Work Text:
Kiyoomi was lounging on the couch on a work-less Sunday. A hardcover book on economic responsibility resting against his sternum, the apartment was wrapped in a calm that felt almost deliberate. The hum of the refrigerator, the faint sound of traffic several floors below, the rhythmic turning of pages—it was the kind of quiet he curated carefully.
It was lovely.
Until it wasn’t.
A guttural, broken scream ripped through the hallway from the bedroom, raw enough that Kiyoomi’s body reacted before his brain could catch up. The book went flying, hitting the floor with a dull thud as he was already on his feet, socks skidding against the hardwood as he sprinted down the hall, pulse roaring in his ears. By the time he reached the bedroom doorway, his chest felt tight with dread, every worst-case scenario flashing violently through his mind. What he saw stopped him cold. Atsumu was crumpled on the bed like something knocked loose from the world, curled inward, shoulders heaving as sobs tore out of him without restraint. His phone was clutched to his chest, fingers white-knuckled around it as if letting go would shatter him completely.
For a split second, Kiyoomi could only stare—this wasn’t quiet crying, wasn’t frustration or exhaustion, this was devastation. He crossed the room in two long strides, crowding into Atsumu’s space, pulling him upright and to the edge of the bed so he could hold him properly, securely, arms wrapping tight around his shaking frame. Atsumu collapsed into him immediately, face pressed against his chest, sobs muffled but no less violent, breath hitching so badly it sounded painful.
Kiyoomi’s heart pounded with a sharp, unfamiliar panic; he hadn’t seen Atsumu cry like this in a very long time, not since before they’d learned how to lean on each other, and even then never this intensely. “Hey—hey, I’m here,” he murmured, voice steady through sheer force of will, even as his thoughts raced uselessly. “Atsumu, look at me. What happened?” The only response was incoherent, broken stuttering, syllables collapsing into each other as Atsumu tried and failed to speak through the sobbing. Stress tightened like a vice around Kiyoomi’s ribs. He shifted slightly, one hand coming up to wipe tears from Atsumu’s flushed cheeks, thumb brushing gently beneath red-rimmed eyes, the other sliding into his soft blond hair to stroke slow, repetitive lines down his scalp. He kept talking—quiet reassurances, grounding phrases, promises that whatever it was, they’d deal with it—despite not knowing if Atsumu could even hear him. Minutes passed like this, Atsumu clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing left in the room, until finally, through choking breaths and trembling lips, Atsumu managed to force out a single word, cracked and fragile and barely audible: “BTS.”
It took only that. Just one word, broken and soaked in misery, for the tension in Kiyoomi’s body to shift—not disappear, but realign. “BTS?” he repeated softly, more to himself than to Atsumu, brows knitting as he leaned back just enough to reach for his own phone without fully loosening his hold. Atsumu nodded weakly against his chest, another sob wracking through him as if the confirmation alone reopened the wound. Kiyoomi unlocked his phone with one hand, the other still carding through blond hair in slow, deliberate strokes, and opened Twitter. The first thing that filled his screen was the announcement—bold graphics, tour dates, venues, time zones already being argued about in the replies. BTS. World tour. Tokyo Dome. Kiyoomi exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing through him so sharply his knees nearly went weak. Nothing was wrong. No emergencies, no disasters—just a boy band. He almost laughed from the release alone, pressing his forehead briefly to the crown of Atsumu’s head as he steadied himself.
“Okay,” he murmured, gentler now, calmer. “It’s okay. I thought—” He stopped himself, then shifted back enough to cup Atsumu’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing away fresh tears.
“Why are you this upset?” he asked quietly. “We’ll go. We’ll get tickets.”
Atsumu’s face crumpled at that, as if Kiyoomi had said something unbearably cruel instead of comforting, and suddenly the sobbing got worse—louder, harsher, bordering on hysterical. Kiyoomi stiffened, panic flaring all over again. “Hey—no, wait—what? Atsumu?” he rushed, pulling him back in, arms tightening reflexively as Atsumu shook in his hold.
