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A Sunday morning, sleepy-eyed and slow, Kuroo’s world stutters to a halt between bites of toast and the low sound of the news playing on the television. Tsukishima finally wakes up and wanders out of the bedroom of Kuroo’s tiny Tokyo apartment, where he’s been visiting for the last couple days, and follows the smell of breakfast to Kuroo’s kitchen.
Tsukishima, who’s wearing only a pair of boxers and one of Kuroo’s old, worn Nekoma shirts.
The moment Kuroo’s eyes fall on him, he feels the minutes stop—a space of frozen time where Kuroo’s breath seizes in his throat, toast halfway to his mouth, his heart stopped still or having flown out his chest entirely, because— because Tsukishima is wearing his shirt.
Kuroo stares. Tsukishima quirks an eyebrow and remarks, “You’re up early today,” as he reaches for a slice of toast.
Time seems to start moving again after Tsukishima speaks, and Kuroo blinks and finds his breathing, at least, has returned to normal, even if his heart is still humming with something pleased and affectionate.
Kuroo shrugs and says, “Woke up early, couldn’t fall back asleep.”
It’s the truth: he woke up and found Tsukishima still sleeping beside him, blond hair tousled, expression relaxed, breathing deep and even, and how could Kuroo possibly fall back to dreams after that?
Tsukishima opens the overhead cabinets for a mug and the box of teabags. Kuroo tells him, “I already boiled water for you,” before nodding to the electric kettle plugged into the wall, and Tsukishima hums a soft noise of gratitude.
It’s… sort of mundane, isn’t it, good mornings and tea and toast and the brush of their shoulders against each other when Tsukishima leans against the kitchen counter next to Kuroo, a mug cradled in his hands, the brown of his eyes honey-warm and content. Maybe it is mundane, but Kuroo finds it’s the little things he and Tsukki do together that make him feel at home. Or perhaps, just being with Tsukki feels like home.
Which is why, when Tsukishima sets his empty mug down on the counter, Kuroo takes the opportunity to lean in and kiss him.
He finds that this, too, feels like home.
Tsukishima kisses back, immediately, though his movements are still sleep-slow and muted. But he sighs a quiet, pleased sound that makes something within Kuroo light up.
“It looks good on you,” Kuroo murmurs between their lips, his fingers tugging lightly at the front of Tsukki’s—his—shirt.
“Couldn’t find mine,” Tsukishima mumbles back. He continues a little scoldingly, “I’m not sure where you threw it last night after you practically ripped it off me.”
Kuroo grins, shameless, and kisses him again.
He thinks about this, about Tsukki wearing his shirt, about the tea he keeps in his cupboards for him even though Kuroo never drinks it himself, about how the bedsheets will smell like Tsukki’s skin and about the lingering taste of Kuroo’s toothpaste behind Tsukki’s teeth.
He thinks about how Tsukishima has come to permeate every aspect of Kuroo’s life—his heart and home and very breath—and how he does not mind in the least.
When he pulls away this time, Kuroo says, “It’s good to have you here, Tsukki.”
An exhale, a heartbeat. And, briefly, the small curve of a smile on Tsukishima’s lips.
“It’s good to be here, Tetsurou.”