January mornings are not as warm or bright as Miya Atsumu likes them. He prefers the haze of summer, when he wakes up lethargic and slow, bathed in persistent sun pushing past his blinds. As it stands, the sun is weaker, dulled probably by clouds outside. Atsumu never bothers to check the weather reports, just looks outside to see if it’s still snowing. Kiyoomi would know.
Kiyoomi is, however, currently asleep, curled into Atsumu’s side with one arm wedged between their bodies and the other gently resting over Atsumu’s heart. He’s been tracing the shape of his wrist for the past eternity, watching the peaceful slack of his face during sleep, curled close to Atsumu to leech his heat.
Atsumu is grateful for this bed. He’d bought a queen over the summer break, had moved it into his and Kenma’s dorm and shoved the college-regulation single out into the living room. It still sits there now, covered by one of Atsumu’s sheets to protect it from its new role as improvised chaise-longue. What administration doesn't know won’t hurt them, and what Atsumu gains from more space in bed far outweighs whatever consequences this could have.
He’s still living with a roommate he likes. Kiyoomi is still in love with him. Osamu is happy, college is slow to restart after winter break, their last months as collegiate volleyball players are here and there is nothing at all wrong with Atsumu’s life. It’s a good feeling.
“Mmgh,” Kiyoomi says, buries into his neck.
“G’morning,” Atsumu whispers it against the crown of his head, peppers a few more kisses as his other hand traces the shape of Kiyoomi’s spine. Kiyoomi shudders, curls in closer to Atsumu and slings his leg more forcibly over his hip, like he thinks Atsumu might choose now of all times to spring out of bed for a morning run. It endears him that Kiyoomi knows well enough by now that if he wakes up and Atsumu is still in bed, he’s not planning on leaving it any time soon, but he’s so insistent on him staying nonetheless.
Then again, that might be because it’s winter, Kiyoomi is fully naked, and Atsumu runs warm.
“It’s too early,” Kiyoomi grumbles, reaches a hand up and smacks it onto Atsumu’s face, tries to pinch his mouth shut, “shhh.”
Atsumu kisses his fingers, gently encircles his wrist and pulls the hand down, settles it over his chest again. Kiyoomi splays his fingers out with a content little sigh into the meat of his shoulder where it connects to his neck. Atsumu thumbs over the bones, traces the delicate ones in his hand and zigzags between the freckles dotting his skin. Kiyoomi arches his fingers, so Atsumu stops being annoying and laces his own fingers through Kiyoomi’s, palm pressed reverently to the back of his hand, and holds both of them against his chest.
He dozes off like that again, because his boyfriend is not a morning person. His mother and his father had both made fun of Kiyoomi for this when he’d come home with Atsumu over summer break, and again over winter break. Still, Atsumu likes the mornings; doesn’t mind being trapped by the bulk of Kiyoomi’s body, watching his peaceful sleep. Sleeping Kiyoomi is his second favourite Kiyoomi, right next to laughing Kiyoomi.
So Kiyoomi dozes, Atsumu watches. It’s like this often. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.
It could be twenty minutes before he wakes, it could be two hours. Atsumu can guess the time is somewhere in the realm of ‘early’, because Kuroo leaving is what woke him up, and Kuroo’s days always start early now. Kiyoomi’s lips press gentle kisses to his chest, to whatever patch of skin is convenient.
“Hey,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi hums.
“How ya feelin’, sugar tits?” Kiyoomi fists his hand and thumps Atsumu solidly in his solar-plex. It has him wheezing around laughter as he presses an apologetic kiss to Kiyoomi’s forehead moles. It’s an old joke between them now, and Kiyoomi has grown no more accustomed to it, but Atsumu never misses the fond little pinch of his mouth whenever Atsumu deigns to use it.
“My ass aches,” Kiyoomi says, “and my back. And my legs.”
“Good,” Atsumu hums, “means ya might finally give my dick a break.”
“My mouth is fine, though,” Kiyoomi says, curves his grin into the column of Atsumu’s throat as Atsumu pretends to groan.
“Well, yer still shit outta luck, babe, the condoms are over by the desk.”
“Ugh. Why do you keep them so far away?”
“Hmm, maybe ‘cause yer fuckin’ insatiable and the rate we’re going I’m gonna pull something again.” That had not been fun to explain to his coach. Kiyoomi had, predictably, been very little help in coming up with an alternative excuse as to how Atsumu had managed to pull a muscle in his leg. Atsumu’s excuse wasn’t particularly convincing and it got him an earful, but at least it saved him from having to tell his coach that he was out of commission because of marathon sex with his boyfriend-slash-teammate.
“Hmm,” Kiyoomi hums, rolling out of Atsumu’s arms and pretending to climb toward the edge of the bed.
“Oh- no, no ya don’t,” Atsumu grabs him around the waist, and with a grunt of effort, hauls him back. The crush of Kiyoomi’s body on top of him knocks all the air from his lungs and makes his stomach hurt with the force of Kiyoomi’s ass landing on it, but it punches one of Kiyoomi’s laughs from his mouth, and it’s a prime position to pepper kisses along the strong, broad expanse of his shoulders, so Atsumu rolls with it. He keeps his hands clutched around his own forearms to trap Kiyoomi as he rolls them again, turning their faces toward the wall, Atsumu’s chest bracing Kiyoomi’s back.
