a/n - yay ! finally an actual iconnnn *blep*
TW: discussion of past abuse
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Kiyoomi wears gloves.
This has never surprised Atsumu, considering he's not the fondest of germs and he doesn't take kindly to physical contact, especially with strangers. Kiyoomi's insistence on always wearing gloves - even during practice, during games, has always been a quirk, but nothing the setter didn't expect.
What did surprise Atsumu, however, is the fact that the gloves stayed on long after they started dating. They stay on through meal times, through dates, through sex - if Atsumu didn't know better, he'd think it was some weird sort of kink. But he does know better. And he knows there must be a reason behind it.
Kiyoomi never talks about it, though. Not even subtle hints. He treats the gloves as if they're not even there - Bokuto and Hinata have thus far been the only people dense enough to even ask about it. And they're always supplied with the vaguest of non-answers. Everyone else just treats it as an immovable fact.
And Atsumu is okay with it, he really is. He has no problem what so ever with his boyfriend and his thing for gloves. He loves Kiyoomi no matter what. Unconditionally, that's what he agreed to the first time he said it five months ago, in the cold of a January morning. And he'll if he's going to break his promise over a stupid pair of gloves.
But just because he's okay with it, doesn't mean he doesn't wonder.
It's impossible not to. It's only human nature to want to know the story behind them, to want to know why your boyfriend only lets himself be truly bare in the shower - which you are not allowed to bare witness to, by the way, even after dating for almost two years now.
He just can't help it. He feels guilty about it every single day, but he can't help it.
And there will always be a part of him that wants them off - that wants to feel the touch of his boyfriend against his skin, that wants that closeness, that intimacy.
But he can't have it. It's not his to have, it's not even his to want.
They wake up later than usual because they have a game today - by all accounts, it should be a really good day. Because they get to sleep in late together and wake up together and eat a lazy breakfast together.
But Atsumu messes it up first thing in the morning - he messes up a lot of things, but his relationship with his boyfriend is never something he thought would fit into that category.
He wakes up to an empty bed and the very pressing need to pee pushing against his bladder. Kiyoomi is probably up and about by now - he always is, up by seven, even on days where they can sleep until noon, rolling around between kisses and giggles. God, why did he have to date a morning person?
His mind is still hazy with sleep when he brushes the covers off and heads straight for the bathroom - he regrets drinking so much wind last night. Why didn't he just take a piss before getting into bed last night like every other person with even a modicum of intelligence?
On unsteady feet, he stumbles to the bathroom, pushing his way through the door and-
The clattering of shampoo bottles dispels any remaining sleep from his mind, clearing the fog and alerting him to the pattering of running water and a harsh, deadly sharp silence.
Atsumu whips head to the fogged up shower, suddenly realizing his mistake as he hears a harsh intake of breath. His mouth drops open - oh no. This...isn't the best thing he's ever done.
Kiyoomi made it abundantly clear when they'd first moved in together exactly what the rules were. Atsumu is never to step foot in the bathroom when Kiyoomi is in there - Kiyoomi never explained why, but Atsumu has always assumed it's because showering is the only time when Kiyoomi is really and truly bare.
And, up until this point, Atsumu has never violated that simple instruction. It's fucking easy, and somehow Atsumu managed to screw it all up in the first thirty minutes of what is supposed to be a perfect day - in other words, he has fluff for brains and now Kiyoomi is going to break up with him and they're never going to get married under a sunset and his whole life is ruined.
Oh god.
"Atsumu?" Kiyoomi's voice comes from behind a pane of thickly fogged glass, soft and hesitant.
"Um...Omi I'm sor-"
The ramp up is sudden and borderline terrifying. His heart falls out of his chest and his ribs ache and his face feels burning hot like the face of the sun. Oh no.
"Atsumu get out!" He hates hearing his boyfriend so panicked, the fear in his voice overwhelming. It echoes and bounces off of every surface, glossy with steam. Atsumu's head spins, tears threatening to fall. "Atsumu get out!"
Without waiting to try and spit out another apology, Atsumu exits the bathroom, unintentionally slamming the door behind him.