Atsumu sucked in a breath that came out shaky and uneven, hands still knotted in Kiyoomi’s shirt as he tried to force the words out past the tightness in his throat. “We—we can’t go,” he managed, voice breaking immediately, like saying it out loud made it more real. His accent got thicker as he stumbled on his words. “Presale’s next week. Next Friday.” He laughed weakly through the tears, a sound that didn’t hold any humor at all. “Same day as the championship finals. Same time.” His shoulders hitched as another sob tore through him, and he pressed his face harder into Kiyoomi’s chest. “We’re gonna be on court. No phones. No breaks. Nothin’. By the time we’re done, the tickets will be gone—every single one.”
He pulled back just enough to look at Kiyoomi, eyes red and frantic, searching for an answer he already knew wasn’t there. “We can’t ask Samu to get them,” he rushed, words tumbling over each other. “He’s outta town for that stupid restaurant convention thing, and Kita’s with him. An’ Suna—” Atsumu shook his head sharply, tears spilling over. “Suna and Komori are playin’ against us” His breath stuttered again, chest heaving. “I waited this long, an’ now it’s finally the one time it lines up—and I still can’t. I still can’t.” He laughed again, hysterical this time, burying his face back against Kiyoomi’s chest as if he couldn’t stand to look at the world. “It’s always like this.”
Kiyoomi didn’t need Atsumu to explain the rest; he carried it all quietly, the way he carried everything that mattered. He’d known about BTS for almost as long as he’d known Atsumu—how it started with shaky debut-era videos watched on a cracked phone screen, how Atsumu used to talk about them like they were proof that hard work could actually pay off, that dreams didn’t have to stay theoretical. He remembered Atsumu admitting when they had started dating that he’d wanted to go to their concerts when he was younger but never even asked because he knew the answer would be no—money too tight, priorities elsewhere. Later, when money stopped being the issue, volleyball took its place, tournaments and training filling every calendar square until there was never room for anything else. Every tour announcement had come with the same quiet disappointment, brushed off with jokes and fake bravado, as if wanting something so badly was embarrassing. Kiyoomi had watched him grow used to missing out, had watched him tell himself it was fine, that it didn’t matter, that there’d always be another time. This tour was different. The hiatus was over. Two Tokyo Dome shows were announced. Off-season. For once, nothing overlapped. For once, it was possible. And now, because of presale timing and nonnegotiable finals, it was slipping through Atsumu’s fingers again. Holding him there, feeling the way his boyfriend shook with something deeper than disappointment, Kiyoomi understood exactly why this hurt so much—and exactly why he couldn’t let it end like this.
Kiyoomi was gonna get those damn tickets.
Rain tapped insistently against the windows of Kiyoomi and Atsumu’s high-rise apartment, a steady rhythm that matched the quickening beat of his thoughts. Streetlights shimmered in the wet asphalt below, casting long, distorted reflections across the polished hardwood floors and the sleek, minimalist furniture. The apartment was otherwise quiet, the hum of the city far below softened by the walls, the only sound the faint buzz of his phone in his hand. Kiyoomi paced slowly near the floor-to-ceiling windows, phone pressed to his ear, every measured step a reflection of the tension coiling in his chest. “Hello, Mother,” he said, voice calm and precise, but beneath it, an edge of urgency threaded every word.
A pause followed, and then his mother’s warm, surprised laughter filled the line. “Kiyoomi? Is that really you?” Her tone carried disbelief, almost teasing, like the very idea of him initiating a call was preposterous. “It’s been a while,” he replied, keeping his voice even. “Work’s been… busy.” The amusement in her tone deepened, melodic and sharp. “Busy? Hm. You know, Atsumu called me last week.” Kiyoomi’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he let out a soft groan. He cursed Atsumu silently, frustrated that his boyfriend somehow kept up this effortless charm with his mother, managing warm check-ins and polite conversations.
He inhaled slowly, bracing himself, and cut straight to the point. “Mother,” he said, voice firmer now, “Do you happen to know anyone high up at the Tokyo Dome?” There was a quiet pause on the line, a soft sigh that carried both exasperation and understanding. “Ah… I suspected this might be about the BTS tour,” she said finally, her voice calm but edged with mild disbelief. Kiyoomi’s brow lifted, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his face—though he wasn’t truly shocked, knowing that their part-Korean heritage should have made it less surprising.
“They’re allowing no tickets to be sold prior to the official sale,” she continued, voice lowering slightly, as though the words themselves carried weight. “And they’re being very strict about it. Not a single exception. The policies this time around are tighter than ever. Everyone, from VIPs to even shareholders, are bound by it.” Kiyoomi exhaled slowly, pressing the phone a fraction tighter to his ear. He could feel the tension in his shoulders deepen, muscles knotting as he processed the information. Of course. It had to be this difficult. Of course BTS was locked behind a wall that even wealth, influence, and connections couldn’t easily break.
