Chapter Text
Celebrities can be unbearably obnoxious. Most seem to walk around with a sense of invincibility, as if fame and wealth grants them dominion over everything and everyone. And the way their fans worship them only served to inflate their already massive egos.
Every celebrity Kiyoomi had encountered so far carried themselves like they were handpicked by the gods.
He despised them.
So why in the hell had he chosen to become the manager of one of Japan’s most loved ex-child-star, current biggest pop stars and notorious fuckboys?
Simple.
The money was just too good to pass up, especially for a freshly graduate with no previous experience on the field.
Still, no amount of cash could make dealing with Miya Atsumu any less infuriating.
Atsumu was the definition of arrogance. He was an entitled brat and insufferably rude to everyone. Every day with him was a battle, and he seemed determined to make Kiyoomi’s life a living hell.
Scandals were a regular occurrence, whether it was careless remarks in front of rolling cameras (because Atsumu really does love running his big stupid mouth), picking public fights with other artists on social media, or some new controversy popping up every other week because the man seemed to have no brain to mouth filter whatsoever.
He wasn’t inherently a bad person; Kiyoomi knew that well. He had witnessed the depth of Atsumu's heart in many occasions, especially when it came to causes that truly mattered. He had leveraged his wealth and fame to help people in need countless times. Rather that was making donations or spreading awareness about important social or political cases.
He had a good heart. The only problem was that it laid buried under many layers of assholness and cockiness. Yet despite these redeeming qualities, he remained trapped in a cycle of poor choices and self-destructive behavior.
Wherever Atsumu went, chaos followed, and Kiyoomi was left scrambling to clean up the wreckage.
It had only been five months since Kiyoomi had taken on the job as his manager, but he was already at his breaking point. At just 23, he swore he could feel grey hairs creeping in, all thanks to the stress the pop-star caused him on a daily basis.
It truly was exhausting being his manager.
“Miya, your interview starts in ten minutes. You better be ready,” Kiyoomi said, knocking on the door of the backstage waiting room.
Silence.
“Did you hear me?” he repeated, louder this time, but still no response.
Kiyoomi let out a long, exasperated sigh, fishing out the copy of the key he’d been given. He unlocked the door, silently praying that Atsumu was at least presentable (he'd had many incidents where the blond wasn't before...not something he particularly wanted to re-live)
But when he pushed the door open, his heart dropped. Atsumu lay on the floor, completely motionless.
Kiyoomi’s eyes widened in shock, his breath catching in his throat as he rushed toward him without a second thought.
“Atsumu!” he yelled, shaking the blonde, but there was no response. Panic began to rise in his chest.
“Fuck, Atsumu, what the hell…” his voice faltered as he spotted an empty plastic container and a few pills on the floor near Atsumu’s hand.
His blood ran cold.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Kiyoomi muttered, his hands trembling as he fumbled for his phone to call for an ambulance.
He crouched down beside Atsumu, fear tightening in his chest.
“Please don’t die on me, you idiot,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he desperately dialed for help.
His hands shook so badly he almost dropped the phone, his heart pounding in his ears as he frantically gave the emergency operator the details.
"Unconscious... I don't know how long... Pills everywhere," his voice was breathless, choked with fear. The operator calmly assured him help was on the way, but that did nothing to calm the storm of panic swirling in his chest.
He knelt down beside Atsumu again, gently shaking his shoulders in a dasperate attempt to wake him up. “Come on, Atsumu. Wake up please,” he whispered, his voice barely steady.
But Atsumu remained still, his skin unnervingly pale. Kiyoomi’s pulse raced, his mind spinning through worst-case scenarios.
Please don’t be dead. Please.
The minutes dragged on like hours, each second stretching into an eternity. Kiyoomi finally built up the courage to check his pulse. He pressed his fingers to Atsumu's neck, the pulse was faint, but still there. Relief washed over him, but it was fleeting.
A soft knock at the door made Kiyoomi snap his head up. Medics burst in, equipment in hand, and Kiyoomi immediately backed away to give them space. He watched in silent horror as they knelt beside Atsumu, checking his vitals and speaking to each other in quick, efficient tones that Kiyoomi couldn’t quite make out.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as they strapped Atsumu to a stretcher. It felt surreal, like watching a nightmare play out in slow motion.
"He's stable for now," one of the paramedics said to him, but Kiyoomi barely heard the words.
Stable. For now…
As they wheeled Atsumu out, Kiyoomi followed close behind, barely able to catch his breath. His mind was still spinning, replaying the image of Atsumu on the floor. He had hated Atsumu’s reckless behavior before, but this… this was something else entirely.
In the ambulance, sitting beside the unconscious star, Kiyoomi's mind wouldn’t stop racing.
What the hell happened?