“You’re so warm, Tsum,” Kiyoomi says around a yawn, snuggles back into him and tucks the blankets right up to his nose. The nickname is a habit he’s picked up from Kuroo, who gets lazy with his name sometimes, and it makes Atsumu want to bar it from Kuroo’s use since it sounds far better from Kiyoomi’s mouth. The tucking of blankets is just because Kiyoomi is extremely susceptible to the cold, pampered city-boy that he is.
“I see,” he muses, “ya only want me for my body.”
“Oh yes. Just those thighs and the fact that you function as a space heater.”
“No mention for the ass?” Kiyoomi hums, reaches an arm around behind Atsumu and grabs a handful of said ass, in the process crushing Atsumu tighter against him at the hips. Atsumu gives him a kiss on a particularly pretty mole on the slope of his shoulder.
“No, you're right, the ass deserves a mention.”
“It’s a great ass.”
“It is.” Kiyoomi tilts his head, and Atsumu presses a chaste kiss to his lips, smiling into it as Kiyoomi’s hand comes to rest on his bicep, fingers idly trailing over the shape of the muscle, before settling and pulling Atsumu’s arms tighter around him.
“How ya feelin’ ‘bout sittin’ yer license?” Kiyoomi groans, rolls over and pushes his face into the pillows. Atsumu chases him, drapes his chest over his back and kisses the nape of his neck. Kiyoomi is, naturally, complaining about this too. He’d started driving lessons with Atsumu back in Hyogo over summer, and then continued with Kuroo and his grandparents when they’d come back, but Kuroo had reclaimed the car for work purposes, now that he was being paid enough to comfortably afford a parking space in his building’s garage. There had been a lot of crying on the day his first paycheck came through.
Now, with Kiyoomi fresh off driving Atsumu’s truck again over winter break, the plan was to head back down for a weekend, have Kiyoomi sit the exam, and then alternate driving Atsumu’s truck back to the city. Kiyoomi drives like he does everything else: methodically, efficiently and perfectly. The anxiety of it lessens as soon as he gets behind the wheel, but Atsumu knows the concept of it still stresses him out. He nuzzles into his back, as Kiyoomi sulks into the pillow, dropping kisses down his spine.
“Omi, c’mon, ya got this.”
“If I crash your car you’re going to kill me.”
“Don’t crash my car then?”
“Easier said than done.”
“Aw, don’t tell me yer admittin’ defeat?” Kiyoomi glares at him from the corner of his eye. Atsumu presses another kiss to his spine, eyes sparkling. “ I’ve had my car for five years, and I’ve never crashed it.”
“Maybe I feel a little better about it. Just a little.”
“Mhm, mhm,” Atsumu says, nodding very seriously, and letting himself be nudged onto his back as Kiyoomi swings into his lap and pushes him into the mattress. He settles his hands on Kiyoomi’s thighs, smooths along the skin there and grins up at him, beautiful as he is in the dim light of a January morning.
“Yeah?” Kiyoomi says, gently brushing Atsumu’s hair from his forehead.
“Happy one year.” Kiyoomi’s brow knits in confusion.
“Atsumu, our anniversary isn’t until May.”
“Mm, I dunno, Omi. It’s about two weeks before Yuuji-kun had his party, right?” It’s silent for a beat, as Kiyoomi processes Atsumu’s words. He loves watching Kiyoomi think, loves seeing the little cogs turning in his head and the scrunch in his brow and the way he purses his lips into a flat little line. And then the meaning hits him, and his eyes roll back as he flops off of Atsumu with a groan and puts both hands over his face.
“I should have kept the money.”
“Your money. I should have kept it.”
“Omi, babe, I’m not followin’.”
“Uuuugh,” Kiyoomi groans, folds his arms over his chest crossly, with a particularly pouty scowl. “That first night, when you slept on the couch? I messaged Kuroo and told him to keep it, because I never wanted it in the first place. I’d have done it if he offered me nothing.”
“Babe,” Atsumu says, starting to feel the Kenma-serenity come on, “are ya tellin’ me Kuroo got ten thousand yen from me for free?”
“If it helps, he tells me he took Kenma out on a really nice arcade date.”
“Does not help at all ya little shit,” Atsumu grouses, rolling over and digging his fingers into Kiyoomi’s side, making him scrunch up on himself as a shocked laugh is punched out of him, trying to wriggle free of Atsumu’s vice grip. In retaliation, he blows the biggest, wettest raspberry that he can against his neck. Kiyoomi tries to pull him off with hands in his hair, so Atsumu bites his shoulder.
“Oh, so we’re fighting dirty, are we Miya?” Kiyoomi manages around wheezes, pulling at his hair as he jams a knee between his legs and tries to pry him away, elbows tucked close to his chest. Atsumu rolls him onto his front and drops his whole weight on top of him. There’s not a whole lot of difference, not really, but Kiyoomi is Kiyoomi, and Atsumu is Atsumu, which means he’s still mastered the art of being twice as heavy through sheer willpower alone. The power of siblings.
“Only way to fight,” he croons, pressing kisses to the shells of Kiyoomi’s ears as he tries to wriggle away. “Wanna know a secret?”
“No, I want you to get off me, Christ what are you eating that I don’t see?”
“The secret is ,” Atsumu announces, rolling off of him and onto his back. Kiyoomi crawls into his space anyway, laces his hands together and cups them over Atsumu’s heart, props his chin on them and blinks at him with those unfairly long lashes.
“The secret is,” he repeats, quieter now, brushing Kiyoomi’s hair back from his face, “that I don’t actually care, ‘cause what I got out of it was far more precious.”
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi sighs, “you’re such a sap.”
“Ya love me.”
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says, already leaning in for a kiss, “I really, really do.”