He stared out the rain-streaked glass, city lights stretching into blurred streaks of gold and red. Every reflection seemed to mock him, the universe taunting in muted colors. The world, it seemed, had conspired to make this impossible. His thoughts swirled with possibilities, each one more desperate than the last, but the corner of his mind remained stubbornly focused: Atsumu couldn’t be disappointed this time. Not this time. Kiyoomi pressed the phone back to his ear, determination hardening behind his calm exterior. He didn’t speak yet—he simply listened to his mother’s unreasonable alternative solutions—but he had already begun calculating.
He would find a way. He had to.
The kitchen was quiet in that peculiar late-afternoon lull, sunlight slanting through the tall windows but dimmed by the thick gray clouds gathering outside. Kiyoomi sat rigidly at the dining table, fingers lightly drumming on the polished surface, his posture taut and controlled as though his body alone could hold back the tension coiling in his chest. Across from him, Komori lounged casually, leaning back with a cup of tea balanced in one hand, eyes flicking between Kiyoomi’s tense figure and the window, as though trying to read him like an open book.
Kiyoomi’s voice was low but sharp, each word deliberate as he ran through the situation, frustration tight along the edges of every sentence. “Atsumu is so upset about these tickets and I don’t know what to do about it, Motoya,” Kiyoomi said finally, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ve even tried to pay strangers to do it for me but no one is willing to enter this damn war. Could getting BTS tickets be that hard?” His cousin raised his eyebrow incredulously, as if to say “you know the answer to that.”
Komori set his tea down carefully, letting out a low whistle. “Huh. I was surprised when you told me that you were dating Atsumu. Now I’m even more surprised that you’re running yourself dry over concert tickets.” His smirk was faint, teasing, but his eyes were curious, almost worried.
Kiyoomi’s expression hardened, the light humor in Komori’s voice bouncing off the armor he carried daily. “You know how much this means to him,” he said evenly, though his jaw tightened. “I can’t sit back and do nothing. I need to make this happen.”
Komori leaned forward slightly, a half-grin teasing the corners of his mouth. “You know… maybe he’d feel better if you just proposed. That would solve a problem, wouldn’t it?”
Kiyoomi’s glare was immediate and cutting, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not proposing,” he said flatly, voice calm but unyielding. “Especially not like this. I’d get rejected on the spot.”
Komori’s smirk faded as he studied him, concern replacing humor. “He wants to go that bad?” he asked quietly.
Kiyoomi’s shoulders tensed further, but his voice softened fractionally as he admitted, “Our regular practice ended hours ago, and he still hasn’t come home. That’s how much this is eating him up.”
Komori’s mischievous glint returned, though darker this time, a smirk that carried an edge of dangerous suggestion. “Well… maybe there’s a solution, my dear cousin,” he murmured, leaning back again, eyes glinting. “What if you… faked an injury right before the presale? That way you’d be free to—”
Kiyoomi’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing sharply. “I’m joking, obviously,” Komori added quickly, hands raised defensively. “You wouldn’t actually do that. It’s crazy.”
Kiyoomi’s jaw tightened, fingers flexing against the table. His eyes stayed fixed on the rain-streaked window, already running through impossible scenarios, timing, and logistics. He didn’t say a word, but the tension in his body, the sharp set of his shoulders, and the tight press of his lips spoke clearly: he was considering it.
He was gonna do it.
Kiyoomi hadn’t been this nervous since his MSBY try out.
He stood in position on the court, every muscle taut, forehead slick with nervous sweat. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, mind racing faster than he ever thought possible. He was about to do something unthinkable. He had never done anything like this before, and the reality of it made his stomach twist into tight knots: he was going to sabotage his own team. Right here, right now. All for BTS tickets. The absurdity of it made his pulse spike. I’m insane, he thought grimly, swallowing hard. Completely insane.
Bokuto chirped from beside him, eyes wide with curiosity. “Oi, Kiyo, why do you look so pale? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Barnes, leaning lazily from behind, snorted. “He’s always pale. What’s your point?”