The ambulance lights flashed in a dizzying rhythm, casting brief, sharp glares on the streets as it sped toward the hospital. Kiyoomi sat beside the stretcher, his hands gripping the edge of his seat, eyes locked on Atsumu’s face. His mind wouldn’t stop churning, a sickening mix of anger, fear, and confusion swelling inside him.
What had led to this? He had seen Atsumu reckless before—his tendency to provoke scandals, his endless cycle of bad decisions—but this? An overdose? Kiyoomi hadn’t seen it coming. Or had he? He couldn't shake the feeling he might have missed the signs. Atsumu’s erratic behavior had escalated lately—more late-night parties, more reckless remarks. Had he been spiraling all along? He felt guilt all of the sudden.
Kiyoomi pressed his palms to his face, trying to steady his breathing. He wasn’t supposed to care this much.
Atsumu was just a job, a paycheck.
Kiyoomi had taken the role for the money, not for babysitting a star who seemed determined to destroy himself. But now, sitting in the ambulance, watching Atsumu’s shallow breaths, the weight of responsibility felt heavier than ever.
The hospital doors slid open, and Kiyoomi was forced to move as the medics rushed Atsumu inside. He stood frozen in the entrance for a moment, unsure of what to do, before a nurse gently ushered him toward the waiting area.
Sitting in the cold, sterile room, the minutes dragged on again, and Kiyoomi could only replay the last few weeks over and over. The constant defiance, the nights Atsumu didn’t show up for rehearsals, the mornings he showed up looking like he hadn’t slept at all. He should have noticed right? He should had done something...but it's not like Atsumu talked to him so he couldn't really have known.
Fuck I should have payed more attention.
A nurse eventually came to him, her expression calm but serious. "He's stabilized and conscious. It seems like a mild overdose, but we’ll have to keep him under observation. You can see him if you like."
Kiyoomi felt an odd mix of relief and frustration.
Mild.
Atsumu had come dangerously close to something far worse. Without a word, he followed the nurse down the hallway.
When he entered the room, Atsumu lay in the hospital bed, looking unusually fragile, his usually bright, cocky eyes dimmed. Kiyoomi stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, taking in the sight, feeling his anger boiling just beneath the surface.
“Was this some kind of cry for help or just another one of your stupid decisions?” Kiyoomi finally said, his voice low but sharp.
Atsumu didn’t answer at first, just stared blankly at the ceiling, as if he hadn’t even noticed Kiyoomi enter. After what felt like an eternity, he let out a soft, bitter laugh.
"Does it matter?" Atsumu said, his voice hoarse.
Kiyoomi clenched his fists, taking a step closer. "Of course it fucking matters! You could’ve died!" He wasn’t even sure where the anger was coming from—whether it was fear, frustration, or something else. "Do you have any idea how close you came?"
Atsumu finally turned his head to look at Kiyoomi, his eyes dull and unreadable. "Maybe I don’t care," he muttered.
Kiyoomi’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected that answer, hadn’t expected to hear Atsumu sound so… defeated. His anger faltered for a second, replaced by a flicker of pity.
He didn't get to say anything else because in that moment Osamu rushed into the room and broke down in front of his twin after seeing him like that.
Kiyoomi stood back, feeling like an intruder as Osamu, his face a mask of panic and relief, rushed to his brother's side. He knelt beside Atsumu, his hands trembling as he gently grasped Atsumu's. The worry etched into Osamu's features was palpable, his brow furrowed, eyes glossy with unshed tears.
"What the hell, Tsumu?" Osamu’s voice cracked, laced with frustration and fear. "Ya scared the shit outta me!"
Atsumu shifted slightly, his expression hardening again, but Kiyoomi could see the flicker of guilt beneath his bravado. “I’m fine, Samu,” he replied dismissively, attempting to pull his hand away, but Osamu held on tighter.
“No, yer not fine!” Osamu’s voice rose, a mix of anger and desperation. “Yer in a hospital bed fer fuck's sake! How can ya say yer fine?”
The tension in the room could be cut with a knife, and Kiyoomi felt like he was witnessing an intimate battle he had no place in. He glanced between the brothers, torn between wanting to stay and make sure Atsumu was okay or leave and give them space.
“Stop actin’ like everythin's okay,” Osamu continued, his voice lowering but still heavy with emotion. “Ya can’t keep doin’ this. Ya need help, Atsumu. Real help.”
Atsumu closed his eyes, the fight draining from his body as he let out a heavy sigh. “I don't,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I just need a fuckin’ break. I- I just wanted to escape...”
Kiyoomi felt his chest tighten at that admission. He had always known there was more to Atsumu than the flamboyant, careless persona he presented to the world, but hearing it out loud made the reality hit him in the face harder. Kiyoomi shifted his weight, his hands still clenched at his sides, feeling lost in a situation he had never anticipated.