The sound echoes - whether it's all in his head or not, Atsumu doesn't know, but he leans against the door, sliding down slowly. His heart pounds against his ribcage, blood pumping in his ears as he tries to steady himself. Guilt weighing heaving on his shoulders, Atsumu slumps forward, knees piled to his chest, forehead on his knees.
This is not how he wanted to start their perfect day.
-
Another game wraps up, and another wave of fans storms them, despite the team attempting to make a sneaky entrance out the back door of the locker room.
Kiyoomi huddles to Atsumu's side like a barnacle - he's always hated crowds and the germs they're capable of spreading, his quickly they're capable of spreading it. Atsumu keeps an arm wrapped around his waist the entire time, anchoring his boyfriend, slipping his hand into the spiker's pocket.
The press mob them as per usual - if it doesn't happen on court, it's bound to happen outside the stadium. It's an inevitable course of events. Such is the life of a pro athlete with a fan base that is thoroughly invested in the team's interpersonal relationships.
They always ask the same questions and always receive the same, non-committal, non-answer answers. And yet they still ask every time. Questions like:
"Bokuto-Senshu, are you together with Akaashi Keiji?"
"Hinata-Senshu, there are rumors that you're in a relationship with the setter for the Schweiden Adlers. Can you lend validity to them?"
"Meian-Senshu, is it true that you're bisexual?"
But the most infuriating of them all is the ever-present, ever-looming,
"Sakusa-Senshu, fans want to know why you wear gloves?"
Kiyoomi shrinks in on himself as he always does, shoulder crumpling in, face scrunching in that way it always does when he finds something entirely distasteful. His nose wrinkles and his eyebrows twist together, and his hand grips Atsumu's tight tight tight like the setter is the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
Atsumu shoos away the press and the fans with polite smiles and "no comment" statement's pushing his way through the dense mass of people toward the team bus, keeping Kiyoomi stuck to his side the entire time.
When they finally get on the bus, Atsumu ushers his boyfriend to the window seat - the safe seat, away from the noise and the germs of the aisle seat, from the absent chatter Atsumu knows Kiyoomi so despises.
As the bus starts moving, Kiyoomi's head drops to the setter's shoulder, eyes falling closed, lashes fluttering softly as gentle sleep overtaken him - Kiyoomi is usually quite a fickle sleeper, unable to even so much as close his eyes if the conditions aren't perfect. But after games, the spiker is quite simply wiped out, all energy he once possessed decidedly gone.
Atsumu strokes a gentle hand through curls as dark as midnight in a thunderstorm, pressing a kiss to the crown of Kiyoomi's head.
It's been a long night. Questions and wonderings and all things related can wait until they get home.
-
Atsumu wraps his boyfriend in a blanket the moment Kiyoomi steps out of the shower, curls still wet, cheeks flushed. He had a hard night, a little bit of TLC is the least Atsumu can manage. Plus, the spiker would do the same - and has before - if the positions were reversed.
The gloves are back on. That's alright. Whatever Kiyoomi needs to do to feel comfortable is what Atsumu is willing to accept. And if that means having the gloves on even in their most intimate moments, the ones that are only for them, coveted and treasured and special, then that's okay with Atsumu.
There is nothing in this world that Atsumu wants more than for his boyfriend to feel safe with him. Everyone needs a safe place, and Atsumu wants more than anything to be Kiyoomi's safe place.
So he plops down on the bed when Kiyoomi sits cross-legged near the end, blanket still wrapped tightly around broad shoulders. Atsumu grins at him, soft and sweet, even though there is so much weighing in his mind.
He can tell in the sheen of his boyfriend's eyes that Kiyoomi is no stranger to the feeling.
Gloved hands grip at the edges of the blanket. Atsumu longs to reach out and touch, but that isn't always what Kiyoomi needs from him. The consolidation of contact. Some nights, it's too overwhelming, it's too much for him. So Atsumu keeps his hands to himself, folding his hands in his lap.
"Tell me what's on yer mind, darlin'," Kiyoomi has been off the whole day. Atsumu thinks it might have something to do with what he said earlier.
