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haetbwit · 2 years ago

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DO YOU THINK OF ME? (IN THE WAY I THINK OF YOU)

SYNOPSIS: falling in love after falling out of it. he’s still your kiyoomi after all this time.

WARNINGS: ex-boyfriend!sakusa, lame!sakusa, awkward!sakusa, light swearing, references to sex but nothing super graphic, a little sad ngl but the ending is happy (or is it??), 4k words, MINORS, YOU KNOW THE DRILL

You’re not sure what started the break-up. The beginning of the end. You only know that it’s been eight months since you’ve last seen your ex, and the sight of him now feels like looking at a ghost.

Kiyoomi was obsessed with perfection. Still is, probably. Constantly drove himself to the brink just to achieve it, then wore his suffering as if it were a prize. It was all part of his look, the illusion of being put-together.

In a lot of ways, he treated your relationship like that. Part of an illusion; a specific look. Like you were an accessory to his image. Yet another thing for people to covet about his life.

You, however, are not perfect. No one is. Hell, no relationship is perfect. You know that. Everybody knows that.

Kiyoomi hated it. Some days it felt like he hated you.

Life felt so good when all you did was dress up for galas and fall into bed with one another. When all you had to do was look pretty and smile for the media.

It made it easy to avoid your problems, until it wasn’t. Until so much resentment built up that you wanted to hit him with a car. Kiyoomi preferred to avoid your problems, while you faced the situation head on. He loved you, sure, but it felt like he always had one foot out the door. Ready to run when things inevitably went up in flames.

It exhausted you – trying to reach a person who didn’t want to be touched. You wanted more, and Kiyoomi was scared of what you might see if you got too close. Did you ever really know him? Maybe it was easier to cut things off. Maybe you could have worked it out.

The last few months of your relationship had been a blur. Fuzzy memories that feel so distant you can’t tell if you made them up or not. You can recall his general fear towards life, despite how hard he tried to overcome it. You remember how… tired he was. All the time. About everything. Including you.

How do you help someone who doesn't want to be helped? You can't. You can only love them, but Kiyoomi didn't let you do that either.

Months later, you still don’t know what happened. Who pushed who away?

You blink, remembering where you are.

He’s with his friend now, the rowdy one with the bleached hair. He gives you a once-over and visibly recoils, clapping your ex on the back with a mumble you can’t hear. You haven’t moved. Neither of you have. What is there to say?

He’s still got that same piercing stare, studying you like one of his opponents from the court. Your heart thrums, remembering the nights he used to look at you like you were the only woman in the world. The memory burns, but you can’t seem to look away.

He looks good, but he always looks good so that’s not really saying much. It’s the smaller details in his appearance that give him away. The dark circles under his eyes are more noticeable, now a deeper shade of purple in contrast to his sickly-pale skin. His face is a little slimmer too, clothes that are usually well-fitted are now draping loosely over his frame. It’s a small enough difference that any other person in his life probably wouldn’t notice.

But you aren’t any other person, are you?

He’s hurting. Bad. The irony makes your gut wrench, fills your bones with lead then tells you to take a dive off a pier. You ignore the voice in your head that whispers that you caused this; you did this to him. You broke him.

“Hey,” he clears his throat, clearly rattled by your presence, “It’s… been a while. You look well. Nice to see you.”

“Yeah, uh, you too.” you chuckle, mindlessly scratching an itch on your elbow just to give your hands something to do, “How have you been?”

“The usual, y’know,” He’s strikingly good at evading even the most direct questions. “You look like you’ve been doing well.”

“You…” You suppress a grin, poking fun to make light of the situation, “Already said that.”

“Right, sorry.” Your sentiments fly right over his head. Kiyoomi looks… distressed to say the least. This is painful to watch. From your peripheral, you see his friend gag.

“I was actually wondering if we could catch up.” He forces the words out, the words clumsy when they leave his mouth, “Maybe do dinner or something. Catch a movie whenever. Bowling? Only if you want to, though. Whatever’s best for you.” The words are clipped and short, trying much too hard to be casual.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” You mumble, because it’s true. It’s 100% not a good idea to spend time alone with your ex-boyfriend. That damn itch on your elbow is back again, “New job has been hounding me all hours of the day.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” He looks crushed, the light in his eyes from initially seeing you now gone entirely. “I didn’t mean to make you… uncomfortable or anything. I just–yeah, sorry. Congrats on the new job, though. I told you that you could do it.”

You nod in agreement at his praise. You remember the night he told you those exact words, after comforting you over a bad day at your previous job. You remember how he took it upon himself to make your resume, sending it out to every employer in the city. It was invasive and honestly a little weird, but that’s just how he shows his love.