Osamu looked up at Kiyoomi, his eyes pleading. “Ya've been with him fer months. Please, tell 'im he needs to talk to someone. He clearly ain't okay, Sakusa-san.”
Kiyoomi took a deep breath, steeling himself. “You can’t keep doing this... There are people who care about you, and you can’t keep pushing them away and treat them like shit. You’re risking everything—your career, your life.”
Atsumu’s gaze flicked to Kiyoomi. “Ya don’t fuckin’ get it! Ya don’t know what it’s like to have everything you do or say picked apart by the world since you were a little kid. Have cameras on yer face all the damn time recordin’ every single one of your screw ups so they can make tomorrow's biggest headline. I've been fucking suffocatin’ for years. This was… this was my way out.” he yelled at Kiyoomi as his eyes became glossy.
The pain in Atsumu’s voice pierced through Kiyoomi, leaving him momentarily speechless. He felt a mix of empathy and frustration bubbling within him, and he struggled to articulate his thoughts.
“Look,” Kiyoomi began, his tone steady but firm, “I won’t pretend to fully understand what you’re going through. You’re right; I’ve never lived your life. But I do get it, to some extent. I’ve worked alongside you for months, and I’ve seen firsthand the relentless scrutiny you endure. I’ve spent countless hours doing damage control after your reckless choices.”
He took a breath, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ve watched you self-destruct, and then I’ve had to piece you back together just so you can function and keep your job. And believe me, despite how messed up this industry can be, I know you love singing and performing, and that passion deserves to shine. You don’t deserve to be one of those stars who burn out, forgotten by everyone.” he said and he meant it. Atsumu might be a pain in the ass 99% of the time, but his talent and dedication were undeniable.
Kiyoomi stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “But you won’t be able to continue doing what you love if you don’t get your act together. Honestly, you’re exhausting. Enough with the bratty behavior—just let people help you, because you clearly need help. You have a support system. You have people who care about you. Stop pushing them away and allow them in.” he said looking at Osamu, who nodded.
Kiyoomi's words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the tension that had settled over the room. He watched as Atsumu’s face shifted, a myriad of emotions playing across his features—defiance, anger, and something resembling vulnerability.
“Ya think it’s that simple?” Atsumu finally snapped, his voice wavering but still laced with that familiar arrogance. “Ya think I just need to ask for help and everything will be fine?”
Kiyoomi took a step closer, not backing down. “No. But I know you’re not fine. You’re in a hospital bed because you chose to drown yourself in pills instead of facing whatever it is you’re dealing with. You’re not just hurting yourself—you're dragging everyone who cares about you down with you.”
Atsumu looked away, his jaw clenched. Kiyoomi could see the fight slowly draining from him.
“Osamu-san’s worried shitless. Your friends and family are worried. Your fans are worried. Even I’m worried. I didn’t sign up to babysit a celebrity who can’t get their shit together and keeps doinf everything he can to ruin his own life, but here I am, trying to keep you from falling apart completely. You need to face this, not hide from it,” Kiyoomi said, his voice firm but softened by the worry twisting in his gut.
Osamu, still holding his brother’s hand, looked at Kiyoomi with a mixture of gratitude and relief. “He’s right, Tsumu. Ya need to let someone in. Can’t keep doing this alone.”
For a moment, silence reigned, thick with tension and unspoken fears. Atsumu closed his eyes tightly, as if willing the world to disappear. Kiyoomi felt the urge to reach out, to comfort him, but he hesitated, unsure of how Atsumu would react. Unsure how he himself would react. It wasn’t like him at all.
Finally, Atsumu spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to do that....I-"
Kiyoomi's heart twisted at the admission. Beneath the mask and reckless behavior was a person who had lost sight of himself amid the chaos. He could see it clearly now. Guild was eating him alive for not seeing it sooner…for just judging him.
"You’re allowed to ask for help, you know. It's okay to admit you're in a bad place and need someone to pull you out. You don’t have to face this alone," he said, his voice steady but filled with concern.
Atsumu's gaze met his, and after a few heavy seconds, the dam broke. "I—" he sobbed, his voice cracking. "I need fuckin’ help. I feel like I’m dyin’...damn it!" The raw desperation in his words brought tears to Kiyoomi's eyes, an ache swelling in his chest.
He had never imagined this moment, and the weight of it pressed down on him.
Fucking hell, he really hadn’t signed up for this.
"We'll get ya the help ya need" said Osamu drying his brother's tears and Kiyoomi looked away and dried his own.
-8 months later-
“Rumor has it that Atsumu Miya might be making a comeback… a whole new album! Can you believe it?”
“Aw man, I can’t wait! We need him back to save pop music. Where the hell has he been all these months, anyway? It’s weird not hearing anything from him,” another voice chimed in.
