decorating his arms, likely from sharp branches and plant thorns, and there are bruises blooming across his cheek from his fights with Osamu. Kiyoomi rubs a thumb over a scratch upon his wrist and then pinches the skin until Atsumu yelps.

“You aren’t supposed to be the one hurt,” he says pensively.

The cuts must sting, must be unbearably itchy and unpleasant, and yet Atsumu shows no sign of discomfort. He still looks more concerned with Kiyoomi despite the fact he is the only one among them all to be free of injury.

“Yeah well,” he says sourly, “maybe if I was an only child, I wouldn’t be.”

Osamu scoffs at that, with enough scorn for Kiyoomi to know this fight lands on the more serious end of the spectrum. “If you were an only child, you’d be fuckin’ dead by now.”

Atsumu turns to hit him, fist raised and curse ready at his lips, but Kiyoomi yanks him back. “Stop it,” he says. “Don’t give me any more wounds to clean.”

Atsumu stops immediately, loses all tension in his fist, and turns back around pliantly. He helps Kiyoomi up and refuses to let his hand go from a bruising grip, like any moment he might fall into another trap door. Kiyoomi finds himself clinging to Atsumu too, and it suddenly feels more serious than just parting for a few hours on an adventure; it gives Kiyoomi a horrible glance of what is yet to come, when they’ll part for far longer.

The others follow suit, slowly climbing to their feet, ready to start walking again, to finally find what they’ve been searching for all these hours.

“I told you to stop upwards of ten thousand times,” Ushijima says with a frown. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“Sakusa’s a Miya Whisperer,” Bokuto says in awe.

“Can we hurry up and open the door already?” Hoshiumi asks. “This little show has been as disgusting as it has been entertaining, but I want my gold now.”

They point Ushijima in the direction of the door. He fishes out the key from beneath his shirt and yanks it free of the chain before slotting it into the keyhole.

There is a collective holding of breath as he turns it. For a moment, Kiyoomi’s fearful it’s somehow the wrong key when it takes Ushijima a little longer than what is ordinary to earn a successful click.

But then it does, and the door swings open with a horrendously shrill creaking of metal and they all crowd around the doorframe, squashing each other into one big huddle of pirates to see—

“Stairs,” Hoshiumi says. “Are you kidding me?”

“The treasure is down there,” Hinata says quietly. “I can smell it.”

“You can’t smell it,” Kageyama says.

“Yes I can.”

Nobody admits it, but Kiyoomi’s certain he hears everybody take a deep breath in, like they’re trying to see if they can smell it too.

“Then let us go and claim what is ours,” Ushijima says, and starts off down the winding stone staircase.

Chapter Text

The staircase is not only steep, but spiralling and altogether quite dizzying. Atsumu makes Kiyoomi go first, and he keeps his hands firmly planted on Kiyoomi’s shoulders as he descends. Ordinarily, Kiyoomi would push him off and tell him to stop exaggerating, but something Osamu must have said has put him in a bad mood. His words are clipped, and his smile is strained in a way that makes Kiyoomi want to shake him to find out what’s wrong, but there’s no time for that now.

They press on, footsteps echoing around in the stone stairwell. The sunlight from the hole in the ceiling lasts them a while, but it starts to peter out the deeper they go. It’s almost pitch black again by the time they near the bottom, and Kiyoomi can only just make out the barest hint of metal weaponry at the crew’s belts.

When they reach the end of the staircase, Ushijima finds a set of two oil lamps resting in a hidden alcove carved into the wall. With one of Kiyoomi’s remaining matches, they light them and carry on through the ensuing tunnel. It’s narrower than the previous – they must walk in a single file line to fit, and sometimes Kiyoomi must duck his head to avoid knocking it on the ceiling. Suna has no choice but to climb down from Osamu’s back too, and he hobbles along with the rest of them towards the back of the line, grunting as he goes. He should be resting his ankle, keeping it elevated so as not to worsen the injury, but Kiyoomi knows any one of them would rather die than miss finding the treasure for themselves. He just hopes there isn’t much left of the journey to go.

“Mind yourselves,” Ushijima warns them all as the tunnel finally widens again. It leads down a few shallow steps and Kiyoomi can hear the roaring of falling water in the distance. The deeper they go, the louder it gets, until they’re entering a huge, cavernous room with two waterfalls tumbling down the walls on either side of them.

The muddy ground ends, and a bridge extends between them and the next door, leading a way over a long drop down into dark, tumultuous water. A cold mist hits Kiyoomi’s face as a breeze finds its way through the waterfalls. It’s a welcome reprieve from the stuffy, claustrophobic air he’s been breathing all these hours, and it cools the warm sweat that’s collected upon his brow from being trapped underground with eight warm bodies.

“I’ll go first!” Hoshiumi says, shouldering his way to the front. There are no objections, and Kiyoomi’s not sure whether that’s because nobody else wants to be the first to try walking the treacherous bridge, or if Hoshiumi really is the best choice since he’s so light.

Hoshiumi’s first step is timid; even his daredevil tendencies are erring on the side of caution here. He holds on to the rope handles and shuffles forwards, one step, two step, three. “It’s sturdy!” he calls over his shoulder, then to everyone’s loud distress, jumps up and down a few times to prove his point. The bridge sways terribly, but Hoshiumi doesn’t seem to mind. He waits for it to still, then holds up an affirmative thumb. “See?”

“Yes!” Ushijima calls back. “We see! Please do not do that again!” He turns to the rest of them and says, “Aside from Suna and Miya Two, we shall go one at a time. It may be sturdy, but I do not wish to test our luck.”

There are nods of approval, and then everyone resumes watching Hoshiumi jog across the remainder of the bridge. Hinata goes next after pushing Kageyama out of the way. He’s far more careful than Hoshiumi, though still quite confident in the steps he takes. Kiyoomi watches with bated breath as he makes it to the other side and Kageyama barges forth for his turn.

“If you don’t wanna cross, I’ll walk you back,” Atsumu says quietly and Kiyoomi almost does a double take because why the hell would Atsumu say that when they’ve come this far? When the treasure lies somewhere up ahead?

Kiyoomi makes a face. “What? No.”

“You sure?” His hand finds Kiyoomi’s sleeve and curls around it, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the bridge ahead of him as Kageyama slides across it like a newborn lamb. “I don’t mind. There’s always more treasure. There’s only one you.”

Kiyoomi needs a degree in literature or linguistics to articulate a response worthy of that. He doesn’t have either; he stands there blinking at Atsumu like his eyes hold some sort of encrypted morse code message that his mouth can’t sound.

Atsumu’s been waiting years for this, has talked about it so often Kiyoomi feels as though he’s been waiting just as long. He’s selfish in how much of Atsumu he keeps wanting for himself, but he’s not that selfish. Kiyoomi would rather throw himself into the chasm below than deny Atsumu this reward. He doesn’t say that: what he eloquently says is, “Shut up.”

Atsumu must infer the hidden meaning – he’s a pirate after all. Plundering, whether it be treasure, or secrets, is what he does best. He looks up at Kiyoomi, face smudged with mud, hair in disarray, bruised and scratched, and he smiles that brilliant smile. “Okay,” he says. “Lemme know if you change your mind.”

The slats are wet with the spray of the waterfalls when Kiyoomi takes his first step onto one. They’re also coated in grime and stagnant algae which makes them infuriatingly slippery, especially against the grip-less soles of Kiyoomi’s boots. He doesn’t allow himself to look back once he starts walking, out of fear he might see Atsumu’s concern and run back to where the offer still stands to return to safety.

He focusses instead on those ahead of him; Hoshiumi, Kageyama, and Hinata who are already exploring the section of land up ahead. They’re kicking at another door, knocking it loudly and pushing each other around for turns of peering through the crack in the keyhole. He wishes he could hear them, hear anything at all, over the roaring of crashing water but it’s impossible – he can hardly hear his own thoughts.

Midway across Kiyoomi makes the mistake of glancing down. He’s not scared of heights so much as he is terrified of meeting an untimely demise, and the jagged rocks peeking above the water suggest the end he’d meet if he was to slip over the side would be an instantaneous one. The thought makes his mouth run dry, makes his grip tighten on the mould-ridden rope. Each measured step he takes he challenges his imagination to envision that it’s Atsumu’s hand he’s holding instead, and it’s that idea that continues to inspire him to move.

When his foot finally meets solid ground again the breath he lets out is shaky with relief. His legs feel boneless and his stomach is in knots, but he’s made it to the other side alive where the others are waiting for him. He’s done yet another thing the Kiyoomi who exists back at the estate would never have dreamed of doing.

“If you’re going to throw up,” Hoshiumi says with a grimace when he notices Kiyoomi’s pallor. “Do it in that direction. These are my favourite boots.”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi grumbles because anything more might see him following the advice against his own will.

Bokuto stomps over next, then Ushijima, and then they’re all standing and watching as Atsumu and Osamu argue wordlessly over who carries Suna like a duo acting out a mimed street performance.

“I bet a gold coin that Atsumu-san wins,” Hinata says, taking a seat on the ground to watch in comfort.

Kageyama scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest, an unconsciously sinister-looking smile unfurling on his face. “After Osamu-san threw him into that bush earlier? I doubt it.”

Kiyoomi winces and turns his attention towards the fight. Osamu shoves Atsumu. Atsumu shoves him back. Suna looks up at the ceiling and even from this considerable distance, Kiyoomi can see how deeply his sigh pulls on his chest.

In the end, neither Hinata nor Kageyama win any gold coins. While the twins are still preoccupied shouting in each other’s faces, Suna gets up and starts shuffling along the bridge by himself, face pinched in a mixture of what must be concentration and pain. It takes until he’s almost halfway across for either of them to notice, and when they do, they both run to the edge and shout something nobody can hear over the thundering of water.

If Suna hears it, he doesn’t bother to turn around either. When he reaches their side, Bokuto extends an arm that Suna takes and immediately uses to alleviate the weight from his ankle.

“If they fight again, put them both down,” Suna says bitterly, reaching around in his pocket for the willow bark. He starts to chew it and joins Hinata on the floor, leaning back to catch his stolen breath.

If Hoshiumi jumping atop the bridge was worrying, then the way Atsumu and Osamu run across it at the same time is downright terrifying. Kiyoomi wagers he probably loses at least ten years of his life watching the bridge sway and wobble with them both scrambling and slipping around atop it. When Atsumu falls to his knees and pulls Osamu down with him, Kiyoomi ends up scrunching his eyes closed and turning away until he hears their voices arrive safely.

“Why the fuck did you go on yer own, Sunarin?” Osamu demands, barely a step over the threshold of the bridge. “That was dangerous!”

Suna gives him an unimpressed look. “Actually, it was far more dangerous for me to stand there and wait. If I’d had to endure another second of listening to that bullshit, I would have thrown myself over the edge.”

“See?” Atsumu sneers. “You shoulda just let me—aack!”

“Let us continue,” Ushijima interrupts, pulling Atsumu back by the collar of his shirt. “Something tells me that was neither the first nor the last trial we will face before reaching the prize.”

Ushijima is right. This time, the door leads into a room that if not for the lanterns they’d picked up, would be completely shrouded in darkness. They file in, Atsumu back at Kiyoomi’s side, shoulder bumping purposefully against his in silent conversation.

Atsumu’s bump either says I’m proud of you, or Sorry for makin’ you worry.

Kiyoomi’s either says, You’re a fucking idiot, or I’m glad you’re safe.

“What the fuck is all this?” Hoshiumi asks when the light of the lanterns gives them their first proper glance of the room’s odd structure.

From floor to ceiling, the walls are covered in hundreds of dark holes dug into the dirt like a gallery of watchful eyes. They vary in size, from barely big enough for a fist, to large enough to comfortably fit Bokuto’s head. 

“I do not know,” Ushijima says, carrying on towards the next door. “But proceed with caution.”

They stand around as they wait for Ushijima to let them through, but the click does not come this time. Instead, Ushijima turns back around, confusion furrowing his brow in a way Kiyoomi seldom ever sees. “It does not fit,” he says.

Bokuto tilts his head. “Whatcha mean?”

Ushijima holds up the key. “This key does not fit. It is far too large.”

“Just mash it in,” Atsumu says. “Works for me every time.”

Everybody, even Osamu with Suna on his back, crowds around the door to watch Ushijima try again, and surely enough, not even the tip of the key fits into the keyhole, no matter how Ushijima tries to angle it or mash it in.

“B-but, everything we needed was in that chest!” Hinata cries. “The map, the journal, the key!”

Ushijima looks down at his palm and at the key as though it has betrayed them all. “It was supposed to be. Perhaps we left something behind.”

Kiyoomi looks up and at the holes, then down at the key again. “I don’t think you did,” he says. Everyone turns to face him, and he almost takes a reflexive step back under the sudden attention. He points vaguely around the room. “I think the new key is in here somewhere.”

“Where?” Atsumu asks with a raised brow. “In the holes?”

“A test of courage,” Suna says. “That would make sense.”

It is the most logical conclusion Kiyoomi can draw from the situation – so far this journey has been exactly what the journal described, aside from the hidden underground tunnel. But even then, the drawings of crows across the pages were most likely diluted hints of its existence. Had Suna not stood on the button first, someone else would have eventually. The whole thing seems meticulously planned. The chase they were sent on for the map, the quality of the island’s traps, this snaking tunnel of doors and tests; it feels like one of his fantastical adventure stories, like a game. One that must continue inside this room for it to be worthwhile.

Kiyoomi nods. “It’s possible.”

After a wary glance around, Hinata shivers and holds his arms. “But there could be scary things hidden inside. Like scorpions, or spiders, or snakes, or rats, or—”

“Ha! No problem! I eat scorpions for breakfast,” Hoshiumi scoffs, and just like with the bridge, he unthinkingly stalks over to the nearest wall and plunges a fist into one of the holes without a care for what might happen to it. His hand goes in all the way up to his elbow, then his shoulder as he pats around.

He seems unaffected for the longest time. His face scrunches in concentration, transitions over to disgust for a spell, but then his arm gets yanked, and his eyes widen in horror. “Something’s got me!” he cries, trying his hardest to pull his arm free.

Hinata screams. Bokuto screams louder. Kageyama blanches, and Atsumu is the only one of them coherent enough to rush over and attempt to help. They struggle for a while, Hoshiumi yelling that his arm is being torn off, Atsumu fretting and trying his hardest to save him. Kiyoomi drops to the floor and flicks the clips open on his briefcase, ready to deal with whatever the aftermath is, but then Hoshiumi goes limp and starts to laugh and pulls his own hand free with a key clutched in his palm.

“Just kidding,” he says with a grin that gets quickly wiped off his face when Atsumu hits him upside the head.

“Fuckin’ stupid ugly bastard! I should throw you off the cliff back there for—“

“Shh,” Hoshiumi says, covering Atsumu’s lips with a finger from the hand that was just inside the wall. It’s covered in mud and grime, and he leaves a stripe of it over Atsumu’s mouth that succeeds in shutting him up by instead making him gag. “I have a key,” he says, walking passed Atsumu and handing it over to Ushijima.

Kiyoomi, already wrist deep in his briefcase, fishes out a cloth, douses it in some alcohol and hands it to Atsumu to clean himself with. He mumbles gratitude and scrubs at himself violently, turning his head to spit out whatever the hell Hoshiumi wiped on him.

“This does not fit either,” Ushijima says. He turns and surveys the wall, eyes lost to thought. “Perhaps there are more hidden away. Let us search.”

Ushijima rolls up his sleeve and finds a hole of his own, then the rest, minus Suna and Kiyoomi, follow suit. They each stick a hand into the wall, some going in as deep as Hoshiumi, some only up to the middle of their forearms. All of them, however, return dirtied, and clutching keys.

“Shit,” Atsumu says, looking up and around at the sheer number of holes and potential keys. “I’m guessin’ only one of these fuckers is gonna work, right?”

Suna shuffles over to the door. “You keep bringing us keys,” he says. “Sakusa and I will test them.” Kiyoomi nods and joins him, kneeling near the keyhole as the crew drop the keys into a pile nearby. “To be clear, by you and I,” Suna clarifies. “I mean you. I’m gonna nap.”

“That’s fine,” Kiyoomi says, tugging on his gloves. Honestly, it feels nice to be useful, considering that absolutely under no circumstances would he ever put his hand into one of those holes. Not if his life was on the line, not even if Atsumu begged him.

Faster than Kiyoomi can check the keys against the lock does the pile grow from seven, to nearing thirty. They’re all identical – save for minor discrepancies in the teeth – with similar heads to the one Ushijima has been using to get them this far. Some of them exist in varying degrees of decay; some are rusted having sat in pools of stagnant water, and others are caked in mud that Kiyoomi must clean off with a cloth before trying them.

He tests each one methodically, throwing the large ones aside, and twisting the ones that do slot into the hole but don’t quite tumble the lock four times each just to be certain. It takes what feels like forever, as a never-ending barrage of keys keep arriving with sharp clinks of metal against metal, before the new arrivals finally start to slow down and Kiyoomi starts to catch up.

The rest of the crew have already cleared the bottom sections of the walls, and now Bokuto has Hoshiumi on his shoulders, and Kageyama has Hinata on his to reach the ones higher up. Ushijima forbids the twins from trying. “I have heard enough for one day,” he says. “The very last thing any of us need, is for you two to try climbing on each other.”

Neither is stupid enough to disagree with that.

Sometimes Kiyoomi hears them screaming as they do find creatures hidden alongside the keys. They throw cockroaches and worms and scorpions around like hot potatoes and dance around when some creep beneath the fabric of their shirts.

It's somewhere around the two-hundredth key, if Kiyoomi’s been keeping an accurate count, that one finally clicks into place and turns. He’s already tried so many that he almost can’t believe that one actually works; he was starting to think maybe he’d been wrong, that maybe the keys were all decoys and that maybe they really had missed something vital.

“We’ve got it,” Kiyoomi says in disbelief, kicking the keys out of the way and standing up to make way for the opening door.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Osamu gripes. “My hands’re turnin’ numb in this sludge.”

They’re all crawling with ants and cockroaches and covered in foul-smelling, slime that makes Kiyoomi’s nose wrinkle just to look at. A few of them double back before following through the next door, to clean themselves off under the spray of the waterfalls, but the rest just wipe themselves clean on their trousers.

Bokuto takes his shirt off and turns it into a makeshift sack to carry all the wrong keys in, just in case Ukai is sadistic enough to require them elsewhere. He slings it over his shoulder and Hinata trails behind, picking up the keys that fall out of its poorly constructed sides.

The next room doesn’t have a door at all, at least not one that requires a key. Instead, there is a large slab of stone built into the wall, bearing not just a carving of a crow this time, but a cog-shaped mechanism very obviously missing some components, and a string of harshly scrawled words above it.

“People do not have wings,” Hinata reads slowly. “What does that mean?”

“Should I throw you?” Kageyama asks Hinata. “Give you some?”

Hinata frowns. “Throw me where?”

Kageyama shrugs. “Up?”

Kiyoomi wonders how they’ve gotten this far in life with such wildly ridiculous logic and poor observational skills. He sighs and looks up at the ceiling in exasperation, but that leads him to the answer. “That’s actually not a bad idea,” he says.

“Uh, you doin’ okay, Omi?” Atsumu asks, patting Kiyoomi’s arm in consolation. “Is the dust gettin’ to yer head or some—oh. Yeah. Okay. That’s fair.”

Above them are four small cages, hanging with padlocks attached to the doors. Kiyoomi cannot see inside them from this angle, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out they probably contain the missing pieces to the door mechanism. They’re impossible to reach at arm’s length. They’ll need to stand atop each other again, and even that will be a stretch.

Hoshiumi grabs Bokuto’s shoulders and leaps up onto them without waiting for instruction. He just about manages to catch one of the cages and rattles it around noisily. “It’s a rock.”

“It is a puzzle piece,” Ushijima corrects, smoothing a hand over the indents in the stone where parts are missing. “Slotting them into place might open us up a path.”

They get to work right away, because the crew is nothing if not efficient. They unpack Bokuto’s shirt of keys and sort them into piles of big and small after Hoshiumi tests one and comes to find that the locks require smaller keys.

“This is going to be fun,” Suna says from where he’s sitting in the middle, ready to hand over keys. “I wonder what’ll happen first: unlocking all four cages or dying of old age.”

He’s not exaggerating. There are so many keys and so many possibilities, that Kiyoomi almost feels dizzy with the mere prospect of the task. Not to mention they might have left some behind in the previous room, ones inside holes that might not have been checked after they found the right one.

Atsumu limbers up beside Kiyoomi. “Get on,” he says, crouching slightly and patting the bulk of his thigh.

He may think he is sparing Kiyoomi discomfort, but the person on top arguably gets the worse end of the stick. There are cobwebs, and vines, and all manners of creatures up there, and every time Hoshiumi pulls at the cage he gets showered with mud that he must stop and rub from his eyes.

Kiyoomi makes a face. “You get on.”

“I’m stronger,” Atsumu insists. “Get on.”

“I’m taller.”

He narrows his eyes. “By like, a hair, Omi.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes harder. “By, like, a considerable inch, Atsumu. Your delusion is showing.”

“Stop bein’ a bastard and get on.”

“No.”

Osamu snorts at that and climbs atop Ushijima’s shoulders easily with a fistful of keys. “Trouble in paradise? Didn’t take ya long.”

“At least I found paradise,” Atsumu snaps back. “You’ve got the map, a compass, and a whole crew givin’ you goddamn directions and yer still oblivious. Fuckin’ idiot.” He turns back to Kiyoomi with newfound determination. Spiting his brother does wonders for his motivation, it seems. “Fine. Have it your way. Lemme on so I can smack him.”

Kiyoomi crouches down and waits for Atsumu to place one foot on his thigh. “You are not using me as a means for violence,” he warns. “I’m not a warhorse.”

Atsumu steadies a hand on Kiyoomi’s shoulder and hoists himself up. They wobble for a moment, but Kiyoomi’s foundations are stable. He steadies them, arms secure around Atsumu’s calves, then a voice finds his ear, low and tempting. “Not even just a little bit?”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi mumbles back. “But only a little bit.”