The setter purses his lips, breathing in deep through his nose to calm his erratic heartbeat - he knows what this is about. He knows that Kiyoomi has always been oh so sensitive about his hands. Atsumu is okay with it.
He really is. Because he loves Kiyoomi. He wants Kiyoomi to feel happy and he wants Kiyoomi to feel safe. If those gloves make Kiyoomi feel safe, then he's okay with it.
"I'm sorry," Kiyoomi whispers after a long moment of silence. Atsumu shakes his head gently, a smile etching it's way across his lips at the image of his boyfriend, huddled in a blanket that smushes dark curls against his forehead, eclipsing those perfect pretty moles of his. God, he's an angel. Atsumu loves him so dearly. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."
Atsumu holds his arms open and nods slightly, an open invitation that Kiyoomi can either accept or deny - Atsumu doesn't mind either way. Some days it's not possible. Some days, Kiyoomi doesn't want to be touched nor held. He wants to be alone.
Apparently tonight is not one of those nights.
The spiker crawls on all fours toward him, curling himself into Atsumu's embrace, burying his head in the crook of the setter's neck and breathing in deep as if he can't possibly get enough of Atsumu. It's soft and sweet and Atsumu feels himself fall so so in love.
They stay like that, just for a moment, a long, soft, sweet moment that Atsumu cherishes with his entire being and then some. He loves holding Kiyoomi, almost more than he loves anything else in the world. Knowing the spiker is safe in his arms is the most beautiful feeling, he thinks.
"Everyone needs a safe place, Omi. Yer gloves can be yer safe place," Atsumu whispers tentatively, pressing a kiss to twin moles, brushing curls away behind his ear. "It's okay."
Kiyoomi sniffles, just ever so slightly, but Atsumu hears it bears the weight of it on his soul.
He's about to kiss and shush and reassure, all the things he normally would do that he knows calm Kiyoomi down in times of great crisis, when the spiker suddenly pulls back - this is not normal. The routine is that Kiyoomi hurts and Atsumu holds him until they eventually both succumb to sleep in each other's arms (and wake up with horribly body aches from their awkward position).
Normally, Kiyoomi doesn't sit on his knees, determination cementing itself in his gaze as he allows the blanket to fall off broad shoulders.
Atsumu can only swallow with trepidation as Kiyoomi holds his hands out in front of him likd an offering - Atsumu doesn't need to be told what's happening for him to know. A part of him has known instinctively since the beginning of their relationship that this might happen eventually. He just didn't expect it to be so soon.
"I want you to see my hands," Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu's world stops rotating on its axis. His lips part around silent syllables, eyes going wide - he knows Kiyoomi must be able to see the visible shock on Atsumu's face.
"Omi, y'dont have ta-"
"No," Kiyoomi cuts him off before Atsumu has a chance to say anything more, already picking at his gloves. "I want to. I want to show you. I trust you."
Atsumu shuts his mouth - not totally of his own volition. His breath catches in his throat when Kiyoomi begins to slip his gloves off, heart hammering against his rib cage, in his ears, he can't tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight as inches of skin hidden to everyone else becomes exposed for his eyes and his eyes alone.
What he sees is not what he expects. He express birthmarks or weird fingernails or strangely shaped fingers, but the reality is so much worse.
As thin material slides from graceful fingers, scars are exposed - ugly, horrible scars that cover nearly every inch of milky skin, turning it from silky to rough, from perfect and unscathed to mangled.
He has long, slender fingers, flushed knuckles. And the skin not covered in scar tissue is dotted with freckles, gorgeous things really. His fingernails are painfully short, almost as if to act as a counterbalance to the overreach of his injuries.
But he is still beautiful. Scars are ugly things that symbolize hurt and pain and cruelty, but Kiyoomi Sakusa is beautiful. Even covered in the reminders of the worst humanity has to offer, he is the most beautiful human being Atsumu has ever been privileged enough to love.
Atsumu feels a lump form in his throat, tears beginning to burn behind his eyes.
Someone hurt him. The thought burns him, hands itching to hurt back - whoever dared touch his Omi-Kun - even though he knows the wounds are long scarred over, not to be reopened. Atsumu balls his hands into fists in his lap, knuckles white where they clutch the material of his shorts, not daring to touch.