“I heard he went on hiatus. Health issues or something,” came the reply.
Kiyoomi couldn’t help but overhear the conversation as he stood in line for coffee that morning. He rolled his eyes at the excitement in their voices.
After placing his order, he stepped outside and headed to his car, the chatter still echoing in his mind.
“What took ya so damn long?” Atsumu grumbled from the backseat, stretching his arm out as he awaited his iced Americano and chocolate donut.
“There’s this thing called a line, where a lot of people stand because they also want coffee in the morning. Not just you, your royal highness,” Kiyoomi replied, annoyance creeping into his voice as he buckled his seatbelt.
“I should fire ya. Too much sass 'n sarcasm, Omi-kun,” Atsumu said, sipping his coffee with a smirk.
Kiyoomi started the engine, deliberately ignoring him as they pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the recording studio.
After a moment of silence, Kiyoomi glanced at Atsumu in the rearview mirror, the question he’d been holding in finally for weeks now spilling out. “Are you sure you’re ready to go back?”
The question lingered in the air, heavy with the weight of the past few months. Atsumu had talked about making a return, but Kiyoomi couldn’t shake the concern gnawing at him.
“Yeah I think so, I’m fine now,” Atsumu replied.
Kiyoomi met his gaze in the mirror, searching for any hint of uncertainty, but Atsumu looked resolute.
“Alright. Don’t overdo it…” Kiyoomi finally said, his voice steady but laced with caution. It was all he could offer, and he hoped it would be enough.
As they stood in front of the studio, Atsumu suddenly froze in his tracks. Kiyoomi turned to him, a puzzled look on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
The blonde's gaze flickered toward the automatic doors, and he took a hesitant step back.
“Miya...?”
“I—I don’t think I can go in,” Atsumu admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Why not?” Kiyoomi stepped closer, concern etched on his face.
“I don’t know,” Atsumu sighed, frustration creeping into his tone.
“If you don’t want to go in, then don’t. No one is forcing you. It’s okay if you’re not ready.”
“But I want to, damn it! I miss singin’, recordin’, and writin’ music. It’s like I’ve been numb without it.” He groaned, his voice tinged with desperation.
“Okay, then what’s stopping you?” Kiyoomi pressed gently.
“I don’t fucking know, Omi!” Atsumu snapped, irritation bubbling over.
Kiyoomi let out a resigned sigh and pulled out his phone, quickly texting the producer to reschedule.
“Let’s just go. I’ll take you home,” he said, walking toward the car and tugging gently on Atsumu’s sleeve to coax him along.
The drive back to Atsumu's apartment was filled with silence. He stared out the window, lost in thought, while Kiyoomi kept his focus on the road, not saying a word.
Once they parked, Atsumu unbuckled his seatbelt and sighed deeply. "Wanna come up? I don't feel like bein’ alone... Samu’s with Rin right now," he asked, glancing over at Kiyoomi.
Kiyoomi smirked as he stepped out of the car. "Sad how your only friend is your brother."
Atsumu shot him a look. "So, yer not my friend, then?"
"Pretty sure I get paid to tolerate you, remember?" Kiyoomi teased, earning an eye roll from Atsumu.
They rode the elevator up to the fifth floor in comfortable silence, and once inside the apartment, Atsumu collapsed onto the couch, immediately pulling out his phone. His fingers scrolled through endless comments.
<When is he coming back?>
<We miss him.>
<Did he disappear or what?>
Kiyoomi didn't miss a beat, snatching the phone right out of Atsumu's hands and slipping it into his pocket. "Enough."
Atsumu huffed, reaching for him. "Omi! Give it back!"
"Nope. You're on a social media detox now."
"I need to call Samu," Atsumu protested, sitting up.
Kiyoomi raised a brow, unbothered. "He's probably balls-deep in Suna right now. I wouldn’t interrupt."
Atsumu grimaced in disgust. "Ya seriously have no filter."
"And I seriously don't care," Kiyoomi said with a shrug.
"Obviously. Why else wouldja put such horrible images in my head?" Atsumu muttered, flopping back onto the couch with a groan. “Can’t a guy just sulk in peace without ya ruinin’ it?”
"Not on my watch." Kiyoomi's voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath the banter. "You need to stop obsessing over what people are saying. The more you scroll through comments, the more it's gonna mess with your head."
Atsumu rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, Mom."
Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes. "Don't 'Mom' me."
"Then stop acting like one."
"Maybe stop acting like a child, then," Kiyoomi shot back.
Atsumu sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It’s just… I feel like I’m lettin’ people down. My fans want new music, they want to know why I vanished, and I can’t give them either. I want to, but I just... can’t."
Kiyoomi sat beside him, his tone softening. "You don’t owe them anything, Atsumu. You hit rock bottom. No one just snaps back from that overnight."