To the tune of Atsumu’s laugh, Kiyoomi subtly and slyly walks them passed the Ushijima-Osamu combination for Atsumu to reach out quickly and hit Osamu in the back of his head. He almost falls from Ushijima’s shoulders, hands momentarily leaving safety to rub at where Atsumu smacked him. Luckily for them both, Ushijima only needs to rest one hand on Osamu’s leg to steady him, and before Osamu can even think to retaliate, Kiyoomi takes Atsumu over to the cage furthest from him as though nothing happened.

So that they don’t needlessly repeat any keys, Ushijima and Osamu start with a handful and pass each one that doesn’t fit on to Kageyama and Hinata and so forth, until Hoshiumi and Bokuto try it and throw it into a pile of duds.

It’s harder looking up. Atsumu is by no means weak, but even his arms tire of reaching above him after a while. He keeps stopping to rest them atop Kiyoomi’s head, and every now and then, Kiyoomi will pat his thigh in encouragement or pinch the skin of his hand in a warning when his grimy sleeves get too close to his face.

“I’m so hungry,” Hinata complains after the fiftieth key Hoshiumi discards. He drops his hands in a sigh and accidentally hits Kageyama in the face, but he doesn’t seem bothered, and Kageyama’s hands are too busy keeping him upright to react.

“I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been down here,” Bokuto agrees, voice is slightly strangled by how Hoshiumi sits atop him obliviously cross legged. “It feels like days.”

Without access to the sun, it very well could have been days and Kiyoomi would be none the wiser. His internal clock has abandoned him; his anxieties have shot his appetite and heightened his senses so that he cannot tell the time by how hungry or tired he has become. He can only assume the day is coming to an end soon. He wonders if the rule to be back before sundown still applies whilst they’re underground, free of traps.

“It has been nine hours and twenty-five minutes since we began our expedition,” Ushijima says. “Which currently places us at four-fifteen in the afternoon. I have been keeping track.”

“What?” Hoshiumi says, momentarily ceasing his fiddling with the lock to stare at Ushijima in disbelief. “How the hell is that possible?”

“It is quite simple,” Ushijima says. He releases one hand from Osamu’s leg and dips it into his pocket. “I just look at my timepiece.”

Atsumu snorts and reaches up to try another key. “What?” he asks. “You all thought Ushiwaka was just countin’ minutes in his head? Think he’s a damn wizard or somethi—Oh! I got it!” Kiyoomi can’t look up, but he does hear the creaking of the cage opening and feels Atsumu’s weight shift as he strains to reach inside. “Look here, scrub,” he says, turning towards Osamu. “I won.”

Osamu pulls a face. “It’s not a competition.”

“Yeah,” Hoshiumi adds bitterly. “It’s not a competition.”

“Is now, ‘cause I won. Fuckin’ losers.” He pats Kiyoomi’s shoulder and Kiyoomi lowers to a crouch for him to climb down. The piece he holds is a semi-circle of stone, about the size of his palm. Four prongs protrude from its outer edge, like that of a metal cog, and it fits perfectly into the space on the stone door when he presses it into place.

With their piece found, Kiyoomi takes a seat on the floor near the door, relieved to finally take the pressure from the soles of his feet. Atsumu disappears wordlessly for a while and returns with wet hands freshly cleaned again beneath the waterfall. He slots into place behind Kiyoomi, legs framing Kiyoomi’s sides, and he leans in and says, “Looks like you’ve got a lotta tension in yer shoulders, Omi.”

Kiyoomi sits up slightly and rolls a shoulder. It feels fine, but maybe Atsumu can see something from his angle that Kiyoomi can’t. “Do I?”

“I dunno. Probably. Want me to massage it for ya?”

Kiyoomi hums and Atsumu scoots closer before slipping his hands beneath the collar of Kiyoomi’s shirt. The coldness of them makes Kiyoomi flinch and hiss at first, but the moment Atsumu starts rubbing small circles into his skin, when he starts digging his thumbs into the taut muscle between Kiyoomi’s shoulder and neck, he suddenly melts and releases all of the bottled-up tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding there.

“People usually make a little more noise when they get massaged,” Atsumu says into his ear, and Kiyoomi can feel the smug grin in his words. “I know you can make some real pretty sounds when ya feel like it.”

“I won’t sit here and moan for you, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi drawls. “I am not a harlot.”

“We’ll see ‘bout that.”

Though Atsumu tries his best to earn lewd sounds, the most Kiyoomi relinquishes is a grunt and a pleased sigh when Atsumu presses his knuckle a little harshly between his shoulder blades. Rather than getting riled up by his attempts, Kiyoomi ends up closing his eyes and letting his head drop to the side as exhaustion weighs him down, as the distant sound of crashing water, and the warm flickering of lantern light soothe his nerves.

He doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he’s waking up with his head resting back against Atsumu’s shoulder and Atsumu’s hands clasped around his front in a loose hug. He startles awake to the sound of Hoshiumi screaming that he’s finally gotten his piece free, and he sits up and rubs at his bleary eyes in disorientated confusion.

“How long was I asleep?” he grumbles.

“Ten minutes at the most,” Atsumu hums, leaning forward with him in a refusal to break the hug. “You can go back to sleep if ya want. Suna is. Looks like the others are gonna be there for a while.”

Though he says he won’t, Kiyoomi does succumb once more and the next time he wakes, Atsumu is also asleep, head leaned back against the wall, mouth open and snoring. When he looks around Suna, Osamu, and Bokuto have all taken the opportunity to catch up on lost sleep too, and Hinata and Kageyama are the only pair left to free their piece of the puzzle. With Hoshiumi and Ushijima assisting, it doesn’t take much longer for Hinata to finally screech in victory.

Everyone is groggy when they wake, and now that Kiyoomi’s relaxed, he starts to feel hunger pulling at his stomach too. They don’t have much on them by way of food, but Osamu does pass around the communal waterskin, and hand out the small cloth bags of nuts and dried meat he prepared the night before to tide them over until they find their way back to camp.

Hinata slides the last piece into the door, and it takes both Ushijima and Bokuto to pool their strength together and turn the stone switch. Once it moves, there’s a loud grumbling that has them all taking a cautionary step back, and the stone slowly lifts in a shower of dust and spitting dirt.

“How the fuck did Ukai build all this?” Osamu asks when the open doorway reveals another tunnel. “This shit goes on forever.”

“Didn’t one of the guys we fought say he lived to be like, a hundred, or something?” Hinata says. “He probably spent his whole life building it.”

Their footsteps are considerably less enthusiastic as they start walking again, less of a loud march, and more of a lazy shuffle as they drag their feet. Bokuto is the last to walk through, always insistent on bringing up the rear to Ushijima’s lead, so it’s him that notices first when the grumbling starts back up.

Before he can voice his concern, it increases to a loud thundering that has everyone stopping in their tracks, and they turn in time to see the stone door closing behind them.

“Shit!” Bokuto cries, trying his hardest to push the door back up as it slowly lowers. “There’s no way back out if this closes!”

Kageyama and Hinata rush back and add their strength to the effort, but it’s futile; the door and its momentum are far too heavy for them and their yelling, and it hits the ground with a resolute slam that has Kiyoomi’s mouth running dry.

“There’ll be a way out up ahead,” Atsumu says reassuringly. “There has to be. Or else Ukai would have died down here every time he put his treasure away.”

That knowledge calms them somewhat, but Kiyoomi still can’t shake the sense of unease that comes with not having a definitive escape. He finds himself clutching at Atsumu’s hand so hard it must hurt, but he doesn’t complain, just rubs his thumb across the back of Kiyoomi’s hand soothingly as he tugs him along.

Urgency to prove Atsumu right drives their pace a little harder. Ushijima stomps on ahead so fast that Hoshiumi almost has to jog to keep up, and like a set of falling dominoes, the rest do too. The lanterns rattle, their breaths come harder, the tunnel narrows and gets so short that some of them have to crouch. Kiyoomi can hardly see what is going on ahead through Atsumu’s back, there’s no way to look around him. He’s forced into blindly trusting him to be leading the right way, and when everything stops abruptly, it takes all of Kiyoomi’s concentration and balance not to crash into him.

“What is it?” Atsumu demands, craning his neck around Osamu and Suna.

Nobody bothers to respond, but slowly, the line starts to move again, and when they enter the room, Kiyoomi realises why.

It’s not a room, not really. It’s a wide, open space, much like the cavern with the bridge and the waterfalls, only this one has no bridge, just a wide gap with and endless drop and seemingly no way across it other than the rope that dangles between the two ledges. Kiyoomi looks around for any hints, any clues like the previous puzzles, a way around what this test is suggesting, but there are no secret tunnels, no footfalls to climb the walls around it, no slots for keyholes, or ladders hidden in the ceiling. The only thing he can see, are the words ‘So we must search for ways to fly’ scrawled onto the wall in huge, messy font opposite them.

“Should I try jumping it?” Hoshiumi asks to break the silence.

“It’s a twelve-foot gap,” Kageyama says without the usual bite.

Hinata makes a noise of contemplation. “Then should I try jumping it?”

“Nobody is jumping,” Ushijima says. “We will simply have to swing across.”

There is no offer from Atsumu to walk back this time. They’re trapped, and Kiyoomi knows better than everyone that he’ll have no choice but to do this if he wants to get out of here alive. Judging by the relaxed atmosphere, perhaps the crew have done something like this before, perhaps it is not as daunting a task as it seems– not even Suna looks concerned.

“Scared, Miya?” Kiyoomi asks with as much pointed sarcasm as he can manage when Atsumu’s hand finds his again.

“Pfft, no. This is for you,” Atsumu says, lifting their joined hands and then letting them fall back down. “Yer lookin’ real pale, Omi.”

Kiyoomi swallows. “You’ve all forced me to climb the rigging enough times. This can’t be harder than that.”

The number of times Kiyoomi had thought he was going to die climbing the slippery ropes with the harsh sea winds trying to trip him up is quite frankly astonishing, and this definitely cannot be worse than the time he climbed it all the way up to the crows’ nest and down again.

It takes some innovation to pull the rope towards them from its unhelpful position. A few shirts tied together at the sleeves, the end one of which is filled with keys to weigh it down. Ushijima swings it around his head a few times, then throws it towards the rope, and it takes a few times for it to land and for the momentum to wrap the weighted end around the rope, but they manage it and pull it towards themselves.

“Who wants to go first?” Ushijima asks.

“I will,” Kiyoomi says, quashing the voice in his head that tells him it’s a bad idea.

Atsumu’s head snaps in his direction. “What?”

“If it’s going to break, it’ll be later, once more people have used it. I’d rather go now.”

There are no objections, not even from Hoshiumi who looks as though he really wants to be the first across again. Ushijima tugs the rope a few times to be sure it’s securely attached to the ceiling, then passes it over to Kiyoomi.

Atsumu runs him through how to hold it properly, hands slightly shaky as they guide Kiyoomi’s in the correct position. “Don’t tangle yer arm around it, or you’ll get stuck when ya try to jump off, and use yer feet to swing, yeah? The more momentum the better.”

Kiyoomi nods and adjusts his grip on the rope. It’s not wet or slippery like the handles of the bridge – it’s thick and coarse and feels secure. He can do this, no matter how badly his brain or the trench below try to convince him otherwise.

“If ya don’t feel like you wanna jump, just swing back and I’ll catch you and—”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says. “Shut up.”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking a step back to give him some room. “Okay. Yeah. No, actually, wait—”

He walks forward again and grabs the front of Kiyoomi’s shirt. His kiss is quick and bruising and met with a disgusted chorus of ew’s and ugh’s from the rest of the crew. “I’ll be over next,” he says, forehead resting against Kiyoomi’s. “Promise.”

“That’s what the idiots that die in stories always say,” Osamu heckles. “Just get on with it and stop bein’ so fuckin’ dramatic.”

Atsumu steps back again and Kiyoomi takes a deep breath. He counts down from three, two, one, then runs forward, leaps from the edge and swings across to the other side with his heart in his throat.

It’s worse than the sensation of falling. Ukai may have an odd obsession with flying, but the fact remains that humans are not meant to fly. He’s suddenly glad he didn’t eat more than nuts and dried meat, because the moment his feet hit solid ground, he feels as though he might be sick. He can hear Hinata and Bokuto cheering loudly, can hear Atsumu calling his name, but he waits a few seconds to steady himself before he straightens and turns back around.

“You did it Omi-san!” Hinata shouts with two raised thumbs. “You’re a natural!”

Or just so meticulously cautious that he leaves no room in the statistical outcomes for error. He’s always been the ‘measure a thousand times, cut once’ sort.

Kiyoomi raises a thumb of his own in return and throws the rope to Atsumu who’s already waiting with an arm outstretched impatiently to receive it. Atsumu is the ‘throw the ruler away and just hack at it’ sort, clearly, because his approach is far from cautious. He runs and jumps immediately without warning and lands with a thud nearby, throwing the rope back over to Hoshiumi in one swift movement.

Immediately, he slings a victorious arm over Kiyoomi’s shoulder and grins. “Maybe we should run away and join the circus together,” he says, voice light and breathy with relief.

“Hm? But all that talk of form and positioning and yours was rather sloppy. I thought you were going to fall.”

“Shut yer trap, Omi. I practically invented the rope swing. There’s no such thing as bad form when I do it.”

Kiyoomi crosses his arms over his chest. “I beg to differ.”

Hoshiumi flies over, then Hinata, Kageyama, and Bokuto with a loud cheer that is far too excited for someone flirting with an uncertain death. Suna goes next, and Ushijima and Osamu must help him with his take-off on account of his ankle. He makes it across, landing in the waiting arms of Atsumu and Kageyama with a wince that has likely extended his healing time by at least another week.

Once Ushijima swings across and completes the final member of the crew to make it over safely, Kiyoomi finally feels as though he can breathe. They all turn to the captain, waiting for him to open the next door, but there isn’t one this time. There’s just the familiar darkness of another wide tunnel, though there’s something different about this one that shrouds them all in an excited sort of silence.

The walls are covered in crows, displayed in varying states of flight, like an amalgamation of all the ones they’ve seen until now. Kiyoomi keeps expecting them to branch off out into another hellish room, towards another ridiculous test that’ll take them hours to navigate, but it never comes. The tunnel keeps going, and going, and going. They walk for what must be a mile, perhaps nearing two, up a path that gradually inclines and makes Kiyoomi’s leg burn with the effort to keep scaling.

“Oh,” Ushijima finally says as breeze of cold air hits. “There’s something up ahead.”

“What is it?” Hinata asks.

Ushijima jogs up to what he’s found, pauses as he approaches, then calls back, “It is a ladder.”

“Fuck me,” Suna groans. “Just leave me here to die. It’s been a good run.”

“I’ll make sure yer funeral is world class, Rin,” Osamu says, far more out of breath than anyone else through the effort of carrying Suna the whole way. Kiyoomi has no sympathy for him; both Bokuto and Atsumu have offered to take over, but he refuses to give up in what can only be described as a stubborn Miya-esque display of idiocy.

Ushijima climbs the ladder first. Hinata follows five rungs behind, and Hoshiumi five after that. Kiyoomi cannot see what goes on once they leave eye level; too many of them are crowded in a small space and the ladder climbs so high that the light of the lanterns cannot reach them as they ascend. He can hear them though. Their voices reverberate back down cleanly, each echo of their boots against the metal rungs a rhythmic accompaniment to their huffing.

“Ah! Ushiwaka-san, you can’t just stop like that!” Hinata complains. “Why is your butt so much harder than my head?”

“Let’s play a game,” Ushijima says instead of answering. He announces it loudly, likely with the intention of everyone hearing.

“What?” Hoshiumi says. “Now?”

“Yes,” Ushijima responds. “I Spy.” Those gathered at the foot of the ladder look at each other in confusion. Maybe the dust has gotten to Ushijima instead, maybe hunger is taking its toll. “I spy with my eyeball, something beginning with T.”

“Tree,” Hinata says after his previous success.

“No.”.

“This is ridiculous,” Hoshiumi scoffs. “Just climb the ladder Ushiwaka-san!”

“Play the game,” Ushijima insists.

“Fine. Twig.”

“No.”

“Toes.”

“No.”

“Teeth.”

“No.”

“Trap.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Treasure,” he says.

There’s silence, and then Ushijima says, “Bingo.”

“What?” Atsumu says calmly. “What?” he repeats considerably less so.

“It’s up there?” Bokuto yells. “For real?”

“Yes,” Ushijima returns. “I am pretty sure it is up here for real. I am looking at it, after all.”

His footsteps continue up the ladder again, and the scramble to be the next up it is immense. There’s screaming, yelling, pushing, swearing, all with such enthusiasm that it’s hard to believe they were all so exhausted a few moments ago. Bokuto wins out in the end due to his sheer strength, but Kiyoomi’s never seen a group of people ascend a ladder so fast in his life. Even Suna climbs it like his ankle has miraculously recovered, two rungs at a time.

Kiyoomi is the last to climb up, a thrum of excitement making his grip on the rungs sweaty. When he surfaces, he thinks the word treasure might perhaps be putting it a little lightly.

The room is packed, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with gold, silver, bronze, and brass. With finely cut jewels, with priceless artifacts and pristine marble sculptures. There are huge chests overflowing with jewellery and gems, bars of gold stacked high in tall towers and exquisitely rendered swords protruding from the sea of coins that covers nearly every square inch of the floor. It’s almost blinding to look at; everything with a surface glitters against the light of the lanterns and the crew stand there staring, slack jawed, in stunned silence at the prize they’ve been chasing for so long.

“It’s real,” Hoshiumi says quietly, reaching out and grabbing the person closest to him which just so happens to be Atsumu. Hoshiumi shakes him violently. “It’s real!”

Atsumu grabs him and shakes him back harder like a rag doll. “It’s fuckin’ real!”

Hinata moves first. He runs into the pile of coins and picks up a handful as though he still can’t quite believe it. He holds one up to his teeth and bites it in a test of authenticity, then yelps when it almost breaks his teeth. “It’s real!” he cries as he jumps ten feet in the air and throws the coins aside in a shower of glitter. “We’re gazillionaires!”

Kiyoomi looks around and thinks that’s probably accurate. They really weren’t exaggerating when they said untold amounts of treasure lied in waiting here; there’s so much it’ll probably weigh the ship down like an anchor.

It's Bokuto that initiates the hug. He wraps his arms around as many of them as he can, and those on the outskirts pull those he can’t reach in until they’re one big pile of tangled, screeching, whooping, jumping limbs. Kiyoomi can hardly breathe, but for the first time that day he welcomes it; it’s the good sort of breathless. The best kind.

“Ew, are you crying?” Kageyama asks someone.

“No,” Atsumu responds with a watery sniff. “There’s dust in my eye.”

“It’s okay, Atsumu-san,” Hinata warbles. “I’m crying too.”

“Losers,” Hoshiumi says. He worms his way out of the hug and rushes over to the treasure to start shovelling handfuls of gold coins into his pockets. “First come first serve! I’m taking the statue because it looks like me!”

Kiyoomi looks at the ten-foot-tall statue of a carved Adonis and bites back the blunt retort. It’s too joyous an occasion to sour with insults or arguing.

What could have been a poignant moment still somehow devolves into unbridled chaos, however. They scatter like birds, each unravelling the empty sacks they’ve been carrying in smaller bags at their belts. Kiyoomi stands by and watches as they shove whatever their hands can get a hold of inside – gold goblets and silver plates, lockets and necklaces and strings of large pearls. They fasten necklaces around their necks, fill their fingers with rings, and their arms with bracelets and cuffs up to their elbows.

Something cold touches the top of Kiyoomi’s head, then a weight follows it. Kiyoomi reaches up to feel what it is and finds the unmistakable pointed peaks and valleys of a crown.

“Now you really look like Prince Charmin’,” Atsumu grins when Kiyoomi turns around to look at him. He adjusts it to sit properly atop Kiyoomi’s curls, then hands him an empty sack, eyes glistening with ‘dust’. “You’d better start fillin’ this up, before it’s all gone.”

Kiyoomi glances around again. Their sacks are already nearing full, and it hasn’t even made the slightest dent in the horde. He raises a brow at Atsumu and he laughs, tugging at Kiyoomi’s hand towards the treasure. “Come on,” he insists. “We wouldn’t have got here without you. I’ll make sure yer share is larger.”

Unhindered joy is mesmerising on him, Kiyoomi thinks. The bright lilt to his voice, the twinkle in his hazel eyes, the dazzling shine of his smile.

Of all the treasures in this room, Atsumu undoubtedly shines the brightest. That Kiyoomi gets to kiss him, gets to touch him, that he’s earned Atsumu’s concern, his trust, his attention, is a prize worth a dozen times more than what he could fit inside a sack.

Kiyoomi nods and follows and tries to pretend he wouldn’t follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked.

Chapter Text

Only once their sacks are fit to bursting does anyone bother to think about the fact that they still have no way out. The fact dawns quite suddenly on Kiyoomi as he sits atop a pile of gold, as he moves handfuls of coins into his sack with one hand and lets Atsumu continue to slot bracelets and rings onto the other like he’s some sort of display mannequin in a jeweller’s shop window.

A cursory glance around reveals no secret doors, no stone slabs, or ladders, or tunnel mouths. The room consists of nothing but treasure, endless piles and stacks of treasure.

“I don’t wish to spoil the mood,” Kiyoomi begins, “but the way back is still blocked.”

Atsumu pauses with a ruby-set band of brilliant gold midway to Kiyoomi’s knuckle, then goes limp. “Shit,” he says. “I forgot about that.”

“Oh yeah.” Bokuto lifts his eyepatch and glances around. “Uh… Maybe Ukai built himself a super-secret way out?”

Kiyoomi hopes so. The prospect of sleeping underground is far worse than just exploring it. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen to them if they fail to find it.

“Or a way in,” Kageyama says with a pensive frown. “There’s no way we could get all this stuff up that ladder, never mind just one man.”

“And a geriatric one at that,” Suna adds. He’s sitting atop the throne they found hidden beneath a tower of gold bars, sideways, with his legs hanging over the arm and his hands idly flipping gold coins. “It’s cold in here. There must be a way.”