"Omi..." He doesn't have the words to say what he wants to, what he's feeling - an overwhelming amount of love, an overwhelming amount of pain. An overwhelming amount of everything in between.
"I know. They're ugly," Kiyoomi whispers, resigned. Atsumu shakes his head at that, the only response he knows how to give.
"No," Atsumu doesn't mean to show his feelings so openly, but tears escape his eyes with the word. He makes no move to wipe them away - now that they're out there's no reason to hide them. "No Omi."
Kiyoomi holds his hands before him as though he doesn't know what to do with them. As if they're useless instruments now that they're out from behind their masks. Atsumu wants to hold him and kiss him, wants Kiyoomi to know how amazing he is, how beautiful he is in every single way. He doesn't believe it, and it shows in the way his shoulders hunch, the rise and fall of his chest rapidly increasing.
He holds out his hands like they're a sin he's committed, offering them up as penance for his crimes - as if he doesn't even want them.
The thought that anyone so beautiful could not love a part of themselves, beautiful in its own right - it's unfathomable. The thought that Kiyoomi doesn't love himself feels like a knife inserted under his ribs.
Atsumu aches to touch, so he reaches out, fingers hovering close enough to Kiyoomi's that he can feel the heat radiating from the spiker. It's a silent request for permission because the lump in his throat persists and words would be a futile effort.
"Yes," Kiyoomi says without having to be asked, turning his hands over just barely.
Atsumu keeps his movements slow, just a tentative brush of skin against skin, even just the small amount of contact making his heart jump in his chest and his breath hitch in his throat. Slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he folds his hands over Kiyoomi's - they're slightly bigger than Atsumu's, so the setter's callused fingers don't entirely eclipse his. But it doesn't matter, they're a perfect fit, just like always.
The scars are rough under Atsumu's fingertips, the patches of unblemished skin between them smooth and soft. Another wave of sadness - anger, hurt - hits him like a train, coinciding with unwanted tears. They slip down his cheeks, drip to the crooks of his elbows, hot.
"Don't cry, Atsu," Kiyoomi's voice is. so gentle - really it only makes Atsumu want to cry more. How can he be so okay with this? Why isn't he angry? And most importantly, who did this to him? Who would hurt someone who deserves the world on a silver platter? All Atsumu can manage is a choked,
"Who...?" The question isn't unfinished, but rather it's incomplete. Kiyoomi's soft expression doesn't shift, it stays constant, malleable.
"My father. You probably know that I used to play the piano," Kiyoomi's voice is barely a whisper, but it sounds so loud in Atsumu's ear. He holds the spiker's hands as gently as he can. Shuffling closer to press their knees together on the bed. "My parents started me on it when I was four, my dad himself was a pianist before he had to quite and take over as the head of the family company. It was his dream. His passion. And so he lived it through me."
The spiker releases a heavy breath - not a sigh but a steadying act, a give away showing just how on edge he is. Atsumu doesn't move, only massages gentle circles into his wrists.
"As I got older, he got...obsessive," Kiyoomi's fingers shift slightly under his grip, as if channeling his nervous energy. "He pushed me harder, made me practice longer. It's like he didn't know when to quit, like I didn't even factor in." The sharp line of the spiker's jaw tenses. Before he has a chance to think about it, Atsumu grips his hands, tight. He hopes his desperation comes off more as comfort than what it really is. "In all honesty, I was okay with that. Living my father's dreams for him. He was passionate about it. So I was passionate about it."
"But then he got...worse," Kiyoomi shakes his head and harshly blinks his eyes as if to stand off tears, Atsumu's chest tightens uncomfortably. "He...he wanted me to be perfect. This image of the perfect child he had in his mind. So when I didn't... perform at the level he wanted, I would get...punished."
Atsumu can't help but cry harder, letting out choked of sobs and aborted sounds, pursing his lips together to try and maintain some semblance of composure. He holds Kiyoomi's hands like a lifeline, the only there he has to keep him from losing it.