Overprotective. Overbearing. It used to be so sweet before it felt suffocating. Like flowers that were nice in the vase on the windowsill. Until their pollen started closing your throat. Like a swim in the ocean on a Summer afternoon. Fun, until you're miles out from shore with no way home, saltwater clouding your vision and burning your lungs.

You feel the waves wash over you. You clear your throat, like you can feel some pollen, too.

“Actually,” you can’t stop the words from coming, you’ve lost sight of the shore already, “I think I have some time Thursday night. Maybe we could do something together then.”

“Yeah, sure.” He amends, eyes brightening slightly, “That works. I’ll, uh, text you?”

“I got a new number recently,” You don’t know why you lie to him, “You can just DM me on Instagram. If we decide to do something.”

(You didn’t get a new number, but iMessage feels too personal. Social media feels like the perfect amount of distance.)

“For sure. I’ll text you. So we can do something.”

“Sounds good,” you offer a tight-lipped smile, “See you around, Sakusa.”

You can see something die in him when he hears his surname on your tongue. You used to call him Kiyoomi. Ki. Omi. Kiyo. Baby, but only sometimes. You used to call him sweetheart, when you really wanted something. Fuck, you used to call him yours. He blinks wildly, like you just struck him across the face. He stumbles a bit when he comes back to reality, rushing to get the door for you and holding it open, “See you around.”

He watches you the whole way, still standing at the door as you drive off, his figure disappearing in the rearview mirror.

He texts you immediately.

@s.kiyoomi [7:47PM]: It was great to see you again. Are we still down for Thursday??

You suppose that’s why it’s so easy to fall into bed with him, the familiarity of it all. Your body remembers his touches, had missed it. You writhe and moan and claw at his back before you’re both reaching your peaks, honey-slow and all-encompassing. It echoes to the furthest corners of your body and you feel it everywhere. He kisses your forehead after you both come down, even mumbles a breathless thank you against the skin there. It’s good, the familiarity. Good, good, good.

He leaves after that, when you don’t ask him to stay. He takes the hint. Good.

He comes back a few days later, though. Somehow he forgot his gloves. You guys fuck then, too. It’s good.

The next time he comes back to your apartment, it’s you who calls him. Not good.

You hadn’t meant to lurk. To make a burner account to follow all the Jackals for signs of Kiyoomi. You hadn’t meant to tap on Atsumu’s Instagram story. Hadn’t meant to keep tapping through it.

It’s a group picture with Atsumu and three other people including Kiyoomi. The one with the orange hair has a makeshift crown scribbled over his head, with a tag to his account and a sweet happy birthday message. The one with the gray hair is there, too, captured mid-sentence with a Heinekin in his hand. You had met him a few times. You remember he was sweet. Loud, but sweet. You smile at the photo, studying all the faces. Kiyoomi looks especially good, a small smirk on his face as he stares at the camera. Everyone is dressed handsomely. Good for them.

The next story is taken with the flash on, a short video of a packed club, sweaty bodies pressed on each other as they bump and grind to the music. There’s a figure that looks an awful lot like Sakusa, occupying a dark corner and talking to a smaller, thinner figure. Good for him. If that even is him. Good, good, good.

It’s the next story that has something ugly swelling in the pit of your stomach. It's a bigger group picture, with maybe 15 people. Everybody looks a little gone, probably wasted from so many complimentary shots and discounted birthday beers, so nobody is paying much attention to the camera, their minds elsewhere. Including Sakusa. Well, that, and the fact that he’s got an arm around that same girl from the previous story, captured mid-laugh as they whisper about whatever the hell they’re whispering about.

It shouldn't bother you. It does. It has you sifting through your contacts to find his number.

“Hello, Kiyoomi?” It’s loud when he picks up the phone, wherever he is at this point in the night.

“Hey,” He sounds concerned and a little surprised, the commotion in the background slowly drowning out until you hear a door slam and it’s silent. The audio quality changes to staticky echoes. He must be in a bathroom, “Sorry, it was a little loud back there. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” You don’t know where this surge of embarrassment came from. Or why you’re reacting this way. “I was just calling if you wanted to watch the new season of You with me tonight. If you’re busy, don’t worry about it, I just thought—“

“Yes,” It sounds like a prayer, like something worthy of celebration, “Of course I do. I’m just a few blocks away. I could be there in fifteen minutes. Eight, if I run.”

“Oh,” Part of you knew he would react like this, that he’d come running to your every beck and call. Part of you knows it's why you even called in the first place. You don’t know what that says about your character. You don’t care to know. “You don't have to rush over, we could always–”

There’s a banging on his side of the line, with a muffled demand to hurry the hell up, “Sorry,” he apologizes, though you aren’t sure to who, “I’ll head right over.”