That much is true; Kiyoomi can feel fresh air coming from somewhere. It’s brisk with what must be the setting of the sun, and there’s a crisp waft of the sea that Kiyoomi’s missed having been trapped for so long. It’s hard to pinpoint where exactly it’s coming from, however. It feels like everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Ushijima nods sagely and lowers his sack of treasure. “Perhaps it would be wise to conduct a search,” he says. “We shall look - you can investigate this for any hints or clues.” He hands Suna the journal, and he begins to leaf through it while the others temporarily abandon their hauls and get to their feet once again.

They feel and kick the walls, clear the ground, and jump experimentally on parts that look different to others. Hoshiumi descends the ladder again and looks around at the bottom, while Hinata climbs Ushijima’s shoulders and pokes at the ceiling with a sword. There’s so much treasure that it’s hard to keep track of what parts of the room they’ve searched and what they haven’t. Kiyoomi finds himself re-searching areas he knows Bokuto’s already covered and finds Atsumu investigating them again right after.

They mill about in circles, stumbling over money and vases as they go, and Kiyoomi is reminded astutely of Atsumu’s penchant for accidents. He loses track of how many times he reaches out to steady him when he trips over chests or gets his trouser leg caught on something protruding from the ground. Atsumu will look around with a scowl and blame others for ‘tripping him up,’ but Kiyoomi watches him the next time and notices it’s simply because he never pays attention to his feet. It’s almost funny, Kiyoomi thinks, that he can spar with the Atsumu that places his feet with mechanical precision, and walk with the Atsumu that forgets he has feet at all.

Osamu calls him names, Kageyama laughs at him, and Suna keeps a comically loud record of his tumbles, but in the end, it’s Atsumu’s clumsiness that saves them all.

Kiyoomi is studying the far most wall for indentations, running a gloved hand along the dirt hoping to reveal something cleverly hidden, when Atsumu swears loudly and colourfully. Kiyoomi turns in time to watch him stand on the slippery surface of a gold plate and lurch forwards unsteadily, limbs flailing about like a newborn calf. He’s too far away to help this time, so Kiyoomi can do little else but stand and watch as Atsumu reaches out for help from Hoshiumi’s new statue instead.

His hands grasp at its marble shoulders in an awkward semi-hug, but his weight amplified by his momentum is too much for it to bear. It tips backwards and Atsumu swears again as he falls with the statue in tow.

With their faces pinched into winces, the crew wait for the resulting thud, but it never does come like they expect it to. Both Atsumu and the statue float halfway to the ground, like their puppet master has forgotten the rest of the routine and left them suspended in a cumbersome dance.

“Uh,” Atsumu says warily, straddling the statue. “Can I get a little hel—”

The statue jolts suddenly, and there’s a click followed by the familiar sound of rumbling that Kiyoomi has come to associate with stone doors. Suddenly, the section of wall that Kiyoomi is resting his palm on gives way, and he’s showered with mud and dust as it crumbles.

He throws an arm over his eyes to shield them from debris, but he still gets a lungful before he can think to close his mouth. With a stumble backward, he coughs and clears the muggy air with large waves of his hand. The breeze gushes through proper – Kiyoomi is hit with a blast of salty air, and he can hear the ocean whispering beyond the darkness, calling them all to the beach. He’s never felt relief so greatly before; not even the night he gave in and kissed Atsumu for the first time.

“You did it Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto laughs. “Hey, Kourai, get back up here! Tsumu just saved us all by jumping your statue!”

“He did what?” Hoshiumi yells, thunk, thunk, thunking aggressively up the rungs. “Get your filthy dick off my statue Miya One! You’ve got your own way uglier statue to grope!”

“Uncalled for,” Kiyoomi grumbles.

Atsumu extricates himself from the statue, patting its torso of carved muscle in gratitude. “I don’t ever wanna hear that I’m not pullin’ my weight ever again,” he says smugly. “You owe me at least sixty-percent of yer shares each for savin’ ya.”

“It was an accident,” Suna reminds him. “That was your eighteenth in twenty minutes.”

“It was intentional, Sunarin,” Atsumu corrects. “Those weren’t accidents, they were tests. I was lookin’ for secret mechanisms by catching them unaware. Turns out I was right. You’re fuckin’ welcome.”

“Sure,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “Then why don’t you try intentionally making it over here without falling?” He nods to the spot of clear ground next to him, one of the only patches currently untouched by treasure.

“Pfft, easy.”

Atsumu starts cautiously, picking his way across with care. For a moment, Kiyoomi thinks he actually might make it to the other side unaffected, but the closer to Kiyoomi he gets, the more of that caution he throws to the wind in favour of speedily stomping and leaping and showboating. “See?” he begins, “Told ya I was—”

He slips – inevitably – on a string of pearls that not even Kiyoomi noticed peeking out from beneath a pouch of gems. He’s lucky that Kiyoomi is there to catch him and hold him up by the arms. “That was intentional too,” he says, looking up with a roguish grin and a wink. “Just wanted to see if you’d catch me, sweetheart.”

“Eugh.” Kiyoomi lets him go and watches him fall the rest of the way to the ground with a grunt, pointedly ignoring the hot flush that seizes his face and neck.

The tunnel leads directly from the treasure room and out onto the beach through the wide mouth of a cave. Kiyoomi imagines that before the stone door had given way, it might have resembled an ordinary hollow, framed by large, seaweed-covered rocks and concealed by a curtain of low-hanging vines. It’s inconspicuous enough not to draw any unwarranted attention, and dark enough inside not to seem worth anyone’s time; it would have been the very last place Kiyoomi would ever think to begin.

The evening is already waning; the sun is relinquishing its spot above the horizon to the moon, but even that muted sliver of sunlight burns Kiyoomi’s unadjusted eyes. The patch they walk out unto is not too far from the ship. Kiyoomi can see it and their camp about a mile along the sand, untouched and exactly as they had left it. He can’t quite believe it’s there at all, or that they’ve made it back alive to see it; it almost felt an unrealistic possibility, or at least one that wouldn’t come to fruition until the end of another long trek.

“It was that easy?” Osamu asks incredulously. “All that shit we went through and we coulda just bashed the wall in and come this way?”

“We’d never have gotten through,” Ushijima muses. “It is not what Ukai intended.”

Nobody can argue with that. The fact that they walked so long only to end up near the beginning again is testament enough to Ukai’s engineering. Kiyoomi looks above the cave mouth, at the forest that expands beyond it and wonders how deep below it they were.

“Take Suna back to camp and begin preparing food,” Ushijima tells Osamu. “The rest of us will bring back a first haul, and we shall continue in the morning.”

They both salute and head off, glad to finally be putting the day to rest, while everybody else files back into the tunnel.

The very first thing they do is move the stacks of gold bars to the gap in the door. Should the stone suddenly decide to close again, the gold will be strong enough to keep a gap open for them to escape through, even if they will have to leave some treasure behind in the process.  

They grab their sacks, snatching more fistfuls of coins and filling their pockets and bags and socks with as much as they can manage, just in case the door does close overnight. Each of their necks is weighed down by dozens upon dozens of necklaces, medallions, and chains, their heads are adorned with crowns, tiaras, diadems, and circlets, and their waists tied tightly with belts of new swords and guns.

Hardly a dent has been made in the horde, but each of them is already carrying their own body weight in treasure.

With one last look before the morning, they leave it all behind and set off for camp, dragging sacks of gold along the sand and singing merrily as they go. Some carry more than just one sack – Hinata and Hoshiumi are carrying a chest back between them too, and Bokuto has his, Suna’s, and Osamu’s, with another tied to his waist.

It takes until the sun finally sets for them to reach it. Osamu and Suna have only just returned themselves by the time they arrive, and they’re working on lighting a fire with piles of dry leaves and sticks. They throw the sacks down near one of the tents and undress themselves of gold, far too exhausted to attempt getting it aboard the ship. Like dominos, they collapse one by one onto the sand with groans of relief, chugging their way through fresh water and raiding the dugout for snacks.

Kiyoomi doesn’t even bother to cushion his head – he’s so drained he finds he doesn’t care for the grains entangling with his hair, for how dirty he’s getting his coat, or what creatures might be crawling against his skin. He’s already filthy; it can hardly get any worse.

Atsumu sits down next to him and pats his thigh. “How’re ya holdin’ up old man?” he asks, squeezing the muscle reassuringly.

Kiyoomi covers his eyes with the crook of his elbow. “I could sleep for a month,” he says honestly. “Perhaps two.”

There’s a shuffling, then Kiyoomi feels his head being lifted and placed back down onto Atsumu’s lap. “Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll wake ya when Samu’s finished makin’ food.”

Kiyoomi moves his arm and cracks an eye open. “Don’t you want to nap too?”

Atsumu smiles down at him and with a gentle hand picks something out of Kiyoomi’s hair and tosses it away. “Nah,” he says. “I got plenty of rest in earlier.”

With a shrug, Kiyoomi readjusts himself until he’s comfortable and replaces his arm over his eyes.

There’s probably something to be said about how easily he seems to fall asleep atop Atsumu. Back at the estate, Kiyoomi would lie there for hours waiting for sleep to claim him, letting all sorts of anxieties and insecurities wheedle their way into his brain and keep him up for hours more. It should be worse without the comfort of home, and yet it is not. He falls asleep almost immediately, to the softness of Atsumu’s fingers drawing patterns on his wrist.

It’s his own growling stomach that wakes him. The smell of cooking meat over an open fire draws him towards consciousness, a low grumble that begs him to eat. Atsumu’s still his human pillow, though he’s turned slightly to the side to play a card game on his other thigh with the pack he found in the treasure horde. When he notices that Kiyoomi’s awake he smiles and flicks a joker at his forehead.

“It’s almost done,” he says. “Hope ya like boar and…uh, more boar.”

Kiyoomi yawns and sits up, stretching out his aching limbs and rolling his shoulders. Now that he’s given himself ample time to rest, fatigue has caught up and the prospect of moving treasure come the morning makes him miserable. That is nothing, however, compared to how miserably hungry he is right now. “At this point,” he says, “I’d eat sand if it had a flavour.”

Atsumu scoffs. “No ya wouldn’t,”

“No,” Kiyoomi admits. “I would actually rather starve.”

With a laugh, Atsumu collects his cards and packs them away, leaning provocatively over Kiyoomi’s lap to reach the joker he threw. He tucks them into the box, and then into his boot like it’s a weapon to be concealed. The pack suits him, Kiyoomi thinks, more so than the one he owned previous. Rather than a simple red backing, this set is a swirling pattern of black and gold that glows the same shade as his eyes at sunset. Befitting, for the crew’s best player.

Looking around, most of the crew are asleep too, some are curled into each other like children, others are stretched out like beached starfish, snoring at the starry sky. Aside from Atsumu and Kiyoomi, Osamu and Ushijima are the only ones awake, talking quietly as the food cooks, voices barely audible over the crashing of waves and the crackle of the fire.

It takes a while, but gradually everyone else wakes too, and they all make their lethargic ways over to the fire to wait for Osamu to serve the boar their trap caught during the day. Bokuto fishes out the rum and pulls the cork free with his teeth as they eat, and the more they drink, the rowdier they become until everyone is back to normal – replenished and recharged and shouting loud enough to rattle Kiyoomi’s eardrums.

The moon climbs high and it’s full and bright and visible in the cloudless sky. From his position facing the sea, Kiyoomi can see its light dancing upon the black reflection of the waves, can almost feel the push and pull of the tide as it breathes along the shore. It’s a moment that’s innocuous in and of itself, just a minute slice in time that could be easily forgotten, and yet it’s one that Kiyoomi finds himself treasuring, wishing he could weave it into the very fabric of his soul.

He’s tired, exhausted, and filthy, but he is also feeling exhilarated with a sense of purpose. For the first time in his life he’s done something for himself, accomplished something other than just getting out of bed in the morning and sitting through a day of tedious lessons. He feels invincible as he eats the freshly caught meat, like the fearful lies his brain has been feeding him all these years are simply that: lies. There is joy in the world, there is excitement, there is life, and there is love, and it suddenly hits him now as the fire warms his skin and the rum heats his blood that perhaps this feeling is definitely worth pushing himself for.

Kiyoomi knows that if his parents could see him now, eating with his hands, drinking rum beside hordes of stolen treasure, and sharing kisses with a pirate, they’d be as baffled as they would be outraged - but that thought no longer scares him.

“To being gazillionaires,” Bokuto says in celebration, holding a piece of hot meat up to the sky.

“To being gazillionaires!” they all echo, raising whatever piece of food they have in their fingers in a toast.

“And to Omi,” Atsumu adds with a grin, nudging his shoulder with his own. “If not for you, we’d probably still be down there cryin’ about how we didn’t have the right key.”

“Or throwing me at the ceiling,” Hinata chirps.

“I’d be dead,” Suna adds.

“We didn’t even think to bring matches,” Hoshiumi says bitterly. “We’d have been stranded in the darkness forever. Or at least until I adapted and learned how to see in the dark.”

“To Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Ushijima confirms, holding his food up again.

Kiyoomi feels his face run hot when the crew echo him, even more so when Atsumu leans in and says in his ear, “The final piece of the puzzle.”

They play a few rounds of a game Kiyoomi’s never heard of before. One in which they pair up and act out concepts, professions, animals, and people to earn the highest score in three minutes. Kiyoomi ends up with Ushijima, because Atsumu is insistent on proving his theory of twin telepathy, and Kiyoomi thinks he’s got a good deal until Ushijima starts acting and he realises what a terrible mistake that was.

Ushijima stands, blank faced, holding two fingers up to the sides of his forehead so that they point upwards like horns. It’s supposed to be an animal of some description, so Kiyoomi guesses, “Deer. Goat. Moose. Cow.” None of them are correct, and he finds himself at a loss as the rest of the crew double over in laughter. “Do something else,” Kiyoomi encourages him.

“Okay,” Ushijima says.

His definition of something else is to walk around in a small circle. Kiyoomi stares at him in bewildered confusion, and then Hoshiumi is calling, “Time! You got zero correct! Congratulations! That’s even worse than when Bokuto and Ushijima play! Haha!”

Kiyoomi scowls and turns to Ushijima. “What was it?” he asks.

Ushijima lowers his hands from where they’re still at his forehead. “A cat,” he says.

“A cat,” Kiyoomi repeats.

“Yes, see?” Ushijima does the action again and wiggles his fingers. “These are the quintessential pointed ears of a cat.”

“Mhm,” Kiyoomi says, patience wearing thin quite rapidly. “Try acting a dog.”

Ushijima nods and thinks on it for a second, then assumes the exact same pose. Kiyoomi throws his hands in the air and Atsumu almost vomits he’s laughing so hard. “What about that constitutes a dog?” he demands.

“These are the ears again,” Ushijima explains. “I am envisioning a German Shepherd, or a Corgi – two instantly recognisable hounds by their distinctively pointed ears.”

Kiyoomi holds up a hand. “We’ll take the loss,” he says.

They play a few more rounds, but nobody is able to beat Kageyama and Hinata or their weird secret language. Atsumu and Osamu are a close second, and Bokuto and Suna do well because of Suna’s perceptiveness, but Kiyoomi and Ushijima only manage to score points because Kiyoomi starts to guess wildly and somehow manages to land some.

When they break for rum and to stoke the fire, Hinata sighs and asks, “Do you have to leave, Omi-san? It’s so much fun with you around.”

He says it so earnestly that Kiyoomi doesn’t quite know what to say. Hinata has taken a keen interest in the astronomy lessons Kiyoomi’s been giving him over the weeks, but he hadn’t thought he’d been enjoying them that much.

“Of course he does, dumbass,” Kageyama says, flicking him on the cheek. “We can’t just keep him forever. He has a family to get back to. Right, Sakusa-san?”

“Right,” he says slowly, and it doesn’t escape his notice how stiff Atsumu suddenly becomes next to him. Using his peripheral vision he observes his face, but it betrays nothing; his smile is still the same, even if his fists are clenched.

Kiyoomi doesn’t elaborate any further, and the mood plummets compared to the ecstatic high of a mere ten minutes ago. Atsumu is something of a mood maker, and without his commentary to amplify the things people say, it becomes subdued and quiet as talk deviates from games to the morning’s schedule instead.

As they debate ways of getting the treasure back aboard the ship, Kiyoomi wonders if perhaps he should say something else, something reassuring or uplifting, but he has no clue what. Despite how much he desires otherwise, the fact remains that he will have to go home; his family is waiting for him, his tutors, his whole life, no matter how dull. There are simply too many responsibilities to uphold and too many expectations to meet; he can’t just leave them all behind, his parents, his siblings, his cousin. He doesn’t really have a choice.

It's Bokuto who ends up saving the dampened atmosphere. After their stomachs have settled and the rum has run dry, he jumps to his feet and asks, “Who wants to go for a swim?”

“What?” Hoshiumi asks. “Now?”

“Yeah! Swimming is good for digestion! And the cold water will soothe our muscles.”

Hinata immediately pulls his boots off. “I wanna swim!” he cries. “I need to get clean! I think there’s still a cockroach in my pants somewhere. I could feel it in my butt when we were acting.”

It’s a universally accepted idea; they’re all filthy after two weeks at sea and a day of adventure. Some considerably more than others, but even Suna, the cleanest of them all, starts unlacing his boots and shrugging out of his shirt to join in. Kiyoomi hears the splash and scream of “It’s cold! It’s cold!” when they race into the water, the screeches and giggles and laughter as they try to pull Kageyama in against his best efforts and loud complaints.

“Wanna come?” Atsumu asks Kiyoomi, hand outstretched. The breeze tousles his hair and whips at the shirt he’s unbuttoned as his mouth quirks into a restrained smile. Even if Kiyoomi wasn’t also desperate to get clean, he’d probably follow Atsumu regardless. He nods and shrugs out of his coat before taking his hand, and they shed their clothes as they go until they’re left freezing cold in their underwear, standing at the line of darkened sand where the tide rolls in.

It is cold: inhumanely so. Kiyoomi hisses the moment his bare ankles are caught by the foamy edges of a wave and momentarily regrets the decision to agree.

Atsumu tugs him along, little by little as Kiyoomi slowly but surely gets used to the temperature, then he gets impatient and tugs so hard that Kiyoomi falls and is submerged completely in icy cold water. It’s so cold that it feels as though he’s burning – he’s not sure where the water ends and he begins. As quickly as he can manage through the shock, he breaks back above the surface and whirls around on a guilty looking Atsumu, teeth chattering, hair dripping in his eyes.

“Whoops,” Atsumu says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

“I’m g-going t-to fucking k-kill you, asshole,” Kiyoomi manages, whole body shaking with icy tremors.

Atsumu presses his lips into a line to conceal his laughter. “You gotta catch me first,” he says, then dives off and swims away with a splash that showers Kiyoomi with more water.

Kiyoomi debates crawling back to the shore for a while, to let Atsumu swim off alone like an idiot while he warms back up beside the fire, but the desire to strangle him wins out in the end. He dives back beneath the water, willingly this time, and is surprised to find that it’s a little more bearable when the breeze doesn’t get the chance to cool his skin.

When Kiyoomi finally grabs a hold of Atsumu’s ankle and yanks him backward to stop, he realises just how far out and far away from the others they’ve gotten. Kiyoomi must tread the water, unable to find solid ground beneath his feet, and he can only hear the crew’s continued screaming quietly in the distance.

“Oh no. You caught me,” Atsumu grins, lying back in the water and pushing his wet hair back out of his face. “Guess you gotta kill me now, huh?”

With a firm grip still on Atsumu’s ankle Kiyoomi pulls him closer until he’s forced to straighten and tread water too, just a few paltry inches from Kiyoomi’s face. With one hand keeping himself afloat, Kiyoomi reaches the other out until it finds Atsumu’s neck, then he presses a thumb into his racing pulse.

“Guess so,” Kiyoomi says quietly, eyes inevitably dropping when Atsumu’s tongue darts out to lick sea water from his lips.

The moonlight catches his cheekbones, makes the tips of his eyelashes glisten as water collects upon them. The closer they get, the firmer Kiyoomi tightens his grip on Atsumu’s throat until their hot breaths are mingling and Kiyoomi leans in closer still, craving the heat.

When he kisses Atsumu he tries to be mindful, tries to remember to keep himself afloat, but it’s impossible with how desperately Atsumu kisses back, with how urgently he licks into Kiyoomi’s mouth and how feverishly he steals Kiyoomi’s breath away. It’s quiet, save for their panting and the slight splashing sounds of water as Atsumu’s hand travels above and below the waterline to smooth over as much of Kiyoomi’s unclothed torso as he can manage.

It sets Kiyoomi alight. He suddenly forgets the freezing temperature, forgets everything other than the taste of salt on Atsumu’s tongue and the pounding of his own heart in his throat.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says against his lips. His name barely makes it out into the night air before it gets smothered by another searing kiss. Kiyoomi gives into it easily, lets Atsumu move from his mouth down to his jaw and tilts his head back to give him easier access.

“Atsumu,” he tries again breathlessly, hand instinctively reaching for the back of Atsumu’s head to pull him closer. He ignores his name again, and Kiyoomi’s breath hitches audibly as Atsumu bites at the skin of his throat and then licks it in a soothing apology. He’s not usually so dismissive – it’s hard to get Atsumu to shut up, especially when they’re kissing – and right now he’s uncharacteristically quiet.

“Atsumu,” he tries for the third time, gripping at Atsumu’s hair and pulling him off until they’re forehead to forehead, breathing heavily. “What’s wrong?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

Atsumu closes his eyes and sighs. For a while they simply float there as they catch their breath, Kiyoomi waiting patiently for Atsumu to find the right words and the courage to say them. “Samu warned me,” he says eventually, hand dropping from its grasp of Kiyoomi’s shoulder down beneath the water to rest upon his waist. “Back when I was botherin’ ya with all those pranks. He warned me not to get too invested in you, and he warned me again not to get too invested in us, but I—”

Kiyoomi swallows and closes his eyes too, so that he no longer has to see the pained crease of Atsumu’s brow as he talks.