"I know," Atsumu said, staring at the ceiling. "But it still feels like I’m failin’. Like I keep failin’."
Kiyoomi leaned back, crossing his arms. "You’re used to that, though. You screw up all the time."
Atsumu chuckled despite himself. "Wow, thanks. Ya’ve got the emotional intelligence of a brick, ya know that?"
"No, I mean…" Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, fighting a smirk. "You always manage to get back up. Every single time. This isn’t any different."
"This time… it feels different," Atsumu whispered, his voice heavy. "I think I’m broken, Omi. And nothin’, no one, can fix me."
Kiyoomi’s gaze softened as he met Atsumu's eyes. "You’re not broken. Maybe a little bent out of shape, but you're not beyond repair. You can still be fixed."
For the first time that evening, Atsumu smiled.
"Ya know, when ya first started as my manager, I thought ya were a real dick," Atsumu admitted, stretching out on the couch.
Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow. "What changed your mind?"
"Nothing. I still think yer a dick… but I like dicks—wait, no, that sounded so wrong," Atsumu blurted out, bursting into laughter. Kiyoomi couldn’t help but join in, his own laughter slipping through.
"I mean, I like blunt people who don’t sugarcoat things... Jeez," Atsumu said between gasps, wiping tears from his eyes.
Kiyoomi shook his head, still grinning. "I’m definitely writing that down in ‘Miya’s Bullshit of the Day’ log, just so you know."
"I hate ya," Atsumu groaned, still chuckling.
"As long as you keep paying me I don't care if you hate me" joked Kiyoomi and Atsumu rolled his eyes.
"Materialistic bitch,"
Their banter had become an odd sort of comfort over the past few months, like an old routine that kept both of them grounded amid the chaos of Atsumu's recovery. Despite the jokes and sarcasm, Kiyoomi's presence was one of the few things that made Atsumu feel a little less lost.
Kiyoomi leaned back, his sharp gaze softening slightly as he watched Atsumu stretch out on the couch, the earlier exhaustion still evident in his features. “You’ve got time, you know,” Kiyoomi said, breaking the silence. “No one’s expecting you to be perfect, to rush back just to meet some ridiculous deadline.”
Atsumu’s brows furrowed, his face twisting with frustration. “Yeah, but what if I can’t do it anymore, Omi? What if... I’m just done? I’m scared that the second I walk into that studio, or the stage everything I loved about making music will feel... gone.”
Kiyoomi didn’t reply immediately, letting the weight of Atsumu’s words settle in. “That’s a possibility,” he finally said, his tone neutral. “But you won’t know for sure until you try. And if it turns out you’re not ready today, or tomorrow, or even next month, that’s fine. You’re allowed to take your time.”
Atsumu didn’t respond. He looked over at Kiyoomi, his tired eyes reflecting a mix of uncertainty and fear. The world had been waiting for him to return, he himself had been waiting for this, but the pressure had been suffocating.
“You’re stubborn,” Kiyoomi added with a smirk, “and we both know you won’t quit unless there’s no other choice. When the time’s right, you’ll go back in there. I’m sure of it.”
Atsumu let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. “Maybe. But what if that time never comes?”
Kiyoomi’s expression softened, and for a moment, the usual teasing edge in his voice faded. “Then we’ll figure something else out. But until that happens, stop getting in your own way.”
The room fell into a quiet lull after that, with Atsumu finally relaxing, his breathing becoming more even. Kiyoomi watched him for a moment before pulling out his phone, scrolling idly through his notifications. He didn’t need to say anything else right now. Sometimes, just being there was enough for Atsumu.
As the minutes passed, Atsumu let out a quiet laugh, breaking the silence again. “Can’t believe ya actually made me feel better.”
Kiyoomi glanced up. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu waved him off, sitting up and stretching. “But thanks... seriously.”
Kiyoomi smirked. “Just pay me more, and we’ll call it even.”
Atsumu grinned despite himself. "Yer such an asshole.”
“And you’re still paying me. So, who’s really winning here?” Kiyoomi shot back.
With a groan, Atsumu collapsed back onto the couch, pulling a throw pillow over his face.
"Do ya think... I'll be as good as I was before?"
Kiyoomi leaned his head back against the couch, his eyes following Atsumu’s gaze. He thought for a second before answering.
“No," he said honestly. "You won’t be the same. But maybe that’s a good thing.”
Atsumu frowned, turning to look at him. "What’dja mean?"
“I mean, you’ll come back stronger, smarter. The version of you after all of this will be better. Because let’s face it the old you was a huge prieck and a pain in the ass. You’ll take everything you went through and use it. It’ll show in your music, and your fans—they’ll feel it,” Kiyoomi explained, his voice steady.