The call ends.

You bite your cheek in anticipation, watching Atsumu’s instagram story again and again.

He comes running, breathless as he pounds on your door.

Eight minutes pass. Have you been watching his story all this time?

“Hey,” You greet him warmly, opening the door to fully let him in, “You look nice.”

“Thank you,” he tries not to let the compliment get to his head, but he’s already dizzy from seeing you, “It was Hinata's birthday yesterday, so we all went out to celebrate with him for the weekend.”

“I saw,” you comment, “Atsumu is very active on social media.”

“I took some pictures, come look.”

It’s alarming how casual the two of you are, laughing on your sofa like old friends.You never gave it much thought, but there’s bits of him strewn around your apartment. His old highschool sweatshirt he never picked up. Throw blankets he brought over one night and never got back. There's a faded popcorn stain on the couch from when the two of you would binge movies together, the blemish etched into the fabric like a memory.

The grin he’s wearing tonight mimics the one from months ago, when you were choosing between centerpieces for a wedding reception. Your ribs ache.

“I thought the nightlife wasn’t really your thing?” You tease, a little bit of truth behind your words. You used to fight about this, too. Why couldn’t he be one of those “normal” boyfriends that go out with their partners? Couldn’t he do this one thing for you? Your fights were so petty – throwing tantrums just to get the other person’s attention. In hindsight, the issue hardly feels like an issue at all.

“It wasn’t. Still isn’t, if I’m being honest.” His eyes find yours like he wants you to hear this. He’s different, somehow. He’s trying. “But I'm, uh, learning to try new things. Getting outside of my comfort zone and all that. It’s been fun, for the most part.”

As he swipes through his camera roll, you see that girl again. She’s terribly pretty, soft cheeks and even softer lips. Big, doe eyes and high cheekbones; something in you withers, then rots and dies.

“This is a good photo,” You can’t help the smile on your face at the sight of Kiyoomi and the blonde, throwing up the signature Jackals paw and grinning drunkenly at the camera. You tell the truth despite the words burning on your tongue, “She seems really sweet.”

“She is,” He confirms, oblivious as ever, “Talks a lot, but she means well.”

“You two look good together.” Somehow it hurts more to say aloud. Makes it real, somehow. “You guys seem really close.”

“Yaichi? I mean, yeah, she’s a friend from college. She’s new to the team and I’m the only one she really knows. She tends to follow me around since we’ve known each other the longest.”

You hum, as he continues swiping. The thick atmosphere feels all too familiar to Kiyoomi, and suddenly he’s rushing forward with an explanation.

“She’s just,” nervousness bubbles out of him, “Our team manager, or something. She’s been shadowing that guy you think has weird hair.”

“Kuroo?” you laugh, remembering. You’re glad the conversation has shifted. “I never said he had weird hair!”

“You definitely did. On several occasions, actually.” He prods, “It’s alright – everyone thinks he has weird hair.”

Kuroo always looked out for you. Got you free tickets, never made you pay for merch, let Kiyoomi sneak you into the beautiful foreign countries they played in – that sort of thing.

You feel your grin fade. That connection was severed after the breakup, “How is he, by the way?”

There’s a lot to catch up on – characters in Kiyoomi’s life that you are no longer a part of. It’s a bittersweet feeling, but you’re glad everyone is doing well even if you aren’t around to see it. The conversation spans late into the night, branching off on wild tangents about nothing in particular. You’re almost sad when you feel yourself getting sleepy. You don’t want it to end.

You truly have missed him. His company. His friendship. He’s still you’re Kiyoomi after all this time.

“Sorry for keeping you up,” He apologizes after seeing a yawn slip past your lips, checking his watch with a chuckle. It’s black. Sleek. Probably a Rolex. Very Sakusa, “I should head home and let you get to bed.”

“Okay,” You rub your eyes, too tired to protest, “Let me walk to the door.”

Kiyoomi is silent as he helps you clean up the space, folding your throw blankets and fluffing the decor pillows. He lets you get his coat for him.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” His keys are loud as they dangle in his hand. He lingers in your doorway.

“Goodnight, Kiyo.” You sigh.

Neither of you move. Time seems to slow. It still ticks by too fast. You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.

“I, uh, really missed this.” He swallows, “I really missed you.”

“Yeah,” You’re tired of fighting. Physically, mentally. You want him, still. He’s still your Kiyoomi, after everything, despite everything, “Me too.”

He chuckles, “You called me and I just. Ran over.”

“Yeah,” You find the energy to smirk at that, “Why did you do that?”

“Because you asked me to.” he breathes, and you read between the lines. I’d do anything you asked me to.