“I fucked up, Omi,” he says with a watery laugh. “I kinda went ahead and did it anyway, and I know I gotta say goodbye at some point, ‘cause you’ve got a life of yer own, a fuckin’ good one, too, and a family that loves you and wants you back. I’m selfish, but I’m not selfish enough to ask you to give it up for someone like—"

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi warns, tightening his grip on his hair, unwilling to let him finish such an idiotic train of thought. He needs to say this now, before Atsumu gets any other stupid ideas, before he starts putting words into Kiyoomi’s mouth that would never enter his mind, never mind leave his lips. “I may have to go home, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop seeing you.”

He’s quiet for so long that Kiyoomi finds himself opening his eyes again to check he’s still there. Atsumu’s eyes are wide when Kiyoomi meets them, mouth hanging slightly open, shoulders rising and falling with his unsteady breaths. “If you won’t be selfish, then I will.” Kiyoomi moves his hand to rest upon Atsumu’s cheek and rubs a thumb over his bottom lip pensively. “I don’t want this to end when I return. I want to see you again, however I can, whenever I am able.”

“You do?” Atsumu barely whispers.

“I told you,” Kiyoomi says, “that if you needed reminding of how I felt, to simply ask. You said you believed me.”

“I do,” he says. “I believe ya but—”

“But what?”

“It’s hard, right?” His gaze drops downwards, like he’s trying to find the answer beneath the dark ripples of water. “People don’t usually wanna wait around. I never know where I’m gonna be, where I’m goin’, or how long I’m gonna be gone for. You deserve more than just a letter every few weeks, or a few days whenever I’m in town. Samu said—"

“Listen to me.” Kiyoomi tilts his head and forces his gaze back upward. “I don’t care what Osamu says. I don’t care about what other people say or do, or what you think I deserve. I care about you, Atsumu, and I know that I will wait however long it takes for even the briefest of moments.”

Kiyoomi has given it a lot of thought the past few days, but the thought finally solidifies now. When he asks himself to think of scenarios in which he would still feel happy after returning home, all reach the same conclusion: so long as Atsumu turns up eventually, any stretch of time seems manageable. His parents’ pestering may be unbearable, his lessons may be dull, and his life may be lonely, but what greater motivation is there to see the days, weeks, months through, than to be rewarded with Atsumu’s smile at the end of it?

He'll remain the brooding bachelor for the rest of his life, turn down as many advances as needs be because Kiyoomi’s quite certain nobody will ever pull at his heart the way Atsumu does. He would rather this, and whatever long-distance arrangement might follow, than to settle for something miserable simply because it is more convenient.

Atsumu’s grip on Kiyoomi’s waist turns bruising, but he doesn’t mind, doesn’t pry him off.

“What if you change yer mind?” he asks. “What if you get bored of waitin’?”

“I won’t.”

“But what if ya do?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. He refuses to give Atsumu even the tiniest seed of doubt, won’t let him nurture it into a tree large enough to cast shade upon the very obvious truth that Kiyoomi is hopelessly enamoured. “Then I’ll buy another book with one of my gazillion gold coins,” he says. “Or perhaps I’ll take up a new hobby, knit you some sweaters so that you’ll finally dress modestly.”

Atsumu huffs a laugh and drops his forehead down to rest on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Yer really serious, huh?”

“I’m always serious.”

He looks back up and the smile finally returns. The real one. “What if I really do decide to crash yer grandmother’s next birthday?”

“The Sakusa family is long overdue a scandal,” Kiyoomi returns with a small smile of his own. “Just, for god’s sake, don’t consult Bokuto for letter-writing advice.”

Atsumu frowns. “Why not? I read some of his latest stuff and it was pretty good.” Kiyoomi’s face drops and Atsumu explodes into laughter. “I’m kiddin’,” he says. “Geez, your face. C’mere.”

This time when Atsumu kisses him it’s measured and relaxed. He’s no longer rushing, no longer desperate, or scared, and Kiyoomi opens himself up, lets Atsumu take whatever he needs as reassurance. He can feel Atsumu’s continued smile against his mouth, hear the sweet noises he makes again as what was plaguing him before seeps away and sinks to the depths of the ocean.

When they all return to the fire, skin wrinkled and wracked with shivers, they pull on clean clothes and bury their ruined ones in the sand, unwilling to even think about cleaning them when they could buy out whole street’s worth of fashions with the coins in just one of their sacks. Like moths drawn to the light of the flames they sit around the fire, huddled close together so that they thaw faster.

Atsumu is loud now, and completely unrestrained. His hand finds Kiyoomi’s and holds it tight and without hesitation, squeezing and releasing periodically like a second heartbeat. When Kiyoomi rests his head on Atsumu’s shoulder, he gently moves Kiyoomi’s wet hair out of his eyes and presses soft kisses to the moles on his forehead.

Later, when they pick a tent and settle beneath it, Atsumu wastes no time in wrapping himself around Kiyoomi, one arm and one leg strewn over Kiyoomi’s front, pulling him close so that he can rest his face on Kiyoomi’s chest. Despite the fact they’re lying on the sand, it’s quite comfortable with a few bunched-up shirts beneath their heads – far more comfortable than a hammock.

“Y’know, growin’ up, we had this sayin’,” Atsumu begins seemingly out of nowhere. He keeps his voice low, careful not to wake the others. “We don’t need memories.”

“What does that mean?” Kiyoomi asks him, brows furrowed in confusion. All the crew ever seem to do is reminisce on their pasts, their stupid anecdotes, and hilarious failings. They are a family built on memories. So many that Kiyoomi’s sure he could spend another three years listening and still not have scratched the surface.

“Means we don’t need to worry ‘bout where we came from, or what we’ve done before, that we’re only gonna care about what’s in front of us right now.”

That explains the recklessness, Kiyoomi supposes. The way he fights, and the way he expresses his affections. He may argue with others, more so with his brother, but he forgets almost instantly and doesn’t dwell too much on the insignificant.

“I live my life by it,” Atsumu continues. “But somethin’ ‘bout you makes me wanna create as many damn memories as I can.”

“I’m not dying,” Kiyoomi reminds him.

Atsumu pushes himself up onto one elbow and looms over Kiyoomi, face set with that handsome determination that almost makes him sparkle. “No,” he confirms, “but I don’t wanna forget a single thing about you. I wanna remember everythin’.”

He brings his hand up to Kiyoomi’s hair and moves a stray curl from his forehead, then trails it down to his cheekbone, his lips, his chin. “I don’t wanna forget how pretty you are.” He tilts Kiyoomi’s chin up and captures his lips in a chaste kiss. “Or how sweet ya taste.”

As Atsumu’s hand smooths down the expanse of Kiyoomi’s neck and dips beneath his lazily buttoned shirt, he hisses at the contact of cold skin and arches up in an attempt to find his mouth again. Frustratingly, Atsumu keeps himself just beyond reach and uses his palm, flat against Kiyoomi’s chest, to push him back down.

He does kiss Kiyoomi again, but only so that his hand can move while Kiyoomi is distracted, down to palm him through the fabric of his trousers. The sound Kiyoomi makes is somewhat strangled in an effort to stay inaudible, somewhere between a stifled groan and a surprised hitch of breath. Atsumu swallows it and then grins into the kiss. “Ah, there it is,” he says with a low hum. “Toldja ya made pretty sounds. I’m definitely not gonna forget that any time soon.”

Kiyoomi scoffs and pushes Atsumu’s face away until he falls to the side. “Go to sleep, you insatiable strumpet,” he breathes.

Atsumu laughs at the makeshift roof of their tent as he lies back down. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “G’night, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi reaches out and pulls him closer, back to the positions they were in before Atsumu’s little speech. He cards his fingers through his hair, clean and dry by the light of the fire. “Sleep well, Atsumu.”

Chapter Text

It takes two whole days to move the treasure. They split off into teams – those who bag and move the treasure from the room to the beach, and those who ferry it out to the boat and take it up the ladder. The first day, Kiyoomi opts for walking back and forth the cave, thinking it’ll be less arduous than standing in the sea all day, climbing ladders and running up and down the ship’s rickety staircases, but his feet and arms ache so terribly when he settles for the night that he switches roles in a heartbeat when Bokuto offers.

The orlop is overtaken entirely by gold. To fit it all in, they must leave some stuff behind, namely the rugs and souvenirs Kiyoomi’s father bought initially, and a few crates of weapons. Kiyoomi spends some time organising it all as he brings it down, filling and tying off sacks of money, and untangling strings of jewellery. It gets so full that barely two people can fit inside at any given time, which means it’ll be impossible for Kiyoomi and Atsumu to maintain their sparring sessions once they set sail.

“Don’t worry,” Atsumu promises, with a wink and a grin. “I’ll keep my hands modest and we can continue them above deck. He won’t say it, but Tobio-kun’s been dyin’ to fight ya too.”

He doesn’t have to say it, Kiyoomi thinks. It’s written all over his face whenever he eyes Kiyoomi’s rapier with that fiery stare.

The day before they leave, they re-enter the forest to forage as much as they can find for the journey. Atsumu and Osamu hunt more boar, Hoshiumi brings down a few birds, and, armed with his knowledge of plants and poisons, Kiyoomi oversees the picking of fruit and berries and mushrooms until they have enough to tide them over to their final docking. The island is surprisingly bountiful; Osamu is able to rustle up the most decadent meal they’ve eaten in a while, and finishes it up with some sweet fruit compotes for dessert that taste so good Atsumu is moved dramatically to tears.

The morning of their fourth day upon the island they finally set off. The wind picks up as though it is happy to give them a helping hand home, and it whips noisily at the sails as Hinata yells over the ledge, “Thanks a lot, Ukai-san! We’ll spend it well!”

“I probably won’t!” Bokuto adds with a huge wave. “But I’ll appreciate it anyway!”

With the course set for a town that’s a two-week sail from their current position, life begins anew aboard the ship. It feels different somehow; every step Kiyoomi takes across the boards he’s keenly aware of the fortune beneath his feet, anxious that at any moment someone might appear over the horizon and steal it from them. Honestly, it’s a mystery that they’re sailing at all. Kiyoomi expects them to start sinking beneath the extra weight, but they glide just as steadily over the waves, as though the enormous, treasure-shaped elephant in the orlop isn’t there at all.

The first few days at sea are lazy. Aside from working the sails, the crew take it easy, resting with card games and lengthy naps. Suna somehow managed to get the throne aboard the ship, and he sits upon it most of the day, getting waited on and dragged around from place to place as he heals his ankle. Ushijima spends most of his days between the helm and the captain’s quarters, planning their route and adjusting their course, and at least one member of the crew is down in the orlop at any given time, admiring the haul or finding something amongst it to occupy themselves with. Osamu digs out a whole set of nine solid gold plates to serve their next meals upon, and matching jewel encrusted goblets for their rum. Hoshiumi finds items to dress his statue with, and Hinata and Kageyama compete in a tournament of games to win the rights to a particularly striking sword.

Atsumu, however, spends most of his time in Kiyoomi’s room, kissing him into the thin mattress, listening keenly as Kiyoomi reads books to him aloud, and whispering sweet promises of future plans.

“I’m gonna take you to see Kita and Aran at the orphanage one day,” he says one quiet afternoon as they’re sitting opposite each other on Kiyoomi’s bed, playing a makeshift game of checkers with gold coins and rings. He leans back and looks Kiyoomi up and down with a grin. “Maybe I’ll dress ya up and tell the kids yer a real prince.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Kiyoomi balks. Atsumu talks a lot about Kita and Aran, about how much he admires them and values their opinions– the last thing Kiyoomi wants is to turn up looking a fool and botch his critical first impression.

“Why not? It’d make their lives if they thought they’d met real life royalty. All you gotta do is smile, wave, and look handsome. Easy for you, right? Do it for the kids, Omi.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t really care for children, but the way Atsumu looks at him with such excitement, with pleading eyes, and an easy invitation into another aspect of his life makes him sigh in resignation. “Fine,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “So long as I get to dress you as my squire.”

“I am but your humble footstool, milord,” Atsumu says with an elaborate flourish of his hand. “Use me as you will.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at that and pulls Atsumu forward by the collar of his shirt until he falls into his lap.

“Ack! No! The game! I was winnin’ that one ya bastard,” he cries as his stumble sends coins and rings sprawling across the bed and floor of Kiyoomi’s room.

Indifferent towards both the game and the mess, Kiyoomi flips their positions so that he’s bearing down on him and pins Atsumu’s hands above his head. “No you weren’t,” he says quietly.

“Was too,” Atsumu says, mouth twisting into a pout. “I was gonna finish you in three more moves.”

“I’m charmed you think so,” Kiyoomi smiles. They’ve been playing for an hour and Atsumu hasn’t managed to take more than five of Kiyoomi’s golden checkers during any one game. The only reason he’s continued to play and thrash him so thoroughly, is because watching Atsumu’s brow wrinkle in concentration is endlessly endearing.

He leans in until their faces are merely an inch apart and says, “I’m going to use you now.”

Any consternation Atsumu feels melts away at that, his pout gives way to a sly smile, and he wraps his legs around Kiyoomi’s middle and arches up impatiently to meet Kiyoomi’s lips.

When Atsumu insisted he was intent on making memories, Kiyoomi thinks he does so most often through his kisses. Each one seems to linger, seems to overwrite the last as Kiyoomi’s favourite and pull forth a different emotion, like Atsumu is a conductor and Kiyoomi is simply following along helplessly to his tune. Over the days that follow they take turns in orchestral roles to play and perform each other; taut strings and lengthy exhales, sharp bites of percussion, and sonorous vibrations of bass as they crash and crescendo over and over and over again.

Kiyoomi loses track of the time. He simply lets himself go to enjoy what moments he has left with the crew as they are. He gives in to Kageyama’s stares and duels him when the crew gather above deck for communal sparring sessions. He’s more mechanical than Atsumu, more precise and measured. Kiyoomi must revert to his ordinary training and think about each move he makes, rather than rely on the feeling and instinct he employs to fight Atsumu.

Though Kageyama worries Kiyoomi at times, sword fighting is not an area he seems to lack intelligence in. It feels a lot like fighting his old tutor, only Kageyama is infinitely more talented and experienced in real bouts, as opposed to the pompous flair of fake noble spars. Kiyoomi only manages to win one of four matches, but it’s a nice change of pace, a fun challenge that soon becomes another when Hinata insists on having a turn, then Bokuto, then Hoshiumi, Ushijima, and even Osamu.

Each challenge they pose is different: Hoshiumi is ruthless yet precise, Bokuto is pure brute strength, Ushijima is relentless, and if Atsumu is burning fire, then Osamu is deceptively slippery ice. But it’s Hinata that proves the toughest challenge of all. He’s so light on his feet, so fast and unpredictable, that it’s almost impossible for Kiyoomi to keep up or keep him at rapier’s length. After four consecutive losses, he gives in and lets Atsumu fight him instead.

Their bout is a brilliant display of flashing blades and blurred movements. They clearly do this often – they predict moves that Kiyoomi would never have seen coming and taunt each other with previous wins and losses. Whenever Kiyoomi thinks Atsumu has Hinata cornered, Hinata will find a way out of it by jumping, or sliding, or ducking with shocking dexterity that only someone of his height can achieve.

The others cheer and egg them on, placing imaginary bets since they already have enough money between them to set them straight for ten lifetimes. Atsumu wins a few, Hinata claims back a few more, and Atsumu insists his losses only come at the hands of Hinata’s ‘cursed sword’ which is actually just the one they found amongst Ukai’s treasure.

“I can feel it sappin’ my energy,” Atsumu claims when Hinata wins his third bout. “Thing’s fuckin’ haunted.”

“Or you’re just getting old, Atsumu-san,” Hinata says sympathetically as he helps him to his feet. “It’s okay. Happens to us all eventually. Do you want to sit down? Rest your brittle bones?”

“I’m gonna kick yer ass,” Atsumu says through a fake smile.

“You just tried, grandpa. Didn’t work out very well for—Aah! Don’t hit me!”

They spar until the evening, and after the rest of the crew disperse, Kiyoomi and Atsumu pick back up with their lessons. Atsumu teaches Kiyoomi some of the moves he used on Hinata, and some of the techniques Hinata used on him, and true to his word, he keeps his hands modest and his words innocent as he helps him through the motions.

Sparring after the sun sets makes Kiyoomi think of that night the pirates attacked, the night his thoughts started to shift from irked to interested after seeing Atsumu wield a blade, and the contrast to his nervousness in having his wounds treated. It makes him wonder what might have happened had Kiyoomi stayed below deck and missed it, had the pirates not attacked at all. Would they have fought in the hallway and remained hostile? Would things have gotten worse? Or was falling for him an inevitability that would have occurred regardless?

It only takes a single smile of Atsumu’s for Kiyoomi to think the answer to that is pretty obvious.

It seems that the moon enjoys playing a backdrop for their significant moments. Each memory that Kiyoomi recalls of theirs is accompanied by a cool, sunless breeze – the repairing of wounds, the time in the cell, their first kiss, and the freezing confessions beneath the water - and midway through their second week at sea, they add another invaluable piece to the collection.

It's a while after they finish their meals – the sky is cloudless and thick with stars and Kiyoomi and Atsumu sit with their backs pressed against the ship’s ledge to look at them. There’s a shared bottle of rum between them, one that Kiyoomi takes his time with after the poker incident, and they’re both wrapped up in coats from Kiyoomi’s collection to combat the chill.

“What’s that one?” Atsumu asks, pointing up at the sky.

“Nothing,” Kiyoomi tells him, following his finger and trying to discern what constellation he’s referring to. “That’s just a star.”

“Oh, uh. I meant that one.”

“That is also just a star.”

Atsumu’s wrist goes slack in the air. “Are there any actual constellations here or what?” he asks brows furrowing. “There’s hundreds of those things, right? How do I keep missin’ ‘em?”

Kiyoomi takes his pointed finger and guides it along the sky, touching stars in a pattern he’s learned from books and traced himself through his open window countless times before. “That’s Sagittarius,” he says, then leads Atsumu’s finger over to the left. “And that bright star is Jupiter.”

He glances over their joined hands at Atsumu and finds him gaping in awe at the sky, jaw slack and eyes wide. Without shifting his gaze from the stars, Atsumu excitedly nudges Kiyoomi’s thigh, and he says, “What else?”

“That’s Capricornus,” Kiyoomi explains, moving Atsumu’s hand in the shape of a large triangle. “And that’s Saturn.”

“Are you kiddin’?”

“No?”

“Fuck. I’ve been lookin’ at Saturn this whole damn time?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi laughs. “It’s always there. During the daytime too, you just can’t see it.”

Atsumu slumps back against the ship. “Shit.”

Kiyoomi understands the feeling. The sky used to terrify him, the thought of how vast and endless it was, how full of infinite possibilities and mysteries. But the more he studied it, the more it became a haven from the worries of Earth. It’s all so far away, a concern for a Kiyoomi billions of years in the future, rather than the Kiyoomi of today. Now it’s simply a subject that’ll never run out of topics for him to explore, something that’ll never get boring no matter how much he learns.

“When you go home,” Atsumu says, “you’ll still be able to see that, right?”

“Probably,” Kiyoomi says. The sky will shift over the coming months, but, “If nothing else the moon will always be the same for the both of us.”

Atsumu seems content with that. He smiles, more to himself than for Kiyoomi, and turns his hand around so that their fingers entwine.

As the minutes bleed into hours, they move from their huddle at the ship’s ledge, and transition to lying flat on their backs to stare up at the sky without straining their necks. Beneath the snap of wind at the sails, they listen to each other’s breaths, simply exist in one another’s company, entangled in their own thoughts.

“Wanna play a game?” Atsumu asks him suddenly. Or expectedly – Atsumu often says odd things spontaneously, things he’s been thinking of for a while and doesn’t care if the time is right for them or not.

“What sort?”

Atsumu retrieves his cards from his boot and holds them up between them for Kiyoomi to see, gold backing catching the light of the moon and casting a reflection upon the darkness of Kiyoomi’s coat. “I’ll pick up a card, you say whether the next one is higher or lower. If you get it right, you get to ask me a question and I gotta answer it no matter what. If ya don’t, I ask you. Get it?”

Kiyoomi hums consent – it sounds simple and harmless enough - and Atsumu pulls the cards out of the box and shuffles them. He puts the deck down in the space between them and picks up a single card with two fingers. “Three,” he says. “Higher or lower?”

“Higher.”

Atsumu picks up another card and flips it around. “Nine. Fire away.”

Kiyoomi takes his time thinking of a question. There aren’t many things Atsumu has neglected to tell him by now; Kiyoomi will let him ramble often and at length and be content just to listen. His eyes wander from the sky, to the card in Atsumu’s hand, to the rings on his fingers, and he lands on, “Did you ever find it?”

“Find what?”

“The treasure from the map in your headmaster’s room.”

Kiyoomi can feel Atsumu turn his head to look at him in surprise. “How’d you know about that?”

“Bokuto.”

Atsumu huffs in amusement. “Figures.” He lowers the card and continues, “‘Course we did. It was the first real haul we ever found – few chests of coins and a necklace we pawned for another small fortune. We didn’t really know what we were doin’, took us two months on a stolen ship, almost died of starvation ‘cause we barely had enough food to last, but it was real. First thing we bought was a goddamn meal, then we all decided to pool our shares together and got ourselves a ship of our own.”

“The one that Oikawa burned?”

Atsumu laughs. “Nope, that was our third. First one we lost to cannon fire during a pirate raid. We had to abandon it and take theirs instead, and we lost that one by—wait. That was two questions. Stop gettin’ greedy, Omi.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and Atsumu holds up the same nine. “Higher or lower.”

“Lower.”

“Ten,” Atsumu says smugly as he reveals the next card. “My turn.”

For someone who devised the game, he takes an awfully long time to think of a question. Kiyoomi half expected him to be armed to the hilt with inquiries into the life Kiyoomi keeps locked away, but he hums and tells him, “Hang on, I’m thinkin’,” at least twelve times before he finally settles for, “The germ thing. What started it?”

