Work Text:
There’s something in the way in which Kiyoomi's arm cradles around his back, fiddling underneath the thin cotton of his shirt to draw lazy circles in the skin beneath it, that has Atsumu melting.
He melts into Kiyoomi's touch, a touch that he waited for for so long, one that struggled to become common and comfortable between them. He would never take his touch for granted, he thanks every single being out there for giving him the prize that was the heat of Kiyoomi's palm on him. He revels in it.
Atsumu’s own hand comes to rest in the dampness of Kiyoomi’s curls, tugging at them softly then caressing the nape of Kiyoomi's neck with a soft hum. Kiyoomi's fingers dig into his back, rubbing out any tension held amongst his side and pulling him closer until there’s only a hair’s width between them.
It’s in the darkness of 2AM. When they’re left to their own devices against the comfort of day-old linen and each other. It’s here, where thumbs smooth lovingly across each others’ cheeks and jaws and lips, that they find solace.
It’s an unwritten law; here you are safe, here no one can hurt you.
No one can hurt you, not when it is you and me, and me and you.
No one can hurt Atsumu when Kiyoomi's fingers rest on the small of his back, drawing him in. It’s only him and Kiyoomi. There’s no friends that dig a little too deep or news articles calling out 2% body fat or fans saying they’re disappointed in him for falling over his own left foot. Just Miya and Sakusa. Him and Kiyoomi.
No one can hurt Kiyoomi when Atsumu’s fingers trace from his neck to rest along his jaw, drawing him in. It’s only him and Atsumu. Yes, there’s germs, there’s bacteria filtering through the air and around them. There’s the fear of contamination and clogged pores and dirt and grime and everything that collides into the word disgusting . Yet none of that can hurt him. Not when they’re freshly showered, teeth freshly brushed, clothes freshly washed.
No one can hurt Kiyoomi even though he’s breaking down the barriers he’d built for twenty years to make sure of this. Nothing can hurt him because it’s just him and Atsumu.
There’s a reason why Kiyoomi doesn’t stop Atsumu’s fingers leading him down so that they’re eye level, a gentle plea whispered into a night when only the moon and stars are there to observe.
Kiss me .
And so he does.
Arms wrap around Kiyoomi's neck, pulling him in deeper until Kiyoomi himself closes the gap between them. There’s a beauty in the softness of how two known for their sharp edges and prickly personalities collide into something as smooth and still water.
They move together like they were built for this moment alone.
It’s contradictory to how they appear on court; monster serves, unbreakable blocks, spikes that could rip an arm off. Instead, it’s two pairs of lips pressed together briefly, breaking apart to rest foreheads on each other, then pulling back in again.
A kiss, an ‘I love you’ , another kiss.
Atsumu won’t take this for granted, this is Kiyoomi's touch. The way Kiyoomi holds him in place, pulls him closer even, instead of pushing him away, is something to be cherished. The feeling of soft lips pressing onto his and the tickle of a tongue against his bottom lip asking for more, is something to be cherished. The low hum from Kiyoomi's throat when their tongues finally collide and Kiyoomi pulls him closer yet again so that feet are intertwined and chests are pressed together, is something to be cherished.