Kiyoomi barely registered their chatter. His eyes were scanning the court, calculating angles, timing, the perfect moment to sell the fall convincingly without actually hurting himself. The whistle shrieked sharply, cutting through the noise and freezing every movement. Time seemed to slow. He glanced up, just in time to see a perfect jump-float arcing above his head, Washio stumbling slightly to reach it.
He took a quick peer behind him and his heart nearly stopped. Atsumu. Golden hair gleaming under the stadium lights, grin wide and satisfied from the serve he had just executed perfectly. Kiyoomi’s chest tightened. That smile. That same smile that made him forget everything else, that smile he had loved since the first day he saw Atsumu spike. His plan didn’t feel crazy anymore. If this was the cost of seeing that light in his boyfriend’s eyes again… maybe it was worth it.
The game pressed on, the score tight. The Black Jackals were holding their own, but the Raijins weren’t giving up. Two more sets. Every point mattered. One set, and the game could be theirs. But they were already behind in this one. Raijins only needed one point to take the set. They’d be pushed to a fifth one then. Kiyoomi’s gaze flicked to the corner of the gym, and the sight of the scoreboard clock struck like a lightning bolt: the presale starts in seven minutes. Seven minutes. And if he waited too long… he’d lose. He gritted his teeth, heart hammering, adrenaline and panic twisting together. Now or never, he thought. I’m going to have to do it now.
Suna set the ball with an aggressive spike, Inunaki diving to receive it, body low and perfect, yet the ball seemed to float in slow motion toward the center of the court. Kiyoomi’s eyes tracked it, and then—golden eyes. Atsumu sprinting, flawless form, setting it with a precision Kiyoomi had never seen rivaled. Their gazes locked, and a shiver ran down his spine. Fuck. I’m about to lose us the set.
The ball arced perfectly, a gift delivered by Atsumu himself. Kiyoomi felt a tide of grief crash through him—not for himself, but for the points, the team, the absurdity of what he was about to do. He adjusted his run, timed his steps, and then, with a mixture of terror and determination, he jumped... and then he tumbled hard, body hitting the polished floor with a resounding thud.
The gym went utterly silent for a heartbeat, like the sound had been sucked out of the room entirely. Every eye turned toward Kiyoomi as he lay on the floor, limbs splayed in a perfect tableau of pain and shock. Whistles blew, shoes squeaked across the polished court, and the collective murmur of concern rippled outward. He could hear his name cutting sharply through the din: “Kiyoomi!” Atsumu’s voice. Raw, terrified, almost breaking.
Hands were on him in seconds—teammates and coaching staff all moving at him at once. Just let me go, he thought as they beckoned for the medics, heart pounding in his ears. Just let me go get those tickets.
Through the blur, he caught sight of Atsumu running to his side, golden eyes wide, panic written in every line of his face. “What hurts? Where does it hurt?” he demanded, voice trembling, hands fumbling as they hovered over Kiyoomi’s body. Every word cut through him like a knife, and for a moment, he felt a pang of guilt. This was ridiculous. Terrifying. And yet he couldn’t stop. Not now.
“I… my leg,” Kiyoomi stammered, letting his words come out weak and broken, though the pain was entirely imaginary. He’d never been a good actor but he thinks the adrenaline is making him sell it. He made sure to falter slightly when moving it, letting his body sag convincingly. His eyes flicked up to Atsumu’s, and he saw terror pooling there, filling every line of his face.
As the stretcher rolled in, Atsumu didn’t let go. His hands gripped Kiyoomi’s like he was afraid he’d vanish if he loosened even an inch. “Wait—wait, don’t move him like that!” he shouted at the paramedics, voice cracking and urgent. “He’s hyper-mobile! He—he’s got meds for pain, you have to check his knees, his wrists, everything! Don’t bend him too far!” His panic was palpable, golden eyes darting between Kiyoomi’s seemingly calm face and the paramedics, hands frantically pointing and gesturing. “His left knee! Left knee! And the shoulder—don’t lift it like that!”
Kiyoomi’s chest twisted painfully at the torrent of worry as he was lifted onto the stretcher. He wanted to explain, to tell Atsumu he wasn’t really hurt, but he couldn’t—he had to stay in character. And yet, hearing the fear in Atsumu’s voice, the way he barked instructions at strangers with trembling urgency, a heavy guilt sank into his chest. I—what have I done? I’ve scared him so much. Every frantic movement of Atsumu’s hands, every sharp intake of breath, felt like a knife twisting in Kiyoomi’s gut.