“Aim straight for the throat, I suppose,” Kiyoomi scoffs. Atsumu back tracks immediately, tries to tell him he doesn’t have to answer despite that being one of the rules of his game, but Kiyoomi puts a hand over his mouth to silence him. “Shut up,” he says, because he finds it difficult to talk about this with his own parents, with his siblings, and the doctor he frequents for his imagined ailments. But somehow, talking to Atsumu about it doesn’t make his skin crawl, doesn’t make him feel stupid, or fear judgement.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, because if he did, perhaps it wouldn’t plague him so terribly. “It just started one day after I got sick as a child. It was as though a switch flicked – one moment I was oblivious to the world, the next I was hyper aware of all the ways it could make me sick again. Food, dirt, smells, people.” He lets out a breath and Atsumu lowers the card so that he can overlap Kiyoomi’s pinky finger with his own. “I’ve been criticised by tutors for my lack of imagination, but I suppose I just expend it all on fabricating needless negativity and leave little room for much else.”

Atsumu hums. “Makes sense,” he says.

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Does it?” His mother always says he’s being irrational when he refuses to take off his gloves, when he declines food, or dance invitations at parties. Until he got better at masking it, his father would try to shake the worries out of him, would shout until he was hoarse when Kiyoomi would lock himself away during the worst stretches of his childhood.

“Sure,” Atsumu says like it’s really that simple. “You get bitten by a dog, yer gonna be scared of dogs, right? Same goes for if the world bites ya. No matter how hard.”

Kiyoomi’s never heard that before. Never had anyone rationalise his fears in such a way. He swallows and wonders how Atsumu keeps finding ways to make Kiyoomi fall deeper and deeper in love with him, because that is what this is, Kiyoomi’s certain of it.

Atsumu head tilts as he considers their joined hands. “So, what makes this okay?” he asks.

Kiyoomi moves his hand and picks up the ten. “That’s two questions. Don’t get greedy, Atsumu. Higher or lower?”

“Fuck you,” he says. “Higher.”

The next card is a seven, so Kiyoomi wastes no time in asking, “How did you get the scar on your lip?”

He’s been curious ever since Atsumu dismissed his question about it a few weeks back but hasn’t ever pushed the matter. Now that Kiyoomi has laid his soul bare, however, he supposes it’s fair game.

“Yer not gonna take ‘It’s not important’ as an answer this time are ya?”

“No.”

Atsumu clicks his tongue and sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Lubricated stool curling. And no, I’m not elaboratin’ no matter how many times ya ask. Higher or lower?”

Perhaps that’s for the best, Kiyoomi thinks. “Hm, lower.”

Atsumu reveals a three, but quickly throws it aside and picks up the next card which happens to be a queen. “Aw, bad luck, Omi. My turn.” He covers Kiyoomi’s hand with his own and tries again. “Why is this okay?”

“That’s cheating,” Kiyoomi frowns.

“Not where I come from. Answer the question.”

Kiyoomi debates saying I don’t know against Why the fuck do you think? What his mouth actually says, however, is, “I suppose sometimes when the world does inevitably bite, you survive long enough to find out it doesn’t have teeth, that it’s not always trying to hurt you.”

Before Atsumu can process that or ask him to elaborate, Kiyoomi snatches the card and asks, “Higher or lower?”

He gets it wrong when a king crops up, and Kiyoomi reaches across to lift the medallion at his chest for his question, eager to move on before he admits something he can’t take back. “You change accessories a lot,” he says as he lets it fall back down, “but I never see you take this off. What does it mean?”

Atsumu tucks his chin to his chest to look down at it. “Accordin’ to the headmaster, me and Samu were found with ‘em. It’s all we’ve got of our family, I guess.” His hand moves up to touch at the metal, and he smooths over the vulpine design with his thumb. “I care more that it means I’m tied to Samu than I care about what it means to whoever left us though. Must have been fucked up not to want me. Higher or lower?”

There’s only bitterness there, Kiyoomi realises. No sad longing for a life he never had, just an anger at being abandoned. It’s probably why Atsumu is always so reluctant to believe Kiyoomi wants to stick with him, wants to continue this affair and keep it alive even when they’re oceans apart. Whatever Atsumu’s parents felt, whatever the circumstances they were under – he cannot imagine himself ever repeating them. The only way he’ll ever tire of Atsumu, is if Atsumu tires of him first.

Kiyoomi somehow loses the ‘lower’ to an ace, and Atsumu snorts laughter at his misfortune. “What’s yer dream?” he asks.

That stumps Kiyoomi. It’s a question he’s never been asked before, never gotten the chance to explore, or even think about. His life has always been laid out for him: complete his studies, marry well, assume a position under his father’s company. His hobbies have always been just that: hobbies. Sword fighting and astronomy are quiet interests he’s only allowed to pursue as far as books and the courtyard. Important decisions are always premade. It’s only a matter of time before his parents run out of suitors to throw at him and they make that decision on his behalf too.

“I—I don’t know,” is all he can manage to say after a pause that’s far too long.

There’s a shuffle of fabric, and a loss of warmth at his side as Atsumu sits up to look down at him in confusion. “What d’ya mean ya don’t know? Everyone’s got a dream, right?”

Kiyoomi ignores the double question and sits up too. He wants to give Atsumu something, anything that’ll make him seem less pathetic, a placeholder dream until he finds a real one of his own, but his mind runs blank as it sorts through his life at the estate and tries to pick something. “I’ve never really had the choice,” Kiyoomi realises.

All the money Kiyoomi’s family has, all the opportunities, and education, all just to mould Kiyoomi into another – slightly more miserable - version of his brother and father. A man who will look the picture of perfection, who will invite envy from others in their social circle with his picturesque life. Nothing terrifies Kiyoomi more.

A hand finds his chin, gentle and tickled cold by the night. Atsumu tips his head up to look him in the eye and says, “Use yer share to do whatever the fuck you want. Find a dream and chase it. Doesn’t matter how stupid you think it is. Promise me.”

It’s not that simple, but Atsumu makes it sound so. The honesty in his smile, the reassurance in his touch, it makes Kiyoomi nod slowly in a vow, and he returns the kiss that seals it with equal fervour.

“What about you?” Kiyoomi asks him quietly when they break for air, cards and game long forgotten. “What’s your dream?”

“That’s easy,” he says. “To get rich enough to buy the whole world.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Only the whole world?”

“Ah, yer right. There’s no use in dreamin’ small. Make it the stars too.”

When Atsumu smiles, Kiyoomi thinks maybe a dream has started to form within him somewhere, one that seems a little too selfish to realise, one so reckless he keeps it locked up tightly, afraid of what might happen if he lets it loose.

The rest of the week passes, and Kiyoomi finds himself just as affected by Atsumu’s words days later as he was the night he said them. Each night before he sleeps, he’ll set aside some time to try and think of a tangible dream, one substantial enough to make Atsumu proud when he comes to visit, but nothing ever seems to stoke the fire of his attention bright enough, nothing seems to pique his interest, or exist as something Kiyoomi could pursue with his parents watching so closely.

Sometimes, he’ll lie there and get so lost in his own thoughts that it feels as though he’s back at the estate already, thinking himself into a pit of anxiousness. He’ll frown at the ceiling, at his own lack of imagination and drive, but then Atsumu will shuffle beside him, will let out a snore so earth-shattering, it’ll tear him back out of it and remind him that he’s still here, and that he should make the most of it while he can, because dreams can wait in the face of a better reality.

Before he knows it, they reach the dock to re-stock supplies. Each one of them fills a pouch with gold to spend on their three-day excursion around the town, but this time they are under strict instruction not to leave the ship unattended. At least three of them will need to be aboard it any given time, to keep a close eye on the treasure resting innocuously in its bowels, and most are opting to sleep there too rather than rent places at an inn.

When Kiyoomi asks what they’ll do with it all, Atsumu tells him that once they’ve taken Kiyoomi home, they’ll be travelling straight to Aran and Kita’s orphanage. It’s their base of operations, according to Hoshiumi; the home they return to after big adventures to rest and store any treasure they’ve amassed along the way because keeping it aboard the ship is too dangerous. There’s a large cellar beneath the floorboards, like it’s their very own Ukai’s Island, only without the life-threatening traps. They’ll leave the bulk of it there for the ensured running of the orphanage, and take allowances as and when they need before they go off in search for more treasure.

It's a cloudy day when they disembark, muggy and heavy with the threat of rain, but Atsumu doesn’t seem to care about that as he drags Kiyoomi around. It feels a lot like the day they spent before getting arrested; they visit shop after shop, stall after stall, and engorge themselves on food as they go. Kiyoomi makes Atsumu try pickled plums and laughs at the face he makes when he tries them. They try delicacies Kiyoomi’s never heard of, and old favourites from their childhoods.

Coins flow freely and without care. Arguably, Atsumu doesn’t know this place as well as he knew the last, but he’s bold enough to ask the shopkeepers for recommendations, and they follow pointed fingers to all sorts of places – bakeries, bookshops, antique dealers, and gunsmiths.

They even stop in a clothes shop, and Atsumu gives Kiyoomi full permission to dress him as he pleases. It’s tempting to just put him in another loose-fitting shirt, to let him unbutton it as usual and for Kiyoomi to enjoy the view, but it’s far more tempting to dress Atsumu like a nobleman. He holds no bars, picks out a frilled shirt, a tailcoat of maroon brocade, and a pair of tight black breeches, until he looks as though he’s about to attend a soiree, rather than sail a ship.

“If I came to one of yer little fancy parties lookin’ like this, you’d ask me to dance, right?”

Kiyoomi runs his hands down the arms of Atsumu’s coat and admires his own handiwork. “No,” he says honestly. “I’d admire you from afar all night and wish I had the courage to instead.”

Kiyoomi is no fool; he’s certain that if Atsumu were to show up at a function, nursing a flute of champagne, laughing boisterously with friends, whisking men and women alike off their feet with that smug smile, he’d be hard pressed to pry his eyes from him.

“Boo,” Atsumu heckles. “Just admit you’d wanna cause a scandal by ravishin’ me in a secret room.”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi deadpans. “I’d admire you from afar all night and think about how much I wanted to cause a scandal by ravishing you in a secret room.”

“Better. Not perfect, but better.”

In turn, Atsumu dresses Kiyoomi like an authentic pirate – loose shirt and leather vest, a huge belt that pulls in his waist, and boots that reach the knees of breeches far too tight. He ties it all together with a coat of black fabric, accented by intricate appliques of gold, and a hat that he makes sure sits at a precise angle upon his head.

“I’d jump yer bones in a heartbeat if I saw ya at a tavern,” he says, biting his lip to contain his smile.

“I’m positively swooning,” Kiyoomi grimaces, thinking of Atsumu’s awful first impression stumbling drunkenly out of the tavern door.

Dressed as they are, they get pointed towards an amphitheatre, and watch a subpar rendition of a play that they spend more time laughing at behind their hands than they do paying any real attention. The guests beside them offer looks of disdain as Atsumu starts to whisper his own plot for what’s happening, and Kiyoomi can’t contain his laughter as it starts to become more interesting than what’s being performed.

As the evening creeps in and they walk further into town, closer towards the bustle of its centre, it becomes apparent that a festival is taking place over the week. One to welcome the autumn and celebrate the abundant harvest on its way from the countryside. The houses and shopfronts are decorated with colourful bunting, the streets are lined with stalls, and the air is overwhelmed by the warm smell of pastry and the din of a dozen performing bands.

Atsumu isn’t afraid to take Kiyoomi’s hand, even when surrounded by so many people. Neither is he afraid to lean in and press chaste kisses to his cheek whenever he feels the urge. It makes Kiyoomi feel a little bolder, a little more relaxed – in this town of strangers he can do as he pleases without fear of repercussion. So, when he lets Atsumu drag him into the fray of bodies dancing to rhythmic drumming and the pleasant ringing of lutes, he rests his hands on Atsumu’s waist and shoulders and pulls him in for as many kisses as he dares, uncaring for how silly he looks, or if anyone is watching.

By the end of the night his face aches through smiling, his ears can still feel the echo of music, and his blood is warm with fresh ale. While the others return to the ship to sleep, Kiyoomi – very easily – convinces Atsumu for a night at an inn. They barely make it through the door of their shared room before they’re tearing at each other’s clothes, frantically, desperately removing the layers they paid so many gold coins for earlier that day.

It's hard to be passionate aboard a ship full of people. They’ve stolen moments in the orlop, stifled each other’s groans in the quiet of Kiyoomi’s room – they’ve never allowed themselves to get quite so daring. Now, their shirts get thrown aside rather than left hanging open, their breeches strewn across the floor rather than pooling around their ankles. Kiyoomi gets to take his time, gets to savour every inch of Atsumu’s body, gets to hear each and every one of Atsumu’s breathy moans as it is intended; loud, shameless, and without consideration for anyone above or below them.

Kiyoomi loses track of how many times he hears Atsumu choke on his name as he works him ardently with his hands and with his mouth. His scalp becomes numb to the sensation of Atsumu fisting at his hair, his skin stings, and tingles with pain as Atsumu clings to him through his release, and he never quite manages to catch his breath before his mouth finds another inch of Atsumu it has yet to taste.

When Atsumu flips Kiyoomi over, he bears down on him, cheeks red with exertion, hair mussed with how often it’s been thrown back against the pillows, with how often he’s run his own hands through it. His eyes are bright and wild as he pins Kiyoomi’s hands above his head, and he leans in and asks, “How many Wonders of the World are there again?”

“Seven,” Kiyoomi exhales, as Atsumu’s mouth finds his jaw.

He hums, and Kiyoomi feels it against his own pulse. “Then I think I’ve just discovered the eighth,” he mouths against his skin.

“What a line,” Kiyoomi laughs, running his hand along the bare skin of Atsumu’s back, and tugging him closer by the neck.

“S’not a line. It’s the truth.”

Like a spool of string, Kiyoomi is unwound and unravelled expertly beneath Atsumu’s touch, by his whispered words and warm mouth. He sees stars as Atsumu tries something new with spit-slick fingers, feels heat explode in his gut so intensely his eyes water and his back arches upward, begging for more. He feels molten, like in the moments beneath the dull flickering of lantern light, Atsumu can forge him into whatever shape he so desires.

They climb and fall until they are exhausted, until Kiyoomi’s lips are numb, and his throat is hoarse, and his legs feel as though they’ve run ten miles. Afterwards, Kiyoomi drags Atsumu to the washroom, and they clean each other with cold water and towels, kissing languidly as the night wanes and content fatigue overwhelms them.

If Kiyoomi holds Atsumu a little tighter than usual when they climb into bed, he doesn’t say anything about it, and when Atsumu pretends to stay asleep a little longer the following morning, Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything about that either.

The sky finally gives in and opens upon the last leg of the journey. As though it too feels the crew’s sombre mood, it rains from the moment they wake, until the moment they sleep, muting their usual rowdiness like a melancholic wet blanket.

Nobody says anything about his impending departure outright, but Kiyoomi can feel the weight of their stares the closer they get to the port. Surprisingly, it’s Osamu’s that feels the heaviest. Kiyoomi often catches him looking between himself and Atsumu with concern, or perhaps something more akin to sympathy. Not for the first time, Kiyoomi wonders just how much Atsumu actually tells his brother about them, if Osamu knows that parting won’t spell the end, or if he’s under the impression that the moment Kiyoomi steps off the boat will be the last anyone ever sees of him.

Determined not to let his last few days be miserable, Kiyoomi carries on as normal. When the rain isn’t so relentless, he partakes in shooting practice and still trounces everybody other than Hoshiumi when it comes to the precision of his aiming. He spars with equal tenacity, wins more bouts than the last time, and even partakes in the fun little game they play of weapon swap.

Watching Hoshiumi struggle with a rapier is wholly worth the number of times Kiyoomi falls on his ass trying to control the weight of a longsword. As is Bokuto trying to make sense of a scimitar’s curvature, and Ushijima’s frown upon finding himself wielding a dagger.

He plays rounds of backwards-switch-fish-jack, and he finally gets the hang of betting well at poker (the ordinary, non-clothes-shedding kind). Despite all forms of logic begging him otherwise, he finds himself blackout drunk one night and wakes up on the floor of the sleeping quarters between Atsumu and Bokuto.

The night comes back to him in pieces – drunkenly climbing the rigging to the concerned sounds of an equally as drunk Atsumu coaxing him back down, more infuriated rounds of guess the animal with Hoshiumi, and a race around the ship’s interior that ended with Atsumu pulling him into a spare room and kissing him senseless. He’s covered in bruises he doesn’t remember getting, marks where Atsumu got a little overzealous with his teeth, and burns from mishandling rope, but he finds he doesn’t really care. Not even when he attempts to sit up and that monumental headache returns. He gladly accepts Osamu’s poison, drinks it faster than anyone else and curbs his complaints at the acrid taste.

His last evening aboard the ship, Hinata comes to find Kiyoomi as he’s packing things away into his case and grabs him by the sleeve.

“Just follow me, Omi-san!” Hinata insists when Kiyoomi asks where he’s being taken.

He’s led through the ship’s winding interior, along the familiar route towards the sleeping quarters. When he steps inside, he loses his breath, because they’ve fashioned a makeshift feast for him.

They’ve gone to the trouble to move the hammocks aside, form decorations with loose bedsheets and stolen bunting, and create a long dining table with upturned crates. Upon their golden plates, Osamu has cooked and gathered all of Kiyoomi’s favourites, from pickled plums and roasted chicken to pancakes smothered in honey. He’s not sure how they’ve managed it all – they must have been planning to do this since docking at the last town – but Kiyoomi finds himself choking on the lump in his throat regardless.

“We’re celebrating finally getting rid of you!” Hoshiumi says, but there’s no bite to it, rather an awkward twist to his lips that makes it sound forced.

“We are honouring having gotten you home safely,” Ushijima corrects.

Kiyoomi’s been to many dinner parties in his lifetime, he thinks as he assumes the empty seat that’s been left for him next to Atsumu. None quite like this. It’s boisterous and loud, full of laughter and teeming with atrocious manners and awful etiquette. They talk as they eat with mouths full of food, throw scraps at each other alongside insults, and for the first time since they boarded, Kiyoomi plays a part in the stories they reminisce upon.

“Remember when you thought Sakusa was a ghost,” Hoshiumi wheezes, pointing between Kageyama and Hinata. “I really thought you were going to do us all a favour and throw yourselves overboard so that he wouldn’t kill you in your sleep.”

Hinata’s face turns scarlet. “It was your fault!” he cries. “If you hadn’t told us the story about the Phantom Scholar in the first place, I wouldn’t have been scared!”

“I listened to it too, and I wasn’t scared,” Kageyama scoffs.

Atsumu pats him on the back. “I heard you whispering an escape plan to yourself, Tobio-kun,” he says. “It’s okay, don’t be embarrassed.”

“If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s you,” Kageyama scowls back. “After that speech you made at the tavern.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “What speech?”

Now it’s Atsumu’s turn to turn scarlet. “Not important,” he says at the same time Osamu gets up from his seat and says, “Listen up, scrubs!” in a voice that’s eerily similar to Atsumu’s.

“Shut up, Samu!” Atsumu warns.

Osamu’s smile turns wicked as the rest of the crew egg him on, and he continues. “I just bumped into the love of my life on the street! A treasure so priceless there exists only one in the whole fuckin’ world! Once we get back from Ukai’s Island, yer all gonna help me find him, no matter how long it takes!”

Atsumu’s head slams down against a crate as he tries to hide his blush.

“But how will we find him, Atsumu-san?” Suna calls in a high-pitched voice.

Osamu pats his chest. “I’ll just follow my heart, Shouyou-kun! That’s all the map I need!” He pinches the air in front of his face. “End scene,” he says as he takes a bow to a round of applause.

“Oh wow,” Kiyoomi says.

Bokuto’s been clapping along the whole time, but he looks as though he finally catches up. “Wait,” he says. “That speech was about Sakusa?” Atsumu groans in response and Bokuto’s eye widens. “He’s the guy you said you’d let tie you to the mast and—”

“Bokkun,” Atsumu wheezes. “I’m beggin’ ya.”

“No, go on,” Kiyoomi encourages. “I’m intrigued.”

“No yer fuckin’ not! We’re gonna make fun of someone else now, before I shrivel up and die.”

“Like who?” Hoshiumi asks.

“Like Samu. Remember the time he ate that mushroom and shit like a ship cannon for four days straight?” He looks around with a smile, expecting everyone to join in, but the room is silent.

“Yeah, that’s not as fun as watching you explode in real time,” Suna sniffs.

Osamu nods. “Remember the time Tsumu made that huge deal about givin’ Sakusa soup and then threw it on the fuckin’ floor like an idiot?”

“Ha! Yeah!” Hinata laughs. “He said one bowl of soup was all it would take for Omi-san to fall in love with him! He said they’d have an October wedding! But all it did was make Omi-san join the opposition!”

Atsumu leans forward and slams a fist against the crate table. “What about the time Samu—uh…remember when he, uh, fuck. Remember when—”

“Remember when Tsumu spent that whole night writin’ sappy poetry only for Banana to shit on it?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen. “You did that?”

“No!” Atsumu cries, eyes seething and boring so intensely into his brother’s, Kiyoomi’s certain they’re going to fight at any moment.

Or they would, if Atsumu didn’t choose to sit back and say, “Remember when Osamu fell in love with his best friend and then spent the next ten years pretending he didn’t because he’s a huge fuckin’ ugly coward piece of crap?”

There’s a heavy silence as Osamu’s face goes slack and Suna winces.

Kiyoomi tries his best to keep his face neutral.

“Remember the time we were having a wonderful carefree meal as a family?” Ushijima clears his throat to say. “I do. Like it was only a few minutes ago.”

“I do too,” Suna says pointedly and surprisingly unfazed. “Maybe we should find something else to talk about.”

“That’s what I was sayin’,” Atsumu grumbles. “Maybe you’ll fuckin’ listen to me next time.”

It takes a while, but the mood does return to what it was before Osamu’s world was turned upside down. They finish up their food with nicer, less embarrassing and life changing stories, and when asked, Kiyoomi digs deep for a positive memory with his family to leave them with.