You’re suddenly flustered at his proximity, looming in your doorway like a ghost. You almost can’t believe he’s here. Ditched his teammates – his friends – to come spend time with you. Ran several blocks at midnight because you wanted to see him. You, his ex-girlfriend. You, who broke his heart. He must be some kind of a masochist.

(He must be in love. The thought scares you, so you stop thinking it).

“Can I–?” His voice raptures you from your thoughts, his sharp gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. You can feel it radiating off him – the longing. He wants this just as bad as you do.

“Yeah.” You breathe, reaching up to kiss him.

The kiss is gentle. Unsure. It’s more like two lips pushed together than an actual kiss, but the sentiment is still there. He kisses you like it’s the first time, like it might be the last. You don’t want it to end. It does.

There’s so many raw emotions, so much hurt shared between the two of you. Looking in his eyes, you don’t allow yourself to think, to feel, before you’re pulling him in by his collar and slamming your lips against his for the second time. He reacts instantly, deepening the kiss with a and a supportive hand to the back of your head. He walks you backwards and lies you back on the couch like you’re made of glass, and fucks you like he means it. Like it really might be the last time, because neither of you know what the hell you’re doing. He goes slower. Deeper. Savors it just a little longer. Makes your toes curl and your voice twist up in pretty cries of his name. You shower together after. He sleeps beside you.

(It’s been months since he slept in your bed. You ignore how it’s the best sleep you’ve gotten in a long while.)

You wake up the next morning to empty sheets.

It doesn’t surprise you. It does hurt though, but you aren't sure why. You distance yourself from the feeling entirely. You start a load of laundry instead.

Twenty minutes pass and there’s a commotion at your front door, the sound of crumpled paper bags and the soft jingle of keys alerting you of another presence.

“Oh, you’re awake.” He shyly smiles, bags in hand, “I wanted to have something ready for you before you woke up. I took your keys, if that’s alright. Hungry?”

You hum sleepily, a faint smile on your lips, “I could eat.”

“Perfect,” he mumbles under his breath, rushing to your small dining table to lay out his goods, “I wasn’t sure what to get, so I kind of got everything.”

It’s french bread from the bakery down the street, and a few pastries because Kiyoomi has a sweet tooth. There’s still steam rising from them – they must’ve just been made. There’s fresh cheese from the deli, too, and whatever fruits he could find. You grab one of the tangerines and start peeling.

Kiyoomi’s occupied himself with making the two of you coffee. You watch as he navigates himself through your kitchen in a domestic rhythm. He’s probably spent more time in it than you have.

He hums quietly to himself as he puts just the right combination of creamer and sugar in your mug, swirling the contents softly as he makes his way over to your small dining table.

You take the mug from his hands and take a sip. It’s perfect because of course it is.

“Good?” He asks, but the tilt of his head tells you he knows the answer. You roll your eyes. He offers a satisfied grin in return. “Muscle memory.”

The two of you dig in, eating quietly in each other’s presence.

“I thought you left.” You surprise yourself at your forwardness.

He stops chewing, politely wiping his mouth with a napkin before answering, “Why would I ever do that?” You blink.

“You used to be so rigid. Afraid, maybe? I don’t know.” You shrug, not really knowing what your own words mean, “But it’s nice to see you like this. You seem lighter. Happier. More comfortable with yourself.”

“Yeah. I, uh,” he averts his gaze, suddenly entertained with the buttery flakes of his croissant, “I realized some things after our break-up. You were right. About everything, really. I didn’t allow myself to be vulnerable with you. All you wanted was to love me, and I refused to let you in. You didn’t deserve that.“

“You didn’t deserve that either–” his honesty blindsides you, “–To feel like you couldn’t be vulnerable. I know I didn’t create the safest environment for communication. I caused a lot of petty fights just to get a reaction out of you. I should have been more honest with how I was feeling.”

“Is that…” He swallows, looking pained, “Is that why you pushed me away?”

“I…pushed you away?” You frown, heart breaking from hearing his side of things, “I wasn’t trying to push you anywhere. I missed you, is all. I just wanted us to get back to where we were.”

He smiles solemnly, eyes empty, “I’m sorry, Y/N. Truely, I am.”

You nod your head softly, “I’m sorry, too.”

Silence fills the air, but there’s nothing awkward about it. It’s light. Forgiving. With all cards on the table, there’s nothing to hide. The two of you continue eating. Breakfast nearly finished, you take another clementine, peeling away the tough rind and chewing softly. “Do you, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “Do you think we can try again? Try us again?”

You hum, peeling off another segment.

You offer him a slice, hand outstretched.

get this out of my sight

#just by reading the synopsis made me cry already

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