He forced himself to stay silent, to endure the weight of Atsumu’s worry. The paramedics nodded quickly, clearly bewildered but doing their best to comply, while Atsumu hovered over him, eyes glassy and wide, scanning for any sign of harm. Kiyoomi pressed his lips together, wishing he could reach out and soothe him, but instead he could only feel the crushing guilt building with every second. All of this over BTS tickets. What am I doing?
From the corner of his eye, he could see Komori staring at him in utter shock—as if what he had actually done had clicked in his head. His entire face telling him "there’s no way you just did that." Kiyoomi couldn’t believe it either.
Even as the stretcher moved off the court, Atsumu’s voice didn’t soften. He rattled off meds, positions, instructions, and cautions in a jumble of panic. Kiyoomi felt it all hit him at once—the absurdity, the guilt, the desperation. His plan was working, yes, but at a cost he hadn’t fully accounted for: Atsumu’s fear.
He drowned in his thoughts as he was maneuvered off the court.
The stretcher finally rolled far enough down the dimly lit hallway, deep into the back corridors of the stadium, away from the main court and the chaos of the game. Kiyoomi’s chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths as he carefully shifted himself upright. The paramedics, caught mid-step, froze in confusion. “Uh… sir? What do you need?” one of them asked, eyebrows knitting in concern.
Kiyoomi took a deliberate, deep breath, steadying his racing heart. “I—I’m sorry,” he said, voice polite but firm. “Could you please… not follow me?” There was a tense pause. The paramedics exchanged glances, clearly confused.
As soon as their attention wavered, Kiyoomi pushed off the stretcher. With a surge of adrenaline, he sprinted down the hallway, long strides carrying him toward the Jackals’ locker room on the opposite side of the stadium. The echo of his shoes clattered against the polished floor, heart hammering in his chest.
He fished his phone from the hidden pocket of his shorts, screen lighting up in the dim hallway. Three minutes. Three precious minutes until the presale began. His fingers tightened around the phone as he calculated, breath hitching, muscles coiled like springs ready to release. No footsteps followed him. The paramedics must still be staring in disbelief, frozen in place, giving him the perfect window.
Kiyoomi’s mind raced faster than his legs. I might get fired. I probably will.
He forced himself to push the thought down, focusing on the one thing that mattered right now: getting in before the clock ran out. If this fails… he thought grimly, chest tightening. When I get fired, the least BTS could do is offer me a job, just to justify the chaos I caused because of them.
Kiyoomi burst into the Jackals’ locker room, sliding the door shut behind him with a rough bang. The room was empty, the scent of sweat and old leather lingering faintly in the air, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. His lungs burned with exertion, heart hammering against his ribs as he fumbled for his phone, already knowing what he had to do. He barely spared a glance for the benches or the lockers lining the walls, mind completely focused on the glowing screen in his hand.
The Ticketmaster app loaded immediately, and a countdown blinked across the display: less than a minute until the presale redirected him to the queue. Kiyoomi froze for a heartbeat, stomach twisting in anxious anticipation. He already knew the odds would be against him—everyone would be trying, everyone would be fast, everyone would be hungry. These ARMYs were insane.
When the app redirected him, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest. His queue number flashed bright: 7000. Relief and disbelief collided in a strange, twisting knot in his stomach. Someone up there must have seen my struggle and granted me this much, he thought, voiceless. It was an excellent number in this chaos—not perfect, but better than the thousands that were already lost in the shuffle. He exhaled shakily, pressing the phone to his chest for just a moment, trying to steady his racing pulse.
Thirty agonizing minutes followed. Kiyoomi paced up and down between the empty benches, the phone clutched in his sweaty hands, knuckles whitening with every step. His eyes never left the screen, watching the numbers slowly tick down, imagining the thousands of fans ahead of him, all desperate for the same prize. I should’ve brought my own Wi-Fi router, he muttered under his breath, though the thought barely registered over the storm of adrenaline in his veins.
Finally, the app signaled that he was next. Kiyoomi felt his chest tighten, breath catching in his throat, fingers gripping the phone so tightly it seemed like the screen might crack.
The floor was completely sold out.
The lower bowl was vanishing in real time as he watched.
