Kiyoomi hears a voice just as he steps out of the bathroom.
Which is... strange.
Strange, because the only person he’d allow unsupervised in his home is currently wrapping up another sponsorship deal three cities over.
Yet it sounds like his boyfriend. Firm on the consonants, lilting on the vowels. Hopeful pauses while he waits for his terrible jokes to land—which, judging by the awkward silence, miss their mark entirely.
The call ends with a chipper, if not a little embarrassed farewell just as Kiyoomi rounds the corner.
He catches the tail-end of a phone being tossed onto the counter, sliding precariously until it clinks to a stop against his expensive coffee maker, but he doesn’t care because—
Because Atsumu is here.
He’s here, humming quietly in Kiyoomi’s kitchen with his hair a little damp and a familiar sweater hanging off his frame.
Kiyoomi stands frozen in the entryway. He watches as the man unpacks what looks like half the grocery store, the shifting muscles of Atsumu’s back contorting the SAKUSA stretched across his shoulders.
A large part of Kiyoomi burns with the desire to press Atsumu into the cabinets, groceries be damned, but he holds off. Atsumu must have had all kinds of hands poking and prodding at him lately—hair stylists, make-up artists, and designers alike. Kiyoomi doesn’t want to overwhelm him.
Atsumu seems to sense his presence regardless. His eyes catch Kiyoomi’s when he turns his head, and then a smile—as bright and brilliant as the sun—splits across his lips.
“Hey,” Atsumu says, in that soft voice of his. Soft, always in the privacy of their home, always between the openness of their shared gazes, always when it matters most.
Not for the first time, Kiyoomi thinks of how he’d like to wake up to the sight of that smile for the rest of his life. Thinks of how he’d like to ask if that could ever be a possibility.
“Hey,” he whispers instead.
Atsumu must see that Kiyoomi’s brain is still struggling to warm up, because his smile softens into something fond before he returns to his task.
It was only two nights ago that Kiyoomi last saw Atsumu, but the man had been so tired that he promptly fell asleep on the couch after dinner.
When Kiyoomi tried to rouse him to join him in a proper bed, Atsumu guiltily declined on account of an early sponsorship meeting the next day. Kiyoomi didn’t want him to lose any more sleep than he already had, so he didn’t keep him.
It was nothing unusual, especially for the past few weeks.
But Atsumu is here now, scrubbing his hands clean after stuffing Kiyoomi’s fridge to the brim with fresh vegetables and what looks like various cuts of wagyu in a separate container.
Kiyoomi finds himself inching closer as Atsumu complains about the old lady who tried to swindle him in the produce aisle. Blood was nearly shed for the last package of enokitake, apparently.
There’s warmth building in Kiyoomi’s chest—whether from the man’s capacity for dramatics or, simply, the familiar sound of his voice.
By now, Kiyoomi knows better than to comment on Atsumu’s alarming devotion to grilled fungi. He settles a hip against the counter just as Atsumu plucks the little fox-printed hand towel from the folded stack on the counter.
He admires it for a moment, just like he always does with everything he gifts Kiyoomi. Every time, he looks surprised that they’re actually put to use.
“Are we doing yakiniku for dinner?” asks Kiyoomi, just to be sure. There’s a lot of prepping to be done, and he wants Atsumu to rest enough before they have to start.
“Yeah, I…” Atsumu neatly hangs the towel, though his hand lingers on the soft fabric. “I know it’s been a while since we had a proper dinner together, much less a weekend, so I thought—I thought we could do that again.”
After a moment, his wary eyes flicker over to check Kiyoomi’s expression, but Kiyoomi is looking at him the same way he always has.
“Sounds perfect,” Kiyoomi murmurs, and Atsumu’s eyes soften.
His hand twitches forward, hesitating slightly before pressing to Kiyoomi’s arm.
Kiyoomi’s heart leaps into his throat at the small contact. It’s only when he feels a gentle tug that he lets himself pull Atsumu into a tight embrace.
Atsumu makes a surprised little sound at his velocity, but his arms come up to clutch him right back. The warmth in Kiyoomi’s chest pushes outward, spreading all the way to the tips of fingers where they tighten around Atsumu’s sweater.