Atsumu blinked, digesting Kiyoomi’s words. For the first time in a while, there was a flicker of hope in his eyes, something Kiyoomi hadn’t seen in months.
“Better, huh?” Atsumu murmured, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah. Better,” Kiyoomi repeated, nodding. “But only if you stop acting like a whiny little bitch and start actually believing it.”
Atsumu chuckled again, shaking his head. “And there it is. Back to being a dick.”
“Hey, I’m just keeping it real. I thought you liked that about me,” Kiyoomi teased, smirking.
Atsumu rolled his eyes.
The rest of the day passed quietly in Atsumu’s apartment. The blonde sat at his desk, fingers poised over his laptop as he attempted to write lyrics, while Kiyoomi focused on his own work in the corner, the soft tapping of keys breaking the silence.
Every so often, Atsumu glanced over at Kiyoomi, his brow furrowing as he pondered his words. “What do you think about this line?” he would ask. Kiyoomi would look up, a smirk playing on his lips, and respond with, “Do I look like a songwriter to you?”—but he would always follow up with his honest opinion, much to Atsumu’s annoyance.
As the daylight faded and darkness settled in, a knock at the door interrupted their comfortable routine.
“I’ll get it,” Atsumu said, rising from his seat.
“Yeah, well it is your place after all,” Kiyoomi replied dryly, earning a playful middle finger in response.
Atsumu opened the door to find Osamu standing there, followed closely by Suna.
“Brought ya some onigiri!” Osamu declared, stepping inside. “And I brought the umeboshi ones fer ya too, Kiyoomi,” he called out, already knowing Kiyoomi would be there.
Over the last few months Kiyoomi had become a constant in Atsumu’s life, therefore Osamu’s, who hadn’t left his brother’s side since the incident.
“Thanks,” Kiyoomi replied from the lining room, without taking his eyes off his screen.
“How didja know Omi was here?” Atsumu asked as he accepted the plastic bag filled with Onigiri Miya goodies.
“When is he not?” Suna chimed in with a smirk, leaning casually against the wall.
Atsumu rolled his eyes at Suna's remark, but couldn’t help a small grin. "Fair point."
Then they followed Atsumu into the living room where Kiyoomi was sitting. Rin glanced over at the manager, who was still typing away. "You two have been holed up in here all day, huh?"
"Not like there’s much else to do," Atsumu muttered with his mouth full. "Besides, I’m actually tryin’ to get some lyrics down."
Osamu raised an eyebrow. “Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” he teased, dropping onto the couch beside Kiyoomi, who was still glued to his screen.
Atsumu flopped back into his seat and started rummaging through the bag of onigiri. "A bit of both," he mumbled through a bite of rice. “Mostly workin', though,” he added, casting a sidelong glance at Kiyoomi, who didn’t even bother looking up.
Suna plopped down on the floor, leaning his back against the coffee table. "You writing more of those emo, lyrics again?" he asked Atsumu, smirking as he stretched his long legs out.
Atsumu narrowed his eyes. "They’re not emo. They’re deep. And emotional. There's a difference, not that ya’d get it, Rin, yer not very bright,"
"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, Atsumu," Suna replied, biting into his onigiri with a lazy grin.
Osamu chuckled, tossing another onigiri at Atsumu and handing one to Kiyoomi as well. "Ya sure yer up for this? Writin’ an entire album after takin' such a long break ain't gonna be easy."
Atsumu chewed thoughtfully, his eyes drifting toward his computer. "Yeah, I know. It’s just… I need to do this. I can’t let all this time off go to waste. Feels like I owe it to myself, y’know?"
Osamu's eyes softened a bit as he nodded. "I get it. Just don't push too hard, alright? We don't need ya burnin' out again."
"Yeah just don't start mopping," said Suna.
"I’m not mopin’!" Atsumu protested. "Just… thinkin'."
"Sure," Rin added with a smirk. "But maybe take a break from the ‘thinking’ before your brain short-circuits."
Atsumu threw the plastic wrap at Rin, who dodged it easily with a laugh. "Real funny, ya jerk."
Kiyoomi finally looked up from his laptop, eyeing the scene unfolding around him. "I told you to stop acting like a child, Miya."
Atsumu stuck out his tongue at him. "Ya can’t stop me from bein’ me."
"Yeah, unfortunately," Kiyoomi said dryly, but there was a faint smirk on his lips.
Osamu watched the back-and-forth, shaking his head with a grin. "Ya two are soundin’ like an old married couple more and more each passin’ day."
The blond glanced at Kiyoomi, who had finally looked up from his laptop, watching the exchange with a neutral expression.
"Hey, Omi, back me up here," Atsumu said, trying to steer the conversation away from his brother's stupid comment. "Ya’ve read some of the stuff I’ve written today. It’s good, right?"
Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow. "I already told you, I’m not a songwriter. But yeah, it’s not bad. Better than most of the garbage you wrote a few months ago."
Osamu snorted. “That’s the nicest thing he’s ever said about yer music.”
Atsumu feigned a wounded look, clutching his chest. "Wow, Omi, ya wound me. Yer supposed to be supportive. I pay ya for that."
"I am supportive," Kiyoomi replied with a deadpan expression. "You’re just being sensitive."
Atsumu rolled his eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Whatever. I'll take the compliment."
Suna stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “So, what’s the game plan? You got any tracks ready or are you still brainstorming?”
Atsumu leaned back in his chair, staring at his computer screen. “A bit of both. I’ve got some drafts, but none of ‘em feel finished yet. Feels like I’m missin’ something.”
Suna raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“I dunno... inspiration, maybe?” Atsumu replied, fidgeting with the edge of his notebook. “It’s like, I have ideas, but I can’t seem to pull ‘em together. Something’s just not clicking.”
“Maybe yer overthinkin’ it,” Osamu suggested, stealing one of Atsumu’s onigiri. “Sometimes the best songs come when yer not tryin’ so hard. Just let it flow.”
Atsumu sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, maybe."
Kiyoomi closed his laptop with a quiet thud, finally breaking from his work. "Or maybe you just need to stop procrastinating and finish something instead of trying to write 5 songs at the same time. You’re not good at multitasking, Atsumu."
Atsumu glared at him, but deep down, he knew Kiyoomi had a point. "Yer such a hard-ass, Omi."
"Someone has to be," Kiyoomi shot back, earning a chuckle from Osamu and Suna.
"Alright, alright," Atsumu grumbled, standing up and stretching. "Maybe I’ll just focus on finishin’ one song tonight instead of tryin’ to write the whole damn album at once."
“That’s the spirit,” Suna said lazily, his eyes half-lidded as he stretched out on the floor, like a giant cat.
Osamu smirked, patting Atsumu’s back. “Look at ya, takin’ advice like a big boy.”
Atsumu groaned dramatically. "Y’all are the worst," he muttered, but the warmth in his tone betrayed his words.
"I think it’s time for me to head home," Kiyoomi announced, rising from the couch.
Atsumu glanced up, surprised. "Already?"
Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow, hands tucked in his pockets. "What do you mean, 'already'? I've been here with you all day."
"Yeah, I guess you’re right," Atsumu replied, a pout forming on his lips. Osamu shot him a knowing look before finishing off the last of his onigiri.
"Thanks for the food, Osamu," Kiyoomi said, reaching for his keys on the table.
"Anytime," Osamu replied with a grin.
"Goodnight," Kiyoomi called as he moved toward the door.
"Night, Omi," Atsumu replied, a hint of reluctance in his voice.
As Kiyoomi stepped out the door, Atsumu felt a strange sense of emptiness settle in. He shook it off, turning his attention back to his brother and Suna, who were still lounging on the couch.
“Nice going, lovebird,” Suna teased, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Looked like you were ready to beg him to stay.”
Atsumu shot him a glare. “Shut up, Suna. I wasn’t beggin’ for anything.”
"So... how does it feel to spend the day with yer manager?" asked Osamu, smirking.
Atsumu rolled his eyes, not wanting to catch the underlying implication. “He’s just doin’ his job, Samu. Get over it.”
Suna laughed, leaning back against the couch, arms crossed over his chest. “Oh, come on, Atsumu. Ya have been glued together like that for months now. Are ya sure there’s nothing more than ‘manager’ and ‘client’ going on?”
Atsumu shot him a glare, but he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. “Omi 'n I are...friends at best. Not even sure if he sees me as a friend actually.”
Osamu leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Just friends? Is that why ya get all mopey when he leaves? Or maybe it’s why ya look at him like he hung the moon?”
"He's been helpin’ me a lot through my recovery...I mean it is his job kinds, but still I'm grateful to him. That's it." he said.
“But you’re definitely also into him,” Suna teased, plopping down beside Atsumu. “You can’t deny that you think he’s smoking hot.”
Atsumu sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair again. “I’m not into 'im! He’s just my manager….soking hot manager, yes, but still just my manager.”
Osamu leaned forward, his gaze earnest. “But he’s been by yer side through everything this past year. That says a lot. He might not express it in words, but ya can tell he cares.”
Atsumu shook his head, exasperation creeping into his voice. “He’s paid to care, Osamu. I’m just another client to him...a friend at best and frankly, that’s how it should be.”
Defensively crossing his arms, he felt a mix of frustration and embarrassment swell within him. “Yer both reading too much into this. ”
“Tsumu—” Osamu began, but Atsumu cut him off, irritation bubbling to the surface.