Every time two seats appeared, they were gone before his thumb could even reach the screen.
He clicked anyway.
Error.
Clicked again.
Someone else already has these seats.
His breathing turned shallow.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word cracking.
He waited and waited. There was no way he did all of this for nosebleeds. He was going to get them better tickets. Then, faintly, two seats appeared in the front of the lower bowl.
He didn’t hesitate. Reflexes honed over years of volleyball and intense focus took over. He clicked with a speed that bordered on inhuman, barely thinking, barely breathing, heart hammering in sync with every tap of his thumb. The page loaded again, dragging out the seconds into a torturous eternity. Another delay flashed, and he muttered another desperate prayer, fingers still trembling. I should’ve gone to church this morning, he thought. God might have helped me more if I had. Maybe mother was right.
Finally, the checkout screen appeared. Credit card information preloaded, bank called ahead, heart hammering violently—he hit “Purchase.” The spinning wheel seemed to last forever, stretching time into a slow, unbearable crawl. And then, as if the universe had bent in his favor, the words flashed across the screen: “You got ’em.”
A scream tore from Kiyoomi’s throat, raw and unrestrained, a mix of relief, exhilaration, and disbelief. He clutched the phone to his chest, pressing it like it contained not just tickets, but the culmination of all the worry, stress, and desperate effort he had poured into this plan. He leapt from his spot and ran a small victory lap around the locker room, the polished floor echoing under his shoes, heart still hammering like a drum.
He might have just dropped his entire life savings but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
In the distance, he heard the ending whistles blare through the stadium, accompanied by an eruption of cheers from the audience. The Black Jackals won. Kiyoomi allowed himself to feel relief. He had cost his team a point but he hadn’t ruined the match.
He sank onto one of the benches, letting the phone rest against his chest, chest heaving. Even alone in the quiet of the locker room, the weight on his shoulders lightened slightly. And for the first time in hours, Kiyoomi allowed himself a small, quiet smile in return.
Kiyoomi’s footsteps echoed in the cavernous stadium as he stepped out of the back, each one heavier than the last. Every tile seemed magnified, every glare from the fluorescent lights slicing at his eyes. Ahead, a cluster of figures froze mid-conversation—Coach Foster, management, security, and even the paramedics he’d deceived earlier. Their posture, the tense tilt of heads, the slight forward lean of bodies in serious discussion—it all screamed you’ve gone too far.
Then Tomas’ voice cut through the oppressive mood like a flare: “Guys! Sakusa is right here!”
The stadium felt like it tilted around him. Thousands of eyes, imagined and real, bore down. The crowd’s distant roar became a pressure in his chest, a low vibration that rattled his bones. His cheeks flushed hot, every nerve screaming that he had irreversibly screwed up. Panic pooled in his stomach, crawling up his spine. Each step toward the open space of the court felt like walking on a tightrope above an abyss.
And then: a flash of gold.
Atsumu barreled toward him, sudden and sharp, a living beacon cutting through Kiyoomi’s storm of dread. Hands cupped Kiyoomi’s face, thumbs brushing lightly, almost desperately, as golden eyes scanned him from head to toe. Fear, relief, and something almost untethered shone in them, wide and glistening. “Where… where have ya been? Are ya hurt? Do ya know how worried I was? I—when they said ya’d disappeared like that, I—!” His voice cracked under the weight of his terror, a tremor that made Kiyoomi’s chest twist in guilt.
Kiyoomi took a slow, steadying breath, chest tightening at the sheer terror mirrored in those eyes. He gently pried Atsumu’s hands from his cheeks, lifted his leg, stretched it, testing the muscle. Pain? None. He flexed his foot, rolled his ankle—perfect condition. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, forcing calm into his tone, though guilt coiled around every word. “. . . I faked the injury.”
The change in Atsumu’s face was immediate, electric. First relief, then a burst of fury so pure it made the hairs on Kiyoomi’s neck rise. “Ya faked it?! During the finals?!” His voice cracked like it might split, raw and unsteady. “Do ya have any idea how stupid that was?! I—! I was terrified! I could barely play! I had to get subbed out!” The words tumbled out, a cascade of fear, anger, and worry unleashed.
Kiyoomi’s chest burned. He had scared everyone. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He cast a quick glance around: shocked staff, paramedics standing frozen, teammates staring in disbelief.