“Mm. Ya smell nice,” Atsumu murmurs. His cold nose presses deeper into Kiyoomi’s skin.
“You smell like a hotel,” Kiyoomi mutters, but he holds on tighter.
Atsumu playfully pinches his side, earning a stifled yelp, before a hand skirts up to rub at his shoulder. “I wanted to come straight here, so I showered over there… I can do it again, if ya want.”
Kiyoomi shakes his head. The last thing he wants is for Atsumu to leave the circle of his arms. He was mostly teasing, anyway, just to be a pain. Atsumu’s unique scent, long since fused intimately with Kiyoomi’s, is not so easily erased or covered—even if it has been a while since they’ve held each other like this.
He’s content to stand there, curled around Atsumu and his familiar scent as the man strokes up and down his back.
Atsumu is happy to indulge him for a long moment. Though, eventually, he starts to shift on his feet.
Kiyoomi knows from experience that the man’s neck is starting to twinge with his chin propped up at the angle it is.
Dread prickles at his skin as Atsumu’s hand slides up to rest against his shoulder blade, preparing to detach himself.
But Kiyoomi isn’t ready to let go just yet.
“Can we lay in bed for a bit?” slips past his lips.
Atsumu’s hand pauses.
Usually, it’s Atsumu who asks this, when his emotions get the best of him and he needs reassurance in the form of Kiyoomi’s solid weight against him. It’s his subtle way of asking to be held without the mortifying vulnerability that comes with those direct words.
“Yeah,” Atsumu says softly. “Of course, baby.”
Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu feels the same wave of emotion welling up in his throat when their situation is reversed.
Unwilling to release his hold for even a second, Kiyoomi begins to walk them towards the bedroom. Atsumu lets him, trusting that he won’t be led into any walls or sharp corners as they waddle together.
“Yer back, Omi,” Atsumu warns lightly, when they reach the foot of the bed and Kiyoomi has a knee on the mattress.
Kiyoomi straightens up again with a muttered, “Fine,” before deftly tossing Atsumu onto the sheets.
Atsumu bounces with a squawk before Kiyoomi is there, clambering over his laughing form.
“Yer being—” starts Atsumu, right before Kiyoomi flattens himself and pushes the air from the man’s lungs like a broken squeaker toy. He squirms until he’s able to free an arm and a leg that he immediately wraps around Kiyoomi. “—awfully affectionate… Not that I’m complainin’. I like it.”
Kiyoomi buries his mutters into the man’s collarbone. A hand finds his curls, and the gentle strokes across his scalp coax his eyes shut.
They fall into a comfortable silence. Kiyoomi’s hand squeezes at Atsumu every few minutes, just for the reminder that he’s still here.
He’s on the cusp of sleep when he hears Atsumu’s voice again. This time, it’s hesitant.
“Hey, Omi?” Atsumu waits for the responding grunt before he continues. “Yer not… jealous, are ya?”
Kiyoomi’s eyebrows furrow, even with his eyes shut. “Jealous of what?” he mumbles.
Atsumu’s hand falls from his hair to press at his shoulder. Kiyoomi sighs at the loss, but he follows the motion and pushes himself onto his elbows.
“All the sponsorships. And the… attention,” explains Atsumu. He watches Kiyoomi’s face carefully. “Does it bother you?”
Kiyoomi frowns, blinking down at him. “No, of course not,” he replies honestly. “You’re an amazing athlete, and a star, and you deserve every ounce of it.”
Atsumu’s face goes pink like it always does whenever Kiyoomi compliments him so bluntly, so openly. He clears his throat. “Not jealous?” he hums. His hand finds the sensitive area at the nape of Kiyoomi’s neck, and Kiyoomi’s eyes fall shut again with a small sound. “You just missin’ me, then?”
Kiyoomi stubbornly leaves his eyes shut, not wanting to see the cocksure grin undoubtedly smeared across Atsumu’s lips.
But then he feels Atsumu’s warm hand press to his cheek, urging Kiyoomi to open his eyes.
Kiyoomi wants to reply to the question with a curt ‘no’, knowing that Atsumu will understand he means the exact opposite. They both know it by the way Kiyoomi’s hands haven’t once left Atsumu’s skin.
