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“Don’t take too long, now. The food’s almost ready.” Kita had told Atsumu as he arrived from practice one night. The younger did not hesitate to throw his duffle on the sofa and strip himself of his uniform way before making his way to the bathroom.
Atsumu lathered himself in Kita’s shampoo and body wash, ignoring his own for the night. It never felt or smelt the same, though, he thought, sniffing his own skin while rinsing it off. Kita’s subtly marinated lavender scented skin sent a young, flushed Atsumu rowing to Himeji Castle between blooming sakura trees that rained pink and white into the bay. At the wild age of seven, Atsumu found the sight boring and would have much rather stayed home to play volleyball. But, at the confounding age of twenty-three, Atsumu found the scent of lavender, sakura, or nojigiku indistinguishable, yet very much like home. The thought made Atsumu rush his shower, mind filled with nothing but the desire to wallow in Kita’s homey scent.
Atsumu trudged into the kitchen, the aroma of dinner suffusing the air around him. His stomach growled as he dozily slumped over Kita’s frame, arms loosely hung around Kita’s apron tied waist. Atsumu dug his face into the older’s relaxed shoulder, dampening his shirt with wet hair. His nose fell into Kita’s collarbones, then progressed to rolling his cheeks on the shorter’s shoulder blade until finding the most comfortable position to rest. Kita merely chuckled at the younger’s fidgeting while stirring the pot on the stove.
“Tough day?” Kita asked, leaning his head to the side, gently grazing his hair upon Atsumu’s for comfort.
“Kita-san.” Atsumu mumbled into Kita’s balmy skin.
“Shinsuke.” He reminded in a soft tone.
“Ah, right, Shinsuke,” Atsumu emphasized, cheeks flushing as a result. “Come here.” Atsumu’s grip around Kita’s waist tightened in an attempt to turn him around.
“What are you doing, Atsumu?” Kita questioned with a breathy laugh.
“Just follow me.” Atsumu barely whispered, closing the gap between their chests. The younger pulled the other away from the stove, perfectly dodging the island residing in the kitchen space. He could have sworn there was music playing (an almost inaudible lull of notes disguising itself within the sounds of nature), but it could not have been; Kita preferred working accompanied by silence. The melody must have danced its way from the agape balcony, also bringing with it a kind breeze.
Atsumu shut his eyes, allowing his other senses to take over. He bent into Kita’s figure: Atsumu’s lips delicately placed in the older’s right collarbone and nose gently poking his neck. A nostalgic cycle, Himeji Castle, pink, and petals, suffused Atsumu’s visual field. Kita had one arm draped over Atsumu’s broad back, slowly massaging to ease the tightness in his muscles. The other hand steadily raked through Atsumu’s damp hair. He too had his eyes closed, following the gentle swaying of Atsumu’s body with a small, content smile.
The two danced to the hushed tone for a few minutes before Kita pulled away, holding Atsumu’s face into his hands. His lips were drawn into a small pout, eyes chocolatey and surprisingly undemanding. Kita could not help but peck the tip of Atsumu’s nose.
“The food’s gonna burn.” Kita said, unable to hide a toothy smile. As if just realizing something, Kita’s face turned to one of perplexation. Still holding the younger, Kita dipped his nose into Atsumu’s damp, careless hair. “That’s my shampoo.” Kita continued earning a sheepish smile from Atsumu.
A harmony of lavender scented shampoo, their Tokyo apartment, and Kita’s nostalgia soaked skin. At the confounding age of twenty-three, Atsumu knew that was home.