It’s of a time they visited a beach, before Kiyoomi got sick and learned fear. His brother taught him to swim, and he spent the whole day diving beneath shallow water, picking out shiny stones and shells from the seabed to bring back to his mother beneath the shade of a parasol. He still has a few of them tucked away in a drawer back at the estate, though they’ve lost their colour over the years, lost their shine – a little bit like Kiyoomi, he supposes.

“Maybe you were always meant to be a treasure hunter, Omi-san!” Hinata laughs, and of all the things that are said to him that night, that is the one that sticks with him the longest. The one that replays over and over in his mind, even as he returns to his room with Atsumu and climbs into bed. It only leaves when Atsumu turns around to face him rather than press himself teasingly into Kiyoomi’s front as is the usual.

“Sorry for ruinin’ yer celebration with that shit,” he says quietly, and he’s so close that Kiyoomi can almost feel the fluttering of his eyelashes as they’re weighed down by guilt.  

“Are you kidding?” Kiyoomi snorts. “I’m an asshole, remember? I could have kissed you for saying it. They were starting to piss me off.”

If Kiyoomi had to subject himself to one more yearnful stare or pathetic blush, he was going to say something on a similar thread himself before leaving. The aftermath wouldn’t have been his problem to deal with and it would have saved the entire crew the trouble of their pining. Maybe it’s because Kiyoomi’s an asshole, or maybe it’s because he’s jealous that they could have everything and yet continue to choose against it.

“I knew there was a reason I liked ya,” Atsumu laughs with a huff of breath that’s warm against Kiyoomi’s lips and smells of honey and rum. “Samu will still find a way outta that. I can guarantee it.”

Kiyoomi hums. He’s had enough of Osamu’s idiocy for one night. “I’m more interested in what he had to say about your poetry.”

Atsumu cringes, lowers his head, and tucks it into Kiyoomi’s chest so that he cannot see his face. “There was a reason Banana shat on it,” he mumbles. “‘Cause it was really fuckin’ bad.”

Kiyoomi thinks of all the things Atsumu says, the words that make Kiyoomi feel breathless, like he’s worth something, and concludes that nothing he could possibly say could ever be bad.

“I’d read a whole anthology if it was you that had written it,” Kiyoomi says against his hair.

“Even if I tried to rhyme Omi with macaroni?”

“Even then.”

Especially then.

The morning brings nausea. The kind Kiyoomi used to feel the first few days aboard the ship when he wasn’t yet used to its sway. It was near impossible to sleep, even with Atsumu pressed into his side, so when Kiyoomi wakes from what little he does get, he’s groggy and reluctant to leave his bed for more than a few reasons.

So he just lies there awake for a while, listening to the crew work above him and Atsumu snore next to him, and he makes no effort to move, not until Atsumu is coaxed awake naturally by his own body clock.

“Mornin’,” he grumbles, not a good morning, because it isn’t, not really, even though it should be, even though this is what Kiyoomi has wanted since they boarded his ship all those weeks ago.

“Morning,” Kiyoomi echoes, pressing a kiss to his temple.

They aren’t due to arrive until midday, and rest of the crew told them to take the morning off, so they take their time in rising. Atsumu helps Kiyoomi pack the rest of his clothes, new and old, his favourite books since they won’t all fit, and he helps him clean his rapier and lock it back away into its box.

Kiyoomi insists that most of his share be donated to the orphanage and settles for a single sack of treasure to take home with him despite the crew’s insistence. He chooses carefully, picks items for sentimental value rather than monetary, his favourite being the ruby-set ring that Atsumu placed on his hand in the treasure room.

He smooths his thumb over the gem to soothe himself as he walks above deck and takes in the familiar horizon. His hometown is known for its red-brick houses, for tall buildings, and bustling industry. He can see the huge plumes of smoke billowing up into the sky, and wonders which one belongs to his father, which one is the reason for his return.

Beyond the sea of bricks, he knows the estate is waiting. Up a winding path, away from the life of the town and its busy noise. Behind tall iron gates, it exists shrouded in trees and expands over acres of natural land, quiet and solitary.

The closer they get, the tighter Atsumu’s grip becomes on his hand. They don’t say much to each other, Kiyoomi knows it is yet to come, and he wants to stave off his sadness for as long as he’s able, even if it is just a few hours.

Osamu – with a promising bounce to his step – makes the crew another batch of pancakes and it’s as they’re finishing them that Ushijima calls everyone together to ready themselves in anchoring the ship.

If the feast put a lump in Kiyoomi’s throat, then the moments before he descends the ladder for the final time strangle him speechless. Despite how it makes him flinch, he lets those who care for that sort of thing hug him, and he firmly shakes the hands of those who don’t.

“We’re going to miss you,” Bokuto sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “When Banana comes back, we’ll send you letters all the time, okay? I’ll write you all sorts of poems about Tsum-Tsum so you don’t forget him.”

“Please don’t,” Kiyoomi chokes out, swallowing against the sting in his eyes.

“We’re all going to write,” Hinata insists, and Kiyoomi knows they will – he’s leaving behind his address so that they can if they so wish.

Ushijima takes his hand in a grip that’s vice-like. “Thank you for sailing with us, Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Thank you for not killing me,” Kiyoomi returns. “And for getting me home safe.”

“A promise is a promise,” Ushijima nods. “You are always welcome to adventure with us again, should the want arise.”

“No you’re not,” Hoshiumi says, eyes watering and lip wobbling. “Don’t fucking come back here again.”

There’s laughter, then they’re all being pulled by Bokuto into a nine-person hug regardless of who wants to be in it or not. There’s more he wishes he could say, but the words don’t make it past his throat. It’s okay, though. Kiyoomi’s certain they understand him by now, he’s certain they can feel how much he cares for this odd little family in how tightly he clutches to their sleeves.

Atsumu helps him down the ladder with his belongings, and continues with him out of the harbour as the rest of the crew wave and shout his name from the ship’s ledge. Kiyoomi tries to sear the image into his brain, tries to remember each and every little detail so that when he closes his eyes he can recreate it whenever he pleases, whenever he needs it.

Atsumu walks him quietly through the flurry of people, his grip white-knuckled on Kiyoomi’s suitcase, eyes downcast. Every chance they get, their shoulders brush, but they still don’t speak – they are wordless as they crawl the streets at a snail’s pace, savouring each of the rapidly fading moments they have.

When they reach the street upon which coaches wait for paying passengers, Atsumu lowers Kiyoomi’s suitcase to the ground and finally pulls him into a kiss so bruising it’s painful. The din of the crowd fades until it’s just the two of them, luggage forgotten, hands clutching helplessly at whatever they can get their hands on.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Atsumu says against Kiyoomi’s lips, chest heaving, eyes wet. “This is way fuckin’ harder than I thought it’d be.”

“It won’t be forever,” Kiyoomi reassures him, resting so that their foreheads touch. “It had better fucking not be. You’d better come back as soon as you’re able or I’ll hunt you down myself.”

Atsumu’s hand loosens from Kiyoomi’s shirt, and he reaches up to his own neck. He unties the medallion at his throat and Kiyoomi watches with blurred eyes as he fastens it around his own. The imprinted metal rests upon the crumpled fabric of Kiyoomi’s shirt, catches the sun but loses its shape the thicker Kiyoomi’s eyes grow with tears. “That means a lot to me,” he says. “And so do you. I’ll come back for you both. As soon as we’re done puttin’ the treasure away. Sooner.”

Kiyoomi nods and kisses him again, commits everything he can to memory; Atsumu’s taste, the warmth of his lips, his tongue, the sound of his sighs, and the feel of him beneath his hands. They kiss what must be a dozen times, uncaring for those walking past them, for those whose ways they are blocking.

When they break they’re both wet with tears, but neither of them bothers to address it. There’s no point. “Now fuckin’ go,” Atsumu says with a watery laugh, holding Kiyoomi out at arm’s length, “before I kidnap ya for real.”

Getting into the carriage is the hardest thing Kiyoomi’s ever done. Every fibre of his being itches to reach out for Atsumu, to take him with him, to hold on for just a few seconds more, but he knows he shouldn’t. Knows he can’t, or he’ll be there until the sun sets.

“See ya soon, Kiyoomi. I promise.”

“I’ll be waiting, Atsumu,” is the last thing Kiyoomi says before the carriage door closes and it starts off along the uneven streets for home.

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi’s eyes are dry by the time the estate rolls into view. He doesn’t want his family to see him upset, doesn’t want them to think that his time away has been anything other than the most wonderful, bizarre, spectacular, and beautiful experience of his life. He forces himself not to dwell of the fact that he’s left Atsumu behind, but instead that he’s now counting down the days until he gets to see him again.

It is familiar and yet foreign all at once. Like he is home, but it does not quite feel like his own. He knows the windows, the doors, the fountain spilling water from the mouths of stone-carved swans, and the trees casting shadow upon ground. He knows it all, and yet it feels like the memories tied to them belong to a stranger, a Kiyoomi who is completely changed to the one that left them behind.

Kiyoomi takes a breath and tucks the medallion beneath his shirt so that it rests flush against his skin, then pays the coachman with Ukai’s gold.

When he steps out on to the gravelled courtyard, he hears the gasps of the staff, hears shouts of “Master Kiyoomi! Young Master Kiyoomi has returned!” as those who probably assumed him dead see him alive and well for the first time in over two months.

They rush over to take his luggage – his case, his rapier, his gold - but he refuses to let them go, holds on tight and shirks desperate hands off him with a cold stare of warning. He sees a maid run inside, watches her trip over herself and her long skirt in haste, and he gets no further than a few steps before he finds his sister Miyo barrelling through the front door towards him.

Kiyoomi hasn’t seen her in longer than two months; she’s been busy moving into her fiancé’s home, preparing for her wedding next year. To see her at the estate is a marvel in and of itself, to see her look so frail and tired is a sight Kiyoomi did not think possible for someone comprised solely of joy and life.

“It’s really you,” she says as she stops before him, eyes red and brimming with tears, lip trembling with the effort to keep them contained. “You’re okay.”

“I did write,” Kiyoomi says, and that’s all it takes for her to rush forward with a sob and wrap her arms around him. Kiyoomi lowers his luggage and hugs her back, face overwhelmed by an abundance of black curls.

“We thought you dead,” she says into his shoulder. “We thought we’d lost you.”

“I told you not to worry,” Kiyoomi tries, patting her back in a way he hopes is comforting. “Did my letter not arrive?”

Miyo doesn’t get to respond; his mother and father rush through the door and Kiyoomi makes eye contact with them over her shoulder. They stand there shocked, eyes wide and mouths slack. His mother has a handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand, one of Kiyoomi’s from his room, and his father’s hair is unruly, not slicked back in its usual style.

Like his sister, they both look haggard and exhausted, like during the two months Kiyoomi’s been away they’ve been totally devoid of sleep. Guilt unfurls in his stomach, heavy and nauseating, and it makes him think perhaps he should have tried a little harder to write more during his excursions. He’d thought the one letter would have been enough to ease their worries. Clearly not if they’re all dressed head-to-toe in the black of mourning.

Miyo only lets him go so that her crushing hug can be replaced by his mother’s of equal intensity. She’s far shorter than Kiyoomi; her face presses into his chest and her tears wet his shirt as she cries into it. “My dear boy,” she says. “You’re home!”

Kiyoomi gets held out at arm’s length, and then his mother is smoothing a hand over his cheek and taking him in for the first time in a long time. He’s wearing the black coat Atsumu bought him from the clothes shop, and he’s still got belts tied to his waist, though he’s packed his pistol away, lest his mother faint upon seeing it.

“You poor thing,” she says. “Look at you.”

She runs her hand through his curls that have grown considerably since he left, and presses out the wrinkles in his shirt created by Atsumu’s curled fists. He’s not had the chance to look at himself in a while, hasn’t even thought to, but he’s sure he can’t look that bad.

“Are you well?” she asks, turning Kiyoomi’s head this way and that. “Did they harm you? Should I call the doctor?”

“No, mother,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m fine.”

Miyo looks at him strangely, and Kiyoomi can’t blame her, considering it’s the first time he’s ever refused a visit from the physician. He’s summoned one for far less over the years, for imaginary aches and pains, dizzy spells, and seasonal allergies. Ordinarily, it would be the very first thing Kiyoomi would think to do, but now he simply wants to climb into bed so that he can close his eyes and dream.

A hand finds his shoulder, strong and heavy. Kiyoomi’s father pushes his glasses higher up onto his nose and says, “Welcome home, son. Come inside, and you can tell us of your ordeal.”

Kiyoomi nods and his mother calls for people to come and collect his luggage again.

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi insists. “I’ll take them.”

“Don’t be so foolish, you must be tired. Let them take it all up to your room for you.”

Before, Kiyoomi would have acquiesced and done as he was told. Now, he says, “I said it’s fine.”

He doesn’t want anyone else to touch his things, doesn’t want them rifling through his belongings, doesn’t want their touch to overwrite the crew’s. Knowing how particular Kiyoomi is, they’ll see a stain and wash it away, but Kiyoomi doesn’t want to erase a single memory, no matter how insignificant.

His mother looks taken aback, but she must be in a favourable mood, because she allows him this one small choice and doesn’t push him towards compliance. She does, however, refuse to remove her hand from Kiyoomi’s back as she guides him towards the house, as though Kiyoomi is too frail to be left unattended, as though he isn’t carrying his weight’s worth in gold in one hand, a rapier, and a whole case full of his belongings in the other.

The interior of the house is as he remembers it. Nothing has changed in his absence, aside from the overwhelming wealth of flowers overtaking every available surface; white lilies and chrysanthemums of mourning and grief. The floor is still cold, hard tile, the walls austere and white and decorated with lifeless paintings. As his boots glide over solid ground, he still finds himself wobbling beneath the phantom sway of a ship that does not exist, and his father catches it and mistakes it for fatigue.

“Rest as you need first,” he says, steadying Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “We have all the time in the world to talk. We will be waiting in the living room when you are ready.”

The staff on hand wait for him at the foot of the staircase, offer bows and welcomes home that Kiyoomi accepts with awkward nods. As he climbs the steps, they disperse to prepare food, and his mother and father leave to send word to his brother and extended family that he is home.

Like everything else, his room feels foreign when he steps into it. He’s spent his whole life seeking sanctuary here, avoiding problems at his desk, recharging after social functions beneath the silken sheets. When he sits upon the bed and runs his hand over the covers, it soothes him somewhat. The familiarity of it is like a salve to the ache in his chest as he falls back against the pillows and stares up at the ceiling to take his first full breath of home.

He lies there for a while, feeling both heavy and weightless at the same time, both lost in thought and without thought at all, caught between the morning in which he woke up with Atsumu, and the night he’ll spend without him.

Kiyoomi only bothers to move when the butler comes knocking and he’s forced to get up and send him away. It’s better to busy himself than to dwell, he supposes, so he hides his treasure away in his wardrobe, replaces his old rapier beneath his bed with his new one, and places his books on his bedside table. Once he’s done with that, he draws himself a bath and picks out some clean clothes.

For the first time in weeks, he catches a glance of himself in the mirror and understands why his mother looked so concerned. To her, he must look a stranger – overgrown hair, a coat of stubble at his chin, and a healthy tan from his time beneath the sun that’s brought out a smattering of pale freckles over the bridge of his nose.

He takes his time shaving, spends what must be close to an hour soaking in a lukewarm bath, and the whole while he sits there beneath the water, hand clutched around the cold metal medallion at his throat, he finds it almost unbearably silent. Beyond closed doors, it’s impossible to hear even the barest creaking of floorboards, or the slightest echo of footsteps. The staff are light and considerate on their feet, nothing like the stampede of pirates that would wake him every morning. Kiyoomi should be relieved for the peace, should be happy to finally find quiet solitude after spending so long in such close quarters with eight other people.

He’s not.

He dresses just as slowly, pulls on a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt, but wraps himself back up in his black and gold coat before he makes his way down to the living room.

His family are already waiting; a congregation of dark fabric and hushed voices as they talk amongst themselves. The Sakusa family is not known to foster unnecessary emotion. Kiyoomi knows that this will be more an interrogation than a warm family welcome, and the sooner he gets it out of the way, the sooner he can work on adjusting to his new normal.

The moment Kiyoomi steps into the room, Miyo stands and smiles at him, wide, and warm and genuine. She pulls him by the sleeve over to the chair nearest hers and wraps a blanket around his shoulders as he sits.

“Much better,” his mother tells him, gesturing to Kiyoomi’s face and clothes. “But I don’t recall seeing that coat before. Is it one of yours?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. “It is.”

She frowns, like she knows it isn’t, but Kiyoomi doesn’t give her the opportunity to question him. He looks to his father. "How was grandmother’s party?”

Kiyoomi’s father turns to the small table near his chair and removes the crystal stopper from his decanter of whiskey. “Postponed,” he says. “Until your safe return.”

Miyo smiles and takes his hand. “Now that you’re back, she’ll have all the more reason to celebrate. We all will.”

Are you kidding? Kiyoomi thinks with a horrified swoop of his stomach. All the trouble he went to in order to avoid the godforsaken party, and he’s coming home to it tenfold instead?

“Fantastic,” Kiyoomi deadpans. “I cannot wait.”

“Don’t be like that,” his mother frowns. “We could hardly celebrate with you missing. We feared the worst, Kiyoomi. Your father had the whole crew out looking for you until your letter arrived. Your grandmother hired a dozen more men too. She’ll be thrilled to celebrate your homecoming.”

Kiyoomi knows that is a lie; his grandmother cares for attention more than she cares for anything else. This will likely devastate her.

“Enough talk of parties,” Kiyoomi’s father says. He hands Kiyoomi a glass of whiskey that he takes and gulps in one mouthful to help him through what is to come. “I want to know how, why, and where you were taken. I’ll need as much information as possible if I am to find and prosecute those thieves.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Kiyoomi says around the burn of alcohol. 

“No?” his father asks with a quirked brow. “You were kidnapped and held against your will. Not to mention they have stolen my ship and its contents. That rug was imported, it was worth a man’s whole salary.”

Kiyoomi fights the urge to roll his eyes. He hasn’t even been home more than two hours and his father has already returned to business as usual. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to boast about the fact that he helped throw his father’s precious rug onto the sandy beach of Ukai’s Island to make room for their treasure.

“If you want to blame someone, you can blame your so-called competent crew,” he snaps. “They are the ones who announced to a tavern full of strangers that they were leaving the ship unattended for the night.”

His father sips his whiskey. “I was informed they battled and lost the ship to ruffians. They returned with multiple injuries sustained during the fight.”

Kiyoomi wishes he’d paced himself better. His throat itches for more alcohol to soothe his irritation. “That would have been a fantastic story, were I dead like they were hoping. It’s no wonder they didn’t find me. They probably weren’t even looking.”

“Kiyoomi,” his mother says in a warning.

“Beating each other up to make their story believable is arguably better than facing your wrath, isn’t it? I’d have done the same if I’d messed up that badly.”

“I understand your anger,” his father says. “You’ve suffered greatly, but—”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kiyoomi interrupts, and he feels Miyo’s hand slacken in his own she’s so unused to him snapping back at their father. “I had a fantastic time.” The admission leaves his lips so bitterly they probably think it sarcasm rather than the unbridled truth.

Kiyoomi’s father takes a measured breath. “The only ones to blame are the pirates that took you,” he says. “The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can work on acquiring you justice.”

“Like I said, that won’t be necessary. They did not harm me, and I am home safe. Which is more than I can say for your crew.”

“Whatever you may think, whatever lies they may have fed you, they are not your friends, Kiyoomi,” his father says, voice rising with impatience. “They do not deserve your trust or your protection. Pirates are a scourge on our seas, and you’d do well to remember that.”

Too late, Kiyoomi thinks. I’ve fallen in love with one.

“Kiyoomi,” his mother tries, brows pinched in concern. She leaves her chair to kneel in front of him and places a hand on his leg. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but we just want what’s best for you, okay? Now, stop being difficult and cooperate with your father.”

Kiyoomi looks from her pleading eyes to his father, stoic in his chair, pouring another glass of whiskey. The softness he’d found in their expressions upon their reunion has already hardened, replaced with the sternness he remembers. Kiyoomi knows they won’t stop until they have the whole crew hanging by their necks in the town square.

Be that as it may, stubbornness is a Sakusa family trait; his parents aren’t the only ones to possess it.

“Oh dear,” Kiyoomi says easily and without inflection. “I seem to have been struck with a bout of amnesia. I can’t recall a single detail of my trip.”

His mother sighs and rests her forehead on Kiyoomi’s knee in disappointment.

“Then you’d better get some more rest,” his father tells him coldly. “I’m sure that will help to jog your memory. We can continue this conversation in the morning, once you have had the chance to set your priorities straight.”

He’s sent back to his room after that. Food is brought to him on a silver tray – roast chicken and vegetables that taste nowhere near as delicious as Osamu’s – and as the evening wanes, he changes into his sleeping clothes ready to climb beneath the sheets and begin the arduous process of sleeping.

Before he’s able, however, a knock sounds at his door. Kiyoomi stalks over, expecting it to be the butler with another inane question, but finds Miyo there instead, hands clutching two steaming cups of chamomile tea, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

“To help you sleep,” she says, offering him the cup. Kiyoomi takes it and breathes in the floral steam. It’s been a while since he’s had a hot drink, so used to rum and water he’s gotten over the weeks. “Can I sit with you a while?”

Kiyoomi nods and she finds a space for herself towards the foot of Kiyoomi’s bed, the way she used to as a young girl, insistent on nursing Kiyoomi back to health during his bad days, weeks, months. She’s always been the Sakusa family outlier - more so than Kiyoomi claims he might be - the only of the bunch to feel and enjoy each and every emotion that overtakes her, be it sadness, happiness, or concern.

She pulls her knees up to her chin as she watches Kiyoomi climb into bed opposite her, hair tumbling in loose curls around her face. “Mother and father haven’t said it enough for my liking,” she says quietly. “So I’ll say it for them: I’m glad you’re home above all else.”

Kiyoomi nods, and she smiles, knowing that means thank you.

“You said they kept you safe,” she continues. “The pirates. They treated you well. They must have, for you not to want to pursue them. For you to speak up against father on their behalf.”