But there’s something in the way Atsumu is looking at him—with his hair falling in soft tufts against his forehead and his expression so, so open—that gives Kiyoomi the courage to say it out loud.
“I always miss you,” he admits quietly, “when you’re away.”
Atsumu’s fingers curl gently at the hinge of his jaw. “I’m right here,” he whispers.
His eyes lower to Kiyoomi’s lips, his chin tilting up just so, and Kiyoomi happily accepts the invitation.
When their lips meet, it’s a tentative thing. Delicate. Atsumu’s lips are soft against his, yielding and then unyielding. Giving and then taking. Equal amounts of praise with opportunity to worship back. A slow and soft glide that makes every cell in his body sing.
Kiyoomi thinks his heart may just burst in his chest.
Atsumu pulls back with a blissful sigh. He thumbs gently at Kiyoomi’s cheek, his lashes flickering as he meets Kiyoomi’s half-lidded gaze. There’s a fond smile on his lips that Kiyoomi is helpless not to mirror.
With the light filtering through the blinds, catching the gentle curl of lashes and turning honey eyes into liquefied amber, Kiyoomi knows that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
But then… the grin starts to slip from Atsumu’s lips.
Kiyoomi sees it in slow-motion. It starts in the slight twitch of his brows. Down to his eyes, where they lose their focus. His breath turns harsh, his voice frantic, and panic rips across his features.
“O-omi—” Atsumu starts, a terribly choked thing. Kiyoomi feels the pit of his stomach drop out. “When did…? When was the last time I kissed ya? "
The question catches Kiyoomi off-guard. So much in fact that he’s unable to do anything but stare uncomprehendingly at Atsumu as he tries to make sense of his words.
Atsumu’s hands tighten around him the longer the silence stretches on, his wide eyes desperately searching Kiyoomi’s face.
Kiyoomi opens his mouth to respond, to ease the distress so blatant on Atsumu’s face, but he finds that he doesn’t know the answer. It takes him a moment to truly think, and even then—
“I don’t…” Kiyoomi trails off. “I’m not sure.”
Atsumu looks devastated. He sinks back against the pillows with a shaky curse.
“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi tries, but Atsumu shakes his head. He’s staring unseeingly somewhere past Kiyoomi’s shoulder.
Kiyoomi watches silently, feeling utterly useless. He pulls back to give Atsumu some space, but a hand shoots out to stop him. Clings to him like Kiyoomi might disappear.
“I…” Atsumu’s racing thoughts are so loud that Kiyoomi can almost hear them. “I’ve been so preoccupied with everything that… Oh god, and the last time I was here, I didn’t even—” Atsumu looks at him finally, his eyes haunted. “Omi, I-I’m so sorry.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t understand.
Atsumu has been so exhausted lately, but it’s always been enough for Kiyoomi just to see him. To hear him laugh. It’s more than enough—and it makes Kiyoomi ache inside for Atsumu to think that he could ever be less than.
“You don’t need to apologize for that,” Kiyoomi murmurs. He reaches out to grasp the hand clutching at his shirt. It’s cold suddenly, and Kiyoomi rubs it gently to warm it again. “Not when you’re off doing great things.”
Atsumu watches their hands quietly. Then the words register in his head, and he levels Kiyoomi with a dubious look. “Posing in my underwear is great to you?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t take the bait, despite how badly he wants to. He forces the last of the tension in his shoulders to relax and presses his weight into Atsumu once more.
“Things like donating all the gifts your fans give you to those who need it more,” Kiyoomi supplies. “Giving your brother the idea for a monthly food drive. Helping out at every single one of them.”
“Anyone could do that.”
“You do that,” Kiyoomi reminds him, and Atsumu’s gaze skitters away. “People look up to you. Especially the kids at the training camps. I know you still volunteer extra time there, even though Coach said he only needed us that one time… You inspire people, you know.”
Atsumu lips twist in a stubborn pout.
“You inspire people,” Kiyoomi says again, to get it through Atsumu’s admittedly thick, but lovable skull. “You inspire me.”
Kiyoomi presses a soft kiss to his lips and feels Atsumu melt against him with a sigh.