“Enough about this! I need to focus and write. I don’t have time to waste on this nonsense,” he said, plopping back down at his desk, the sound of keys clattering beneath his fingers as he tried to drown out the conversation.
Atsumu wasn’t stupid; he knew he had caught feelings. Over the past few months, Kiyoomi had seen him at his lowest and hadn’t run for the hills. Instead, he had stayed, helped him, and shown a kind of support Atsumu wasn’t used to from anyone outside his family. He couldn’t help how he felt—getting attached to Kiyoomi had been inevitable. But he also knew that there was no was Kiyoomi would ever feel the same for someone like him.
Kiyoomi was just…too good to him…too good for him.
Once home, Kiyoomi was greeted by his flat-mate/cousin, Motoya, who leaned against the doorway with a smirk plastered across his face and his arms crossed.
“Were you at Atsumu’s again?” Motoya asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi replied dryly, kicking off his shoes and heading for the living room.
“You sure do a lot for your client,” Motoya teased, a playful glint in his eyes.
“What the hell are you implying?” Kiyoomi shot back, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh, nothing… Just saying people don’t usually spend this much time with a client,” he said, leaning back casually.
Kiyoomi let out a sigh. “He... you know, he needs company when he’s not feeling okay, and I stay because that’s my job.”
“Yeah? So do you count it as overtime when you log your monthly working hours?” Motoya shot back, a smirk still plastered on his face.
Kiyoomi's eyes narrowed further at the implication. “No…”
Motoya chuckled, the teasing tone never leaving his voice. “I won’t say anything more because I think you get where I’m going with this.”
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, making a beeline for the kitchen. “I’m not in the mood for your nonsense right now.”
Motoya followed him, leaning against the counter with a mock-serious expression. “Come on, Kiyo. It’s not nonsense. You can’t deny you’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately. The guy’s practically got a permanent spot on your calendar.”
Kiyoomi poured himself a glass of water, trying to ignore the teasing. “He’s recovering from a drug addiction and a near suicide... and hell of a lot of other mental health issues. It’s my responsibility as his manager to help him, that’s all.”
“Sure,” Motoya replied, a knowing smile lingering on his lips. “But let’s be honest—you're not just being a good manager. You’ve got that whole ‘knight-in-shining-armor’ vibe going on. It’s kind of cute.”
Kiyoomi choked on his water, sputtering as he turned to face his cousin. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Come on! You’ve been acting all protective and attentive. It’s sweet,” Motoya said, amusement dancing in his eyes. “never seen you like this with anyone else.”
“Motoya, you’re being delusional. I’m his manager, plain and simple. I nearly watched him die in front of me, and I never want to see him in that state again. Not just him...anyone really, that wasn't a pretty thing to witness. There’s nothing beyond that. You know I can’t stand celebrities, and Atsumu is exactly the type of celebrity I despise.”
"He was...but he's changed...and it doesn't seem like you hate him now."
Kiyoomi turned away, feeling a flush of irritation creep up his neck. “I’m going to sleep. I’m tired,” he said, his voice clipped as he walked past Motoya toward the hallway.
“Running away, are we?” Motoya called after him, a teasing lilt in his voice.
"Fuck off, Toya," he shouted before closing his bedroom door.
But Kiyoomi wasn’t able to sleep that night. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t quite silence. The room was too quiet, and the shadows seemed to stretch into memories he wished he could forget. Memories of that night. Memories of Atsumu on the floor. He remembered how he had felt when he first realized just how close he had come to losing him. The fear, the helplessness—it gnawed at him, even now.
But then he also saw snipets of the last few months. Of Atsumu’s laughter, his fragile smile, and those moments of vulnerability invaded his mind, uninvited yet impossible to ignore. The way just being near the blond seemed to set his body on fire lately.
He rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head in a futile attempt to block out the thoughts. What was it about Atsumu that had gotten under his skin? He should have been able to keep things strictly professional, but the truth was that seeing him in that much pain had cracked open something inside him. A crack through which Atsumu had managed to sneak inside Kiyoomi’s walls.
With a frustrated groan, he threw off the covers and got up, pacing the small confines of his room.
He was being ridiculous. Atsumu was just a client—a celebrity. There was no reason for him to feel this way.
But another part of him whispered that he couldn’t deny the connection they had formed over the months. Trauma bonding or whatever.
Atsumu was a complicated mix of charm and insecurity, and Kiyoomi had found himself drawn to the way he fought against his own demons. It was admirable, really. But it also terrified him.
He thought about what Motoya had said—about being protective. Was he? He didn't want to feel protective. He didn’t want to care more than he should. But he did. Every time he saw Atsumu smile, it felt like a small victory against the darkness that had threatened to consume him.
And the unexplainable need to keep him safe and shield him from the world seemed to grow each passing day.
"Fuck is going on with me" he groaned.