“I know,” he murmured, low, almost trembling. “I’m sorry. I really am. But please… hear me out.”
He brought up his phone, the Ticketmaster screen glowing faintly in his shaking hands. Atsumu’s brow furrowed, suspicion flickering in those wide golden eyes. “I… had to do it,” Kiyoomi said softly. “If I wanted tickets for you… I had to try. They’re not the best seats but they are seats nonetheless. For you and me. For BTS.”
For a moment, the stadium seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them suspended in fragile, taut silence. Atsumu’s eyes searched his, trying to find something—anger, betrayal, reason—and then the hardness melted. Skepticism gave way to disbelief, awe creeping across his features like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“Why?” His voice was trembling, soft now, unguarded, full of wonder. The fury that had filled him moments before melted into something uncontainable, eyes shining, lips parted in disbelief.
Kiyoomi swallowed, heart hammering, voice low. “I know how much you’ve wanted them”
Atsumu’s hands returned to Kiyoomi, this time gentle and reverent, clutching him with a mix of incredulity and relief. He pressed his forehead against Kiyoomi’s chest, tears sliding down his cheeks as he laughed and sobbed all at once. “I… I can’t believe it,” he whispered, voice breaking with awe.
Kiyoomi’s arms instinctively wrapped around him, brushing stray tears from his face as laughter and quiet gasps spilled from Atsumu. “I couldn’t let you miss it,” he said softly. “Not when I know how long you’ve waited.”
Atsumu’s laughter gradually subsided, softening into quiet hiccups, his chest rising and falling rapidly against Kiyoomi’s. The blonde’s forehead rested against Kiyoomi’s collarbone, eyes half-closed, tears still glinting like tiny prisms on his lashes. His fingers curled lightly into Kiyoomi’s shirt, reluctant to let go, as if holding him too tightly might somehow make the moment vanish.
“So ya faked an injury so ya could fight a ticketmaster war?” he whispered, voice trembling, fragile and awed. “All for a concert?” His words were slow, deliberate, as if savoring every syllable, letting the weight of the truth sink in.
Kiyoomi pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Atsumu’s head, thumb brushing along his jawline, feeling the warmth of his skin and the steady heartbeat beneath his hand. “It’s not just a concert to you,” he murmured softly, “And I’d do anything to see you smile.” His voice was low, intimate, carrying the remnants of adrenaline, guilt, and now pure relief. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you missing. You deserve these tickets more than anyone on Weverse”
For a long, perfect stretch of time, they stayed like that—Atsumu curled into him, chest to chest, hair brushing skin, laughter and tears replaced by quiet wonder. The world outside faded completely: no stadium, no game, no chaos. Just the warmth, the heartbeat, the soft rhythm of their breathing. Kiyoomi could feel every small movement, every shiver of relief, every faint tear sliding down Atsumu’s face, and he traced it gently with his thumb.
Atsumu surged up to kiss Kiyoomi on the mouth, his hands cupping his cheeks gently. Kiyoomi couldn't help but slide his arms around the blonde's waist, drawing him in even closer. Atsumu pulled back for just a second, only to then litter his entire face with more kisses as they both laughed softly together.
“I love ya,” Atsumu whispered finally, small and breathless. “I love ya so much, ya crazy crazy man.”
“Only for you,” Kiyoomi replied, voice low and steady, letting the weight of the words settle. “I love you more.”
From the side, Suna’s dry voice cut through: “Sounds a lot like a proposal to me.”
Kiyoomi’s head snapped, a flush of exasperation and amusement mixing across his face. “If I were proposing,” he said quietly, enough for only Atsumu to hear, “there’d be a ring… not BTS tickets.”
Later, the world outside faded completely. Night wrapped around them, and they curled up on the couch, BTS performances glowing softly on the screen, filling the room with music and light. Atsumu leaned against him, animatedly explaining the fanchants, laughing at Kiyoomi’s hesitant attempts, correcting him with playful patience.
Kiyoomi sank back into the couch, Atsumu pressed against his side, soft smiles and "Pied Piper" filling the space between them. He couldn’t have quantified the lengths he would go for this boy—not truly—but now he knew. It was surviving the chaos of buying concert tickets—the stress, the near-heart attacks, the endless scrolling and clicking. He was pretty confident it was the hardest struggle he’d ever have to experience in his life.
Because nothing could possibly be worse than the BTS Ticketmaster war.