“I love you,” Atsumu murmurs against his lips. “Ya know that, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“Even though I’m shit at showin’ it sometimes?”
Kiyoomi settles back and raises a brow. “I don’t know what you mean by that… I can’t go a single practice without you accosting me about resting my wrists.”
Atsumu sputters spectacularly, and Kiyoomi has to bite down a grin. “Ya ever see yer own face when ya think ya overdid it? It’s like watching a sad puppy. I do that for my own peace of mind.”
“Right,” says Kiyoomi with a doubtful hum. “What about all the deliveries sent to my door because you think I’m going to starve to death?”
“Ya know how distracted ya get on yer days off!”
“Not letting a day go by where you don’t wish me a good morning and a good night?”
Atsumu’s lips part, but nothing comes out. Kiyoomi continues, his momentum building.
“Stealing all my clothes and returning them in better condition than before? Leaving thoughtful gifts for me, just because you ‘felt like it’? Fitting in my life so perfectly… like you were always meant to be here.”
“God, ya sap…” Atsumu mutters, but the dig is offset by the waver in his voice.
Kiyoomi huffs fondly, his hands cupping Atsumu’s face. “And interrupting me, whenever I try to tell you how hard my heart beats for you...?”
His thumbs swipe gently at the damp line of Atsumu’s lashes as he waits for their eyes to meet again.
“You love me, in so many ways,” Kiyoomi whispers. Atsumu’s hand curls around his shirt. “I feel it every day.”
“I love you, Atsumu. And I love every moment I get to spend with you… This?” He presses a sweet kiss to his lips. “This is just a bonus.”
Atsumu releases a shaky breath, his eyes squeezing shut.
When he opens them again, just a short moment later, he looks determined. His hand pushes insistently at Kiyoomi’s chest, and then he’s flipping them over, pressing Kiyoomi’s pliant body into the mattress.
“What are ya so cute for,” mutters Atsumu, situating himself against Kiyoomi’s chest.
Kiyoomi makes to reply, but Atsumu presses a thumb to his lips, sealing his smart mouth shut for the moment.
“That was a rhetorical question, ya punk,” Atsumu gripes halfheartedly. He smooths a wayward curl away from Kiyoomi’s face. “Think ‘m gonna spend the whole day kissin’ ya.”
Kiyoomi hums, looking up at him fondly. “Sounds nice, but not very productive.”
“There’s still fourteen hours until midnight.”
“Fourteen whole hours of sweet, sweet smoochin’.” Atsumu sighs blissfully. “And then there’s tomorrow. And the next day…”
Kiyoomi resists the urge to suppress the smile tugging at his lips and instead lets it bloom across his features. Atsumu’s eyes light up at the sight. His thumb presses into the dimple at the corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth.
“And how long are you planning to do this exactly?” asks Kiyoomi.
Atsumu shakes his head with a chuckle, like the answer is obvious.
“Forev—” His voice dies in his throat, just as pink blooms across his cheeks. Just as Kiyoomi’s heart stutters in his chest. His lips work for a moment, and then his gaze falters, embarrassed. “I mean. For… as long as you’ll have me.”
Kiyoomi folds a hand over the one Atsumu has resting against his chest. Presses it tight against the strong beat of his heart.
The motion pulls Atsumu’s gaze over once more.
“Forever is a long time,” Kiyoomi murmurs, and Atsumu’s lips part, just slightly. “You sure you’re up to it?”
Atsumu, for probably the first time in his entire life, is stunned into silence. The faint flush on his cheeks darkens to a scarlet, connecting delicately over the bridge of his nose.
His lip begins to wobble before he ducks down to bury his face in Kiyoomi’s neck.
Atsumu’s hand curls underneath his, gripping tightly at the fabric of his shirt. Then a whisper, so choked and full of emotion, puffs out against Kiyoomi’s neck. “I… I think I’ll manage.”
Kiyoomi noses into the soft strands under his chin, breathes in the scent of home. His thumb strokes idly over the space above the man’s fourth knuckle.
He thinks of banded gold. Of wind-chime laughter. Of a smile warm enough to melt the sun.
He thinks of tomorrow, and the next day, and forever.