"It started small, unnoticeable. He was good at hiding it. It was just small, things, like cutting my fingernails too short, just to the point of discomfort, not enough to bleed," Kiyoomi's tongue peaks out between his lips to wet them. Atsumu desperately wants to kiss his worries away. He can see the memories playing in Kiyoomi's eyes. Painful and sharp. "But then it-...he, um-"
"Ya don't hafta say it-"
"No I-," Kiyoomi inhales deep, lashes fluttering rapidly. "I want you to know. I want-..." The spiked swallows harshly, blinks once more and opens his eyes again. "He would hit me with a ruler. Just my hands. Told me it was what I deserved for not trying hard enough. It started when I would lose competitions. His definition of losing being anything other than first place. Then it would happen whenever I messed up during practice. Incentive. To get it right."
His words drop off then, settling into silence for a long moment that feels like an eternity before Kiyoomi speaks again.
"My mother took me away when I was seventeen. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who had a problem with my father. She married another businessman and everything turned out fine. I guess."
Atsumu doesn't know what to say. So many words crawl to the top of his tongue, bottlenecking and getting stuck when he opens his mouth to speak - anger, sorrow, this desperate sort of longing for his boyfriend to feel safe, to be happy. In lieu of a proper response, he holds Kiyoomi tighter.
He presses his lips to the flushed knuckles of his boyfriend, kissing each and every scar, every freckle. Just the gentle brush of his lips against Kiyoomi's skin, but he means each and every single one. Kiyoomi speaks up again, soft and hesitant, words scared like a frightened rabbit - Atsumu's chest squeezes again, tightening painfully.
"You don't have to feel bad. Or be upset or worry," that hardly matters. Atsumu will. Because he loves Kiyoomi. With everything he has and all of himself. "I went to therapy, I got help, and my mom was there and-...I only wear the gloves because I don't like looking at them. They-...they're disgusting-"
"They're beautiful," Atsumu finds his words. Slowly, gently, he brings Kiyoomi's hand to his face, pressing his cheek into a soft palm, free of the rough skin of a volleyball player's hands. The callused are still there, raised and stiff, but soft. Atsumu turns his head to the side to press a kiss to Kiyoomi's palms. "Yer beautiful. Every part a' ya. Yer hands included. Yer beautiful."
Kiyoomi bows his head. Silent tears fall from his eye, Atsumu wants to kiss them away.
"They're just scars, Atsu. Permanent reminders of my fucking asshole dad-"
"No," Atsumu presses his face into Kiyoomi's palms and shakes his head, threading their fingers. "No they're proof that ya survived."
Kiyoomi openly sobs then, a broken sound pulling from his throat that tears to Atsumu's very core. Atsumu kisses his palms, over and over, holding him as close as they'll go.
"I didn't survive, Tsumu. He wasn't trying to kill me- He was just- I was weak. I just let it happen over and over-"
"Omi ya ain't never been weak. Y'can trust me on that. Ain't no one gotta be tryina murder ya fer ya ta be a survivor," Atsumu whispers, because it's true. It doesn't matter what it is. Kiyoomi survived it and Atsumu will always be proud of him for it. So he holds the spiker close, presses their foreheads together. "Ya survived an' yer here, an' I ain't ever gonna let no one hurtcha ever again."
Atsumu pulls Kiyoomi into his lap then, the spiker's hands huddled between them as Atsumu gathers him in his arms. Those same hands that bunch in his shirt a moment later, clinging to the setter.
Atsumu pulls Kiyoomi's head to his shoulder, threading his fingers through Kiyoomi's curls and placing kisses all along the silky skin of the spiker's neck. Down his shoulder, curling up behind Kiyoomi's ear. Kissing anywhere his lips can reach.
They sit like that for who knows how long, in the darkness of their bedroom, curled together, wrapped in each other's arms. And eventually Kiyoomi says,
"Atsu. I love you, Atsu. You're my safe place."
Atsumu pulls back then, leaving them enough space for the setter to plant a firm kiss on his boyfriend's lips, soft and tender and so so fucking in love, brushing his fingers through tight curls and pressing their chests together, heartbeats in sync.
"I love ya too, Kiyoomi, I never wanna be anythin' else."