His throat runs dry and it’s hard to stop the sigh that escapes him. He knows Miyo won’t take this back to his father, she was always the one Kiyoomi could trust growing up, always the one to stand at his side, clutching his sleeve when their father would chastise him or lecture him. When she left to be with her fiancé, it felt a little like Kiyoomi had lost his only ally. It’s reassuring to know she never really went anywhere.

“Yes,” he says. “It was all an accident. A misunderstanding, of sorts. They didn’t know I was still on board.”

Miyo laughs at that, featherlight and honest. “And instead of throwing you overboard, they went out of their way to bring you home?” Kiyoomi nods. “How endearing! Pirates with moral compasses. Who’d have thought?”

Kiyoomi smiles too, recalling the night he’d said the exact same thing, and he sips his tea, letting the warmth burn away the ache in his chest.

“I’ve not seen you smile like that since we were children,” she says, looking him up and down. “Did you have fun?”

“More than you can imagine,” Kiyoomi says honestly.

“I can tell,” Miyo grins. “You’ve never looked so alive. Tell me all about it. I want to know.”

She gets comfortable, and the words tumble from Kiyoomi’s lips before he can stop them. He leaves out the danger of attacking pirates, the treasure, and his relationship with Atsumu, and sticks instead to the towns he visited, the festival, and the food. He tells her of backwards-switch-fish-jack and the confusing rules of pirate card games, he tells her of Banana, and Bokuto’s fake eyepatch. He reaches beneath the bed and shows her his new rapier, tells her he’s learned to fire a pistol and how to sail a ship.

“You fell in love,” she says suddenly, and Kiyoomi stops abruptly, trying to recall if he’s accidentally slipped up and talked of Atsumu. “I can see it. When you talk, you’re thinking of someone. What’s his name?”

Kiyoomi balks further. He would hardly let himself think about his preference for men around the estate, never mind tell anyone of it. How his sister knows is beyond his realm of understanding. He gapes at her, unsure of what to say, whether to deny it all, or finally let it out.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says. “Our mother and father might like to pretend no ladies take your fancy because of your impossible standards, but I know it’s because you don’t possess a standard for them at all. You used to hate riding your horse until the new stable hand arrived.”

“Oh my god,” Kiyoomi says, gaze flying to the ceiling to conceal his embarrassment.

“Come on, now. What’s he like? He must be special if he’s captured your attention so thoroughly.”

Special, Kiyoomi thinks. That’s certainly a word to describe Atsumu. He could trawl the dictionary for hours hunting synonyms – charming, passionate, courageous, considerate – but there’d be no end. Atsumu is the very definition of indescribable.

“Atsumu is…loud,” Kiyoomi settles for.

“Loud?” Miyo asks with amusement.

Kiyoomi nods. “In the same way the sun is bright and impossible to ignore.”

Atsumu brings warmth to even the dullest of Kiyoomi’s days; he is the promise of another tomorrow, the most brilliant star in the sky. No matter how hard he tries, Kiyoomi is powerless against the strength of his gravitational pull, has grown to crave his smiles like a flower craves sunlight.

“I think I understand,” Miyo says, placing a tea-warmed hand upon Kiyoomi’s. “Will you get to see him again?”

“Hopefully,” Kiyoomi says with a scoff. “If father doesn’t find him first.”

It takes some convincing, but Miyo manages to coax more out of him. She learns of Atsumu’s clumsiness, his way with words, his bad jokes, and exceptional fighting skills. She laughs when Kiyoomi divulges his awful nickname, and again still upon learning how they met.

“Whenever you do see him, tell him he’s welcome to attend my wedding,” she says. “I’d love to meet him one day.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Kiyoomi tells her. “He is many wonderful things, but he is also insufferable.”

“I’m sure I’ll love him too,” she says, and Kiyoomi thinks she can only be right: it might just be impossible not to.

The chamomile tea helps. Kiyoomi only spends a few hours staring at the ceiling before the exhausting day finally catches up with him and carries him off to sleep. It’s odd, to wake up without Atsumu’s awful snoring in his ear, or his arm wrapped around Kiyoomi’s middle, but after his talk with Miyo, he’s trying to relax into his patience.

After breakfast, Kiyoomi is summoned to his father’s study for more questioning. Before she left for the night, Miyo suggested he fabricate information about a crew that does not exist to lead him as far away from Atsumu as possible, which is so clever and devious Kiyoomi wishes he’d thought of it himself.

“There were forty-eight of them,” Kiyoomi tells his father when he asks, sighing and sounding as reluctant to offer help as he can manage. “We didn’t interact much, but I’m sure I caught the names of two: Makki and Mattsun.”

His father nods tersely and writes them down, complimentary of Kiyoomi for his compliance in ‘making the right decision.’ Whenever he gets pulled aside and interrogated further, Kiyoomi feeds him more lies until he’s finally satisfied enough to stop asking and start looking instead.

Inevitably, though Kiyoomi tries his hardest, life loses its colour as the days crawl by. The deep cobalt of the sea is replaced with drab grey tiles, and the open sky becomes pale walls of plaster and brick. The bright gold of treasure fades to the unimpressive dull shine of brass banisters, and the trimmed gardens are nothing when compared to the abundance of flora on Ukai’s island.

When Motoya visits to hug him and tell him he’s glad he didn’t get eaten by sharks, they go for a ride around the grounds and Kiyoomi is reminded just how much his horse hates him. He almost gets bucked off a few times, must halt his conversation to call it back to attention, and almost falls when it breaks into an unexpected gallop.

“Are you looking forward to the party next week?” Motoya asks as they climb back down. He says it with a smile that betrays just how funny he finds it that Kiyoomi will have to attend what he tried so hard to avoid, a smile that Kiyoomi does not find amusing whatsoever.

“I don’t know, are you looking forward to having your ass handed to you later?”

Motoya grins. “Sure. You’ve been out of practice for two months. I’ll trounce you.”

Kiyoomi grins back. “We’ll see about that.”

After he retrieves his rapier from beneath his bed, he meets Motoya in the garden, upon the patch of the grounds designated usually to Kiyoomi’s lessons. They don’t need a teacher to spar, though Kiyoomi does lend Motoya his old rapier since there are no spares lying around and he didn’t think to bring his own.

When they fight, Kiyoomi is overwhelmed by just how much he’s learned. He would usually win the majority of their bouts, but Motoya hardly gets a chance to move. Compared to Atsumu, it’s like duelling with an inexperienced child; predictable and clumsy. Kiyoomi sweeps him off his feet, trips him over and holds his rapier to his neck dozens of times in victory, until Motoya is flushed with anger and growling, “What the hell?”

“What?” Kiyoomi asks, with a smile of satisfaction.

“Were you secretly off on a sword fighting pilgrimage? When did you get so good?”

“I’ve been practicing,” Kiyoomi says as he helps him to his feet.

“Practicing? With whom? The damned inventor of the rapier?”

“Pirates.”

“Unfair,” Motoya pouts. “You and your dirty tricks could probably beat the tutor now. Though he’d probably have a heart attack if he laid eyes on your form.”

A memory seizes him; Atsumu tucked against his back under the dim lights of the orlop, humming at his ear, moving his arms and feet with long, languid motions. This’ll work better for ya, he’d said, putting a foot between Kiyoomi’s legs and widening his stance. It had been just before Atsumu had kissed at his neck, dropped to his knees, and—

Kiyoomi clears his throat. “My form was wrong before.”

“He’d have another one if you told him that,” Motoya laughs. “Let’s call it a day before this starts to bridge the gap between friendly sparring and assault.”

The whole while he walks back with his cousin, he cannot shake the feeling of how desperately he wishes he could fight the crew again, how he aches to be as free as he was atop the waves with a smile upon his lips and the wind in his hair as he fell over and over and over and got back up just as many times to try again.

The days leading up to his grandmother’s party are a living nightmare. She has decided to throw the first of many celebrations at their estate, since it’ll be honouring Kiyoomi’s return and she doesn’t wish to burden him with more travel.

Kiyoomi’s mood is already sour – almost two weeks apart from the crew has reminded him just how much the nobility irritates him - and he’s spent the last two days being poked at with pins as his mother forces him to get measured for a new suit.

Like a wound that just won’t close, every little thing seems to remind him of Atsumu. He loses track of how many times a flash of blonde hair will catch his eye and raise his hopes, only for it to belong to a maid and send his mood plummeting. He feels Atsumu’s shirt in the silk of his bedsheets, and sees his dimple in the smile of his butler. Every time he catches the glint of the ruby on his finger, he remembers the time underground in which Atsumu put it on him, and when he moves too fast and feels the weight of the medallion at his chest, he remembers Atsumu kissing him goodbye.

He can’t even try to distract himself around the house. The preparations for the party have overtaken almost every room of it; the kitchen, the living room, the hallways, the garden. The only safe place is his bedroom, and even then staff will knock and ask his opinions on the shade of white for the curtains, or the size of the champagne flutes like he’s not secretly hoping a storm will blow through and cancel the whole thing.

The night before the party he excuses himself from the dinner table early so that he doesn’t cause a scene by arguing with his mother. She’s been hounding him again about meeting with some Duke’s daughter during the party, and now that Miyo has returned to her fiancé, there’s nobody to help fend her off.

When he locks himself away in his room and climbs into bed it’s far too early to think of sleep, and with nothing else to do, he finally reaches for one of his books at his bedside. He’s put off reading them for the longest time, has been reluctant to resume the place he left himself at knowing it’ll only make him sad to recall reading it aloud to Atsumu. But tonight it brings him comfort. Tonight, it reminds him that no matter how many suitors his mother throws at him, he’s already found one.

Kiyoomi always remembers his place in his books, has a knack for knowing which page number and line he last read with pinpoint accuracy. It’s why he’s never had a need for bookmarks or placeholders. So when a small piece of paper lies tucked between the pages he flips to, he’s completely and utterly bewildered as to how it got there at all.

He plucks it out and goes to throw it aside thinking it nothing more than scrap, but then he catches a glimpse of words on the underside and pauses.

I know you’re probably sulking and missing my handsome face terribly. But whatever you feel, know that I am feeling it harder, because I never lose.

It’s Atsumu. It must be – nobody’s handwriting could be that awful or words so charmingly narcissistic.

Out of curiosity, he flips forwards a few pages, and surely enough, another note appears a chapter later tucked snuggly into the crevice between the pages.

Look to the moon at midnight, and wherever I may be, I promise I’ll be doing the same.

His stomach clenches, and he can’t believe he’s gone so long without knowing he could have been connecting with Atsumu all this time, that Atsumu has been staring up at the moon alone. With furious hands, Kiyoomi flips ahead again to make sure he hasn’t missed anything else.

Omi, you’re not just skipping ahead to find these are you? You’re supposed to find them as you read. Carry on as you were, yeah?

Kiyoomi debates taking his advice, pauses with his hands hovering over the page corner, but dismisses it and carries on searching for more notes regardless.

Very disappointed in you.

Kiyoomi scoffs, but still doesn’t stop.

Extremely disappointed, but not surprised. And you call me impatient.

“Fuck you,” he says aloud, quickening his pace.

You’re paying attention to the message I’m leaving right? I worked really hard on this. The least you can do if you’re gonna spoil the whole surprise is catch what I’m throwing if you get what I mean.

Of course you are. If you’re not, that’s fine. You’ll work it out eventually. Maybe. Probably. Should I have made it a little easier? Maybe I should, hold on.

Umbrella. Couldn’t think of anything else that begins with U.

Kiyoomi frowns at the notes as he tries to decipher what, exactly, Atsumu means by a secondary message. Then it clicks as he re-reads the last two notes, and it suddenly makes sense why the first letter of each one has been retraced ten times with the quill to bolden it.

I love you, it spells when he arranges the notes in order, and Kiyoomi must close his eyes to stop the world from spinning, to stop the tears from welling up. He lies down, clutching the notes tightly in his hand, and covering the stupid smile that overtakes him with the crook of his arm.

He wishes desperately he could say it back right now. Wants nothing more than to pull Atsumu in by the collar of his shirt and kiss him senseless, to whisper it against his lips a hundred times, a thousand times, until the words lose their meaning and then eventually gain them back again.

But he can’t, and it’s infuriating.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Fuck that, Kiyoomi thinks. My heart is fond enough already.

The party is as bad as Kiyoomi expects. To the tune of perpetual orchestral music, he spends hours being passed around and interrogated by strangers who claim to know and care about him. They ask him about the pirates, about his ‘ordeal,’ and Kiyoomi makes up something different each time, scaling the severity until his father catches him telling people he saw the Kraken and confiscates his tenth flute of champagne.

Miyo accompanies him for a while, and his brother, Ichirou, finally catches up with him after being busy at work for two weeks. He tells Kiyoomi how much he seems to have grown, how different he looks, and Miyo offers Kiyoomi subtle smiles because she’s the only one who knows the reason why.

His grandmother corners him and spends an ungodly amount of time telling Kiyoomi how happy she is to be sharing her birthday celebration with him and doing a bad job of looking like she means it. He visibly cringes through her hugs and says minimal until she gives up and finds someone else to bother instead.

Inevitably, his mother finds him and introduces him to a girl in a black dress who looks as though she would rather be any other place on earth other than here, and Kiyoomi can but sympathise. She’s not offended when Kiyoomi refuses to ask her to dance, and she seems relieved, if anything, when he excuses himself to find some air.

Nobody notices him leave, despite the party being for him. He’s unsteady on his feet after finding and swallowing another three flutes of champagne, and for a moment, he’s back on the ship, swaying along with the rise and fall of the waves.

Seeking respite from the never-ending questions and expectations, Kiyoomi finds himself in his father’s study. It’s one of the only places in the house that’s free of people, and Kiyoomi takes a seat at his father’s desk as he catches his breath.

It’s never been his favourite place; a lot of Kiyoomi’s memories of this study are tied to being told something he didn’t like. Its walls feel too close together, like they’re allying with his father to apply more pressure upon him, weighing him down, holding him back. As he looks around now, he finds he hates it more than ever. It’ll be the place where his father continues to make decisions for him, where he continues to search for Kiyoomi’s friends to hurt them, where he’ll spend more and more time as he loses more and more of his perceived freedom.

The alcohol flowing through his system tells him to stand up and destroy it all, to kick over the desk, smash the cabinets of whiskey, throw the books and the—wait.

Kiyoomi’s never seen that before.

He gets up out of his father’s chair and stalks over to the wall nearest the door. Hanging upon it, in a frame that’s unfamiliar, is a map. A map of Nekoma so detailed it’s breath-taking. It extends beyond the towns, beyond the land that surrounds it, and out into the sea too, further than any map Kiyoomi’s ever seen before.

He rubs away the fuzziness in his eyes and peers closer at the words inscribed in the top right-hand corner.

The Path to Nekomata’s Island it reads in elaborate cursive font.

There are several areas circled across Nekoma, written annotations of longitudes and latitudes, compass directions, and notes. Kiyoomi runs a contemplative finger over the glass frame and feels something pull at him, something intangible yet strong.

He stands there for a long time, committing as much of it as he can to memory; the names, the numbers, the places.

The only thing that gets him to move at all is the chiming of the clock as it sounds midnight, and he leaves to spend the rest of the party staring up at the moon.

Over the next week Kiyoomi cannot get the thought of the map out of his mind. He spends his days in the library, pouring over geographical books, trying to remember and pinpoint where the circles had laid upon it, trying to work out their significance. He spends his nights at parties, staring up at the sky, imagining what it would be like to hunt for Nekomata’s Island with the crew, what trials and tribulations might lie in waiting, what puzzles he might be able to solve.

When he returns to his room he finds himself with a quill and parchment, designing ways in which to easier transfer treasure and supplies to and from the ship, scrawling awful images of the crew’s flag, and learning what he can about sailing and medicine.

When he falls asleep, epic stories play out in his dreams, ones in which he’s back on the ship, singing shanties as they adjust the sails, drinking rum and playing card games to pass the time. They carry over to when he’s sitting and listening to his tutors as he studies. He cannot get his mind to focus on anything but the promise of a quest, the thrill of seeking treasure.

He finds himself wanting it. Wanting that adventure again, wanting Atsumu at his side as he does so, more than anything. Each day that goes by, he finds the need materialising, solidifying, until one innocuous afternoon, he’s summoned to his father’s study and it grows wings of its own to fly with.

“You’ve been back a while now,” his father tells him, hair slicked back, glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he passively scribbles upon parchment. “Your mother and I have been discussing it, and we think it about time you were integrated into the business. Life is too short to spend dawdling, wouldn’t you agree? You are mature enough to start taking on roles of your own.”

“What?” Kiyoomi asks. He’d thought he had longer before this was due to happen. “What about my studies?”

“You hardly need them, I should think. It’s not as though you really care for it, and I will teach you everything you need to know about your role. Don’t frown like that, son. What else would you do?”

What else would he do?

What’s yer dream?

Maybe you were always meant to be a treasure hunter, Omi-san!

Find a dream and chase it. Doesn’t matter how stupid you think it is. Promise me.

It hits him there, so heavily it almost bowls him over.

He sees it now: his dream is adventure. His dream is open seas and the freedom to sail them. His dream is Atsumu and the second family he loves just as much.

In all his years of living he’s not wanted something as much and as easily as he’s wanted this, and it’s a need so palpable he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He stands there, simply breathing in his father’s study with the map bearing holes into his back and his mind elsewhere.

“Your mother also thinks it time you start to think seriously of settling down. No more refusals and—”

“No,” Kiyoomi says without thinking.

His father stops abruptly and looks up from his work. “Excuse me?”

“No,” he says again, purposefully, this time. “I don’t wish to join the business, and I won’t be settling down any time soon.”

It makes his stomach lurch to say, but he finds he doesn’t hate it. It’s not like the regular cold wave of anxiety, rather a warm and nervous excitement that leaves him buzzing.

“Then I ask again, Kiyoomi, what exactly will you do?” his father scoffs. “Play around with swords like a local thug? Write nonsense about the stars when everything of importance is down here on earth, waiting for you? You wish to embarrass the family? Bring us more shame and scandal after this whole pirate fiasco?”

“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi says through gritted teeth, despite knowing exactly what he wants to do and how he’s going to do it. “But I would like the opportunity to think of it for myself.”

“You had the chance to choose something for yourself and look where it got you. Perhaps if I’d forced you to stay and adhere to your responsibilities at home, you might not have gotten into that mess at all.”

“I don’t care about what happened. At least I got to—”

“Enough, of this drivel,” his father says, slamming a fist onto his desk. “Since you’ve returned you’ve suddenly become difficult, Kiyoomi, refusing me and your mother at every turn. I don’t know what fanciful foolishness those pirates have infected you with, or what epiphanies you think you might have reached, but your responsibilities lie here.”

With clenched fists, Kiyoomi says, “Be that as it may, I won’t be maintaining them.”

Kiyoomi’s father sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, the way he does when something considerably irks him. Usually, it’s bad news of the economy, or delayed shipments. Seldom is it ever Kiyoomi, not since he was a child.

“I think you may be in need of another rest,” he snaps. “Perhaps then you might come to your senses and wake up as the son I remember.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t even bother to nod before he turns on his heel and leaves, but he does spare a final glance at the map beside the doorway.

Emboldened, Kiyoomi spends the evening pacing. He refuses to go down to the dining room for dinner and when his butler shows up with it cold, upon a silver plate, Kiyoomi sends him away with a warning not to disturb him for the rest of the night.

For the first time since returning, he pulls his sack of treasure out from the wardrobe and looks at it. There’s enough there for Kiyoomi to start his life anew wherever he pleases, to buy his own estate, his own business, his own life. But he doesn’t want that – he wants to sail again, wants to share his life with eight idiots instead.

With nervous hands he pulls his suitcase down from atop the wardrobe and opens it upon his bed. His pistol and belt still lie in there, and Kiyoomi moves them out temporarily as he works on refilling his case with clothes.

Kiyoomi is sparing with what he packs this time, knows he can always buy more along the way, and he doesn’t take up valuable room with books because he knows he’d much rather read Atsumu instead. He searches his room for anything and everything that might prove useful –sharp scissors, pocket watches, his personal medical kit, and the boxes of matches he keeps handy to light his bedside lamp.

Knowing that winter will be on its way, he digs deep for scarves and coats with thicker linings, and he packs spares because he knows Atsumu doesn’t own a single coat of his own.

As the sun sets, he sits at his desk, and he writes a letter to his parents. He doesn’t tell them he’s running away to become a pirate, doesn’t tell them about Atsumu, or treasure maps. He tells them, quite simply, that he’s found a dream, and he’s leaving to pursue it. He tells them that he doesn’t need their support, that he’s making this decision for himself, and he signs it as their son whether they like it or not.

Miyo, he tags on at the end, I’m going to live beneath the sun. Don’t worry, I’ll still be there on the 19^th. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

She’ll know what that means, and she’ll also know it means she won’t have to worry for him.

After tucking it into an envelope, he leaves it on his desk in plain sight, and all that remains, is to wait for the morning so he can leave.

Kiyoomi’s not sure how he’s going to find Atsumu, exactly, considering he has no earthly clue where he is, but waiting in an inn near the harbour for their ship to show up at the dock will be miles better than sitting here, waiting for his father to manipulate him.

He waits for midnight first, as he always does, and sits at the window in an armchair. As he watches the moon through the clouds, he thinks of all the things he wants to say to Atsumu when he sees him, tries to form words worthy enough, significant enough.

Once his eyes start to grow heavy, he puts the chair away and gets himself ready for bed. He draws the curtains, washes up, changes into loose nightclothes, and dims the oil lamp beside his bed in a routine that has become so familiar over the weeks it’s almost automatic.

It’s as he’s pulling back the covers that he hears something out of the ordinary: an incessant tapping.

At first, he thinks it’s coming from outside his door, a member of staff doing something in the hallway despite the fact the whole house should be asleep, but when he holds his ear to the door, the sound fades, rather than grows. He straightens and looks around in confusion, shuffling around his room and following the sound until it he finally finds the source.

It's the window he was just sat looking out of. The one whose curtains he’s just drawn. With fumbling hands, Kiyoomi pulls them back and stares out at the dark gardens that comprise his view. There doesn’t seem to be anything there other than the night, but then something in the lower left-hand corner catches his eye and Kiyoomi almost yelps in surprise.

“Banana?” he blanches, throwing open the window as fast as he can.

A rush of cold air hits him, makes him shiver in his loose shirt, but he doesn’t care for that. Banana hops onto the windowsill clad in his belt and hat and he waddles around, clawed feet tapping against the wood. Kiyoomi looks for a note attached to him, hoping to have word from Atsumu, but finds him decidedly without his tiny metal carrier tube.

“Fuck off,” the bird says. “Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi chokes on air. “You fuck off,” Kiyoomi tells him. “Why are you here?”

He can’t believe the bird is still alive, never mind at his house having learned his name. It can only mean he’s completed his mission in Nekoma, that Atsumu now believes in him enough to send mail through his services. The thought would make Kiyoomi laugh, if he wasn’t so disappointed to find him letter-less.

“Omi-kun,” is all he says again, before hopping back out of the window and flying away. Kiyoomi almost falls out trying to follow him, watches him fly off towards the direction of the forest at the edge of the garden and then disappear. He waits a beat for something to happen, for him to return with whatever he’s dropped, but the longer Kiyoomi waits, the more he thinks perhaps he’s lost the message beyond salvation.

Kiyoomi swallows the lump in his throat and closes the window again, wonders if Banana’s appearance means that Atsumu is close, or if he’s still too far away.

The whole room is swept up in a chill now, one that Kiyoomi finds impossible to warm himself through. He tucks himself into bed, and wraps the blankets around him so tightly it squeezes the yearning from his lungs before it gets a chance to fester. He’s there what can only be a few minutes, however, before the tapping starts anew.

This time, when he throws open the window, Banana isn’t alone. He’s flown back down to land on someone’s shoulder.

“Fuck me,” Atsumu says to Banana. “Yer a fuckin’ miracle budgie.”

Then he’s looking up at Kiyoomi’s open window, and their eyes are meeting for the first time in nearing a month, and he’s saying, “What’s a handsome guy like you doin’ in a place like this?”

He’s wearing his red shirt, grinning from ear to ear, just as arrestingly handsome as Kiyoomi remembers, just as bright. It’s been a painful wait, one that some days Kiyoomi thought was edging on unbearable, and yet seeing him now, it feels as though it was only yesterday he was saying goodbye.

“Atsumu,” is all that tumbles from his lips, and even that doesn’t come out properly, it’s just an exhale of surprise and bone-deep relief, barely even audible. Unthinkingly, he pulls himself up onto the sill and attempts to start climbing down the vine-wrapped trellis beside his window, anything to bridge the gap, to feel Atsumu for himself and make sure he’s not just a figment of his own imagination.

“Ack! No! Omi don’t come down here, it’s fuckin’ freezin’!” He calls back in a shout-whisper combination that’s still far too loud. “I’ll come up to you, hold on.”

Kiyoomi stops and takes a step back, watches as Atsumu starts trying to pick his way up the side of the house. He’s clumsy – as ever – and misses a few footholds because he keeps trying to glance up at Kiyoomi rather than pay attention to where he’s placing his hands and feet.

“Hurry up,” Kiyoomi says when he spends too long hovering in one place.

“I’m tryin’, asshole,” he grunts. “This is harder than it looks.”

When he gets close enough, Kiyoomi reaches out and hauls him in the rest of the way, keeping him steady on his feet even as he stumbles through the gap. Kiyoomi allows Atsumu a second to balance himself, then pulls him into a hug so fierce Atsumu wheezes audibly as it knocks the breath out of him.

All those words Kiyoomi concocted in the armchair earlier suddenly escape him. Atsumu smells of the sea, of rum, and cold air, and all Kiyoomi knows, all he feels, all he can think to say is, “I missed you.”

“I missed ya too, Omi,” Atsumu says, sounding so strangled it’s a wonder he got the words out at all.

Kiyoomi loosens his grip slightly – only slightly – and it’s enough for Atsumu to move his arms and reciprocate, to wind his hands around Kiyoomi’s waist. Kiyoomi feels them travel up his back, then Atsumu is leaning away so that he can look Kiyoomi in the eye.

“I dunno ‘bout you,” he says quietly, face pinched with an echo of pain. “But those were the worst weeks of my whole fuckin’ life.”

Kiyoomi moves his hand from Atsumu’s back to his face and smooths a thumb over the cold blush upon his cheekbone. Atsumu shivers beneath it and clenches his fists in the loose fabric of Kiyoomi’s shirt. “I think I handled it pretty well,” Kiyoomi says.

“Wow. Really?”

“Absolutely not. May I kiss you?”

“May you?” Atsumu snorts. “Uh, yeah? ‘Course ya fuckin’ may, idiot. Geez, couple of weeks back with the nobles and yer manners are suddenly impeccable again. We better knock that shit back out of ya as fast as mmph—"

There’s nothing polite about the way Kiyoomi kisses him, and in their time apart, Atsumu hasn’t taken any lessons in grace and decorum either. They almost fall back out of the open window when Kiyoomi attempts to push Atsumu up against a wall and finds it’s not there. Kiyoomi hits his head when Atsumu drives him backwards and he collides with the bedpost, and they both lose their breath when Kiyoomi finally finds a wall and pins him against it a little too forcefully.

“Guess you really fuckin’ missed me huh?” Atsumu asks as Kiyoomi kisses down his jaw and the exposed skin of his neck. With the hand that isn’t pressed against the wall, he dips into Atsumu’s open shirt and pulls his body closer by the small of his back until they’re flush against each other from the waist down.

“You’re cold,” Kiyoomi says against his skin. “All that money and you still haven’t bought yourself a proper coat?”

“Can’t—ah—can’t cover up the goods,” he says, breath hitching in another shiver when Kiyoomi’s mouth dips as low as his collarbone. “Maybe ya only like me for my incredible body.”

“Oh no,” Kiyoomi says, kissing his way back up to Atsumu’s mouth. “You’ve found me out.”

They take their time now, like the serene aftermath of a storm. Kiyoomi kisses him slowly, lets himself remember every inch of Atsumu, smiles into every kiss because if he was even slightly unsure before, he’s positive now, that he would leave everything behind in a heartbeat for one more kiss. He knows that now he’s holding Atsumu again, he never wants to let him go.

“I love you too,” he says as he stops to catch his breath, and it feels so good to finally say it back after reading Atsumu’s words over and over.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” he says. “Even though you spelt ‘impatient’ wrong.”

“No I didn’t, you bastard. I asked Suna if it was right.”

Kiyoomi laughs and kisses him again and he’s back in the orlop, back in their shared room at the inn, beneath the freezing waves, cramped on the too-small bed of his room on the ship. It reminds him of the suitcase he’s packed, the letter he’s written, and how much he wants to be back there, and he can’t hold the admission in a second longer.

“Listen,” he says, pulling back far enough to speak. “I really was lying when I said I handled these weeks well. And I lied when I said I could wait. I can’t. It’s too hard.”

Atsumu swallows. His face drops from its glorious smile into fearful neutrality, and his hand goes still at Kiyoomi’s side. “Uh, what?” he asks, voice thick and hesitant.

Kiyoomi unclasps the medallion at his neck, and with Atsumu’s horrified gaze following his every move, he reaches out and starts to fasten it again around Atsumu’s. “This belongs with you,” Kiyoomi tells him. “As do I. I can’t watch you leave. Not again.” He smooths his hands down the front of Atsumu’s chest and then rests them atop his shoulders with determination. “I’m coming with you.”

“Oh fuck,” he says, and Kiyoomi takes a step back as Atsumu doubles over clutching at his stomach like he’s just suffered a punch. He looks up with wide eyes. “You serious?”

“Yes, Atsumu, I’m serious. Get up, you’re ruining the moment. I have more to say.”

“I’m ruining the moment? I thought my stomach was gonna fall outta my ass Kiyoomi. Did ya have to word it like that? Couldn’t you have just said, ‘Gee Atsumu, I really feel like I wanna—'”

“Shut the fuck up and listen.” Kiyoomi pulls Atsumu up so that he’s standing straight and holds his face with two gentle hands.

“I dunno if my heart can take it, Omi,” Atsumu says weakly, clutching one of Kiyoomi’s wrists like it’s an anchor, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Tough shit. You told me to find a dream and it took me a while, but I finally found one.” He brings Atsumu’s forehead to rest against his own. “One I don’t want to let go of.”

“What is it?” Atsumu whispers.

“For once in your life don’t be an idiot, Atsumu.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

Kiyoomi takes a breath in. “It’s you,” he says. “You and your family, and the ship, and the sea, and I don’t care if you want me there or not, I’ll stowaway if I have to, or—"

“We want you there,” Atsumu interrupts. “I want you there. So fuckin’ bad, but Kiyoomi, are you sure you want to give all this up? Piracy is dangerous, it’s uncertain, it’s—I mean, fuck, yer bed could sleep four people.”

“I don’t give a fuck about my bed, Atsumu. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my whole life. I’m finally choosing something for myself; I want to choose you. No matter the conditions, no matter how easy, or hard. I know which pain I’d rather bear. I’ve already made the preparations.”

“You—”

“I am in love with you,” Kiyoomi says again, because once isn’t enough. “Every inch of you, every ounce. I lived apart from my family, from my bed, from all of this, for months, and it was nowhere near as awful as a mere day from you.” He leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Atsumu’s lips. “You are worth more than all of it.”

Tears collect in Atsumu’s eyes, and Kiyoomi wipes away the one that spills over with his thumb. “Don’t cry,” he tells him. “I’ve told you I love you, not that I’ve murdered your family.”

“I’m not crying,” Atsumu says, crying. He scrubs at his tears with the heels of his palms and lets out a watery laugh. “It’s just that…Osamu owes me so much fuckin’ money.”

Atsumu’s kiss tastes of tears, of relief, of love. It is assured, then it is needy and desperate as his hands explore what is his without reservation. He pushes Kiyoomi back until they both fall upon the silk sheets of his bed, laughter and countless I love yous between their breaths, smiles irremovable from their lips.  

“Where are we going next?” Kiyoomi asks him, high with exhilaration.  

“Wherever the hell you want,” Atsumu replies, moving a curl from Kiyoomi’s eyes. “I’ll take ya anywhere. To the moon if you wished it.”

Kiyoomi thinks seriously for a moment, of names Atsumu had once told him of far-off places and towns from books he’s always wanted to see, but then he remembers. “Shit,” he says. “I almost forgot.” He throws Atsumu off him and he rolls aside with a yelp, silk shirt slippery against silk sheets.

Kiyoomi ignores his protests and rifles around in his desk drawer until he finds a stone, one of the very same he plucked from the seabed as a child, the biggest and heaviest of the bunch. He walks back over to Atsumu and holds out his hand. “Come with me,” he says. “Keep quiet, if you can manage it.”

“Stealth is my middle name,” he scoffs.

“It’s not,” Kiyoomi grimaces. “You possess the subtly of a brick through a glass window.”

“What? No I don’t, I’m super—”

“Shh,” Kiyoomi warns as he undoes the lock of his bedroom door with a quiet click.

The house should be asleep – nobody is ever awake this far beyond midnight, not even his father. Kiyoomi scans the hallways beyond his room, and when he finds the coast clear, leads Atsumu out into it.

“Shit,” Atsumu says, eyes widening as he looks up and around at the house. “This place is hu—Oh. Stealth. Sorry.”

He places a hand over his mouth so that he doesn’t feel compelled to open it again, and Kiyoomi pulls him towards the staircase, footsteps so light it’s as though he really has become the Phantom Scholar. Atsumu’s boots leave a lot to be desired, however. Kiyoomi finds himself stopping and checking over his shoulder every few seconds that no staff have heard them and come to identify the disturbance.

When they get to Kiyoomi’s father’s study, Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu inside and closes the door behind them as quickly and as quietly as he can manage.

“Look,” Kiyoomi tells him, pointing at the framed map.

Atsumu’s eyes narrow as he looks at it, then widen when he realises what it is. “Holy shit,” he says. “Omi, do you know what this is?”

“A treasure map,” Kiyoomi offers. “Obviously.”

“Not just any map.” Atsumu runs a hand over the glass. “When we were lookin’ for Ukai’s journal, we met a family. Y’know, the ones we duelled?” Kiyoomi nods. “They told us that Ukai had a lifelong rival, a guy they called Nekomata who he would fight once a year and the winner would take half of the other’s horde. They said Nekomata was the last to win before Ukai died. That his horde is worth double.”

“Then let’s go and get it,” Kiyoomi says. He stalks over to his father’s alcohol collection and pulls out the most expensive bottle of whiskey he can find, then he returns to Atsumu’s side and pushes him out of the way. “Stand back and get ready to run,” he tells him.

Kiyoomi weighs the stone in his hand, then holds it like a blade in his hand and smashes the glass of the frame until it’s in a million pieces upon the floor. He picks away residual glass, pulls the map free and rolls it up, then tucks it into the waistband of his trousers and grabs Atsumu’s hand again.

“Fuck, that was really hot, Omi,” Atsumu breathes.

“Shut up and run.”

They bolt back up the stairs, heavy footfalls and scrambling limbs, and Kiyoomi hears a voice from somewhere, the opening and closing of a door that means they don’t have much time. Kiyoomi locks his bedroom door and pulls the armchair up against it to wedge the door handle in place and stop it from being opened with a key.

He pulls on some boots and grabs two coats, pulls one on himself and forces Atsumu into the other.

“Wait,” Atsumu says, bewildered as Kiyoomi fastens the buttons up to his throat. “We’re going right now? Don’t you have to say goodbye?”

“Already have.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

“Shit. Okay. Let’s fuckin’ do it.”

Kiyoomi nods and hands Atsumu the whiskey and his sack of treasure, then he grabs his suitcase and his rapier and looks one last time around his room before he heads for the window. There’s not much in his case aside from clothes, so he throws it out the open window onto the grass below and tucks the rapier under his arm.

Years of practice makes it easy for Kiyoomi to climb down the trellis. He’s used it many times to escape parties that have gotten a bit too much or to avoid the guests in the front of the house when he doesn’t feel like interacting. He only needs one hand, and jumps the rest of the way when he gets down far enough.

Atsumu looks down at him from the open window and frowns. “Show off,” he says.

“Scrub,” Kiyoomi grins back.

“I take it back. I preferred it when you were all nice and polite.”

Atsumu throws the sack of treasure down, then very carefully, the bottle of whiskey for Kiyoomi to catch. He climbs down about as inelegantly as Kiyoomi expects, and then they’re picking everything back up and running across the dark gardens towards the forest.

“You sure yer not gonna regret this?” Atsumu shouts over the sound of wind at their ears and the rustle of trees.

“My only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner,” Kiyoomi shouts back.

“Good!” he laughs. “Because I’m gonna be honest with ya – Banana led the way here. I’ve got no fuckin’ clue how to get back outta this forest.”

They reach the inn the crew are staying at what feels like eons later. The adjacent tavern is still teeming with life despite the late hour, alive with the music of bards and the shouts of inebriated men, so nobody bothers to look up when two more fools drunk on each other stumble through the door with armfuls of treasure and luggage.

Kiyoomi hears the crew before he sees them: Hinata and Hoshiumi are engaged in a shouting match about who can jump higher, and it sounds like Hinata is winning until Kageyama grumbles something and they both turn on him instead.

“Nobody cares how high you can jump, Stupid-yama! It’s only—Omi-san!”

“What’s Omi-san got to do with anything he—”

“No, look!”

All those gathered around the table watching them fight turn at that, to see both Kiyoomi and Atsumu walking over to join them. Kiyoomi’s heart clenches pleasantly to take them all in, inebriated and flushed red with alcohol, easy smiles, loud voices, and parrot squawking, cheering his return.

“You come to join us for a drink?” Bokuto asks with a grin and a toast of ale that spills over his hands and the table when he raises it. “Thought you’d be too busy banging each other to care about us!”

“Fuck you!” Atsumu jeers back. “That’s about to become a permanent problem and I don’t wanna hear no fuckin’ complaints about it!”

“What’s that mean?” Osamu asks with a hiccup and a confused frown.

“Means I won the fuckin’ jackpot and Omi’s goin’ rogue! Show ‘em the thing, treasure of my heart! My dearest beloved!”

Kiyoomi reaches below his coat and pulls free the map. He walks over to the table and clears a space, and eight pairs of eyes watch him unroll the map across the surface.

“Is that what I think it is?” Suna says, almost climbing on to the table to get a closer look. Everybody follows suit and crowds around, leaning forward to make sense of it with alcohol-addled brains.

“Nekomata’s Island,” Ushijima says quietly.

“You said I was welcome to adventure with you again,” Kiyoomi says. “Well, here’s an adventure.”

“You’re staying with us?” Hoshiumi asks, eyes wide. “That’s what Miya One meant by permanent?”

Kiyoomi nods. “If that’s alright with ever—”

Hinata launches himself at Kiyoomi and hugs him over the table. “Thank you, Omi-san! You’ve saved us all!”

When Kiyoomi raises a brow of confusion, Kageyama continues. “Atsumu-san has been so annoying we were con—contip—contmen—conpatin—con-tem-pla-ting leaving him here with you instead.”

“They’re exaggeratin’,” Atsumu says hurriedly. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were a fuckin’ nightmare,” Osamu snaps. “Whinin’ all damn day, sulkin’ like a big ugly baby. Omi-kun’s not here to sing me to sleep. Omi-kun’s not here to hold my hand while I take a shit. Omi, Omi, Omi.”

It’s quite the outburst by Osamu’s standards. For a moment Kiyoomi wonders just how much of that is true, and then decides he does not care. He’s been just as pathetic the last few weeks, struggling to sleep and snapping at staff.

“We made a Sakusa room,” Suna says. “We had to barricade him in there at least three times a day.”

Atsumu walks over to Kiyoomi’s side. “Embarrass me all ya want,” he huffs, winding a hand around Kiyoomi’s waist and pulling him into his side. “I’m about to get considerably more insufferable.”

Kiyoomi does the same until it looks as though they’re fused at the hip. “I don’t think that’s possible,” he says. “But I do think we should attempt to leave as soon as possible. If my father catches wind of his ship in the harbour, he will absolutely find and hang you all. He’s really displeased about the loss of his rug.”

Bokuto waves him off. “He can try!” he says. “Now sit down and have a drink first! We’ve missed you!”

Kiyoomi doesn’t need to be told twice. He squeezes himself into a space between Hoshiumi and Atsumu, drinks whatever gets handed to him without worrying for its contents and shares out his father’s expensive whiskey like it’s cheap ale.

As he laughs with the crew, as they accept him readily, and easily, he can’t help but to think that for the first time in his life, his heart, his soul, every fibre of his being, feels at peace, like it’s finally home.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“Stop fuckin’ whinin’, or yer gonna fuck it.”

“I’m not whining, Atsumu, this is just how someone with a modicum of self-preservation sounds when a maniac is pointing a needle in the direction of their fucking face.”

“Sounds a lot like yer whinin’ though.”

“Will you just hurry up and do it already? Or am I going to have to ask Osamu?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t need to be looking at Atsumu to know what face he’s making. “Don’t ask that scrub,” he snipes. “Not unless ya want yer eyeball pierced instead. I’ll do it. Just sit still.”

It’s Atsumu’s fault he’s doing this at all. Three months of not-so-subtle commentary about how good an earring would look, and he’s finally given in after Atsumu went ahead and purchased a small gold hoop to match his own. Kiyoomi agreed on the premise that Atsumu be the one to pierce it for him - after he told Kiyoomi he’d expertly pierced most of the crew – but he should have expected it to be just as chaotic an event as any other aboard the ship. Almost as chaotic as Kiyoomi’s introduction to lubricated stool curling.

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “I’m already sitting perfectly still, you should just—Ah! Shit!”

Pain explodes in Kiyoomi’s ear as Atsumu stabs through his lobe with the needle unexpectedly. With fast hands, Atsumu does something Kiyoomi doesn’t care to know about, then he’s proudly patting Kiyoomi on the back and saying, “See! Wasn’t so bad, right?”

Kiyoomi reaches up and tries to cover the throbbing sting in his ear like that will make the pain go away. “If I die,” he winces, “I know three different ways to take you with me.”

“Yer not gonna die. But I mean, if ya do, at least you’ll look really hot doin’ it. Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” he pouts. “You just stabbed me.”

Atsumu puts down his equipment and closes the new door to Kiyoomi’s room before he moves around to the front of Kiyoomi’s desk and stands in the space between his legs. “Lemme kiss ya better,” he grins.

Six months on and off the sea, hunting clues for Nekomata’s Island, and stopping in dozens of towns along the way has done nothing whatsoever to dull the fire that burns in Kiyoomi’s chest whenever Atsumu kisses him. His touch feels just as warm, just as safe, his smile is just as blinding, just as captivating. They’ve learned each other so thoroughly, so completely, that Kiyoomi simply lets himself go boneless in his arms, knowing that Atsumu will always prop him back up.

No two days are ever identical, but the nights always end the same way; they spend them under the stars, sometimes taking turns in looking up through Kiyoomi’s new telescope, sometimes through inn windows, oftentimes just lying on their backs with their hands joined in the space between them.

They just seem to work, fit like two wrong puzzle pieces that were forced together accidentally and can no longer be pried apart. Every night he sleeps soundly with Atsumu pressed into his side, or sprawled out atop him, or hugging him from behind, and every morning he wakes the opposite - wrapped around Atsumu’s middle, or facing him with their foreheads touching, or resting upon his chest rather than his pillow.

It’s easy, it’s fun, and it is completely free of expectation, because Kiyoomi loves Atsumu as he is, and Atsumu doesn’t let Kiyoomi go a day without letting him know he loves him the same.

When he finds his way above deck and looks out over the sea with a burn in his ear and his hand enveloped by Atsumu’s, he thinks that some choices are hard, and some choices are blindingly simple.

Loving Atsumu, loving his new family, and loving his life with them, are the easiest choices of all.

END.