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The most tender parts of someone's body are as follows: the back of the neck, the temple, the pads of your fingertips, and the shoulders. In no particular order.
“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi burns in every one of them, one at a time, like the individual bulbs on a string of lights.
He’s not even talking to him, Kiyoomi realizes. Atsumu says his name like a hymn, more for the sake of saying it than to any end. It makes Kiyoomi go red to the roots of his hair every time, because, how embarrassing .
“Cut it out,” Kiyoomi manages to say, miraculously, despite feeling very breathless.
Atsumu’s eyes cut to his, sharp, and Kiyoomi swallows his regret like honey. His hands are shaking, he knows it.
“I haven’t done anything,” Atsumu responds, and Kiyoomi feels the tremors from his hands spreading outward, like the melting of ice, slow but inevitable.
Atsumu brushes his fingers across the back of his neck, and Kiyoomi feels like yelling at him. He’s unsure what he might say, if he managed it—if he would beg him to stop or beg him to be softer about it, if he would demand he hold on for real, instead of teasing.
“Use your words,” Atsumu says, flippant. Kiyoomi bites down on his own lip, blocking the words from rolling past, and chews over what Atsumu might do with his words.
Instead of any of that, he leans forward, all doe-eyed and sweet, because apparently nice does something.
Unsurprisingly it works, and Kiyoomi knows he’ll get his way when Atsumu tenses up the way he always does right before he gives in, like his body is fighting the urge until the very end. He doesn’t bother stopping his lips from curling at the ends when Atsumu leans in the rest of the way and places his lips directly over his. Firm and soft and maybe a little upset at himself that Kiyoomi always works him down.
Atsumu licks over the left corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth, where it tends to favor a little extra pull and tightens his hand on the back of Kiyoomi’s neck. That’s better , Kiyoomi thinks. It’s better to do things the right way, do them with meaning, do them like this, like this, like,
“You’re killing me, Omi,” Atsumu whines, red in the face and fighting to breathe. He pulls back far enough only to rest his forehead against Kiyoomi’s, who has his own hand twisted into the front of Atsumu’s t-shirt, just below where his heart might be. Kiyoomi grips tighter, letting his eyes drift down to the faded lettering across the front, intelligible with love and time.
Atsumu’s shirts always look so comfortable, he’s jealous. Unfortunately for him, he has also quickly realized that the novelty of stealing someone’s shirt lasts only as long as it takes to put them on. It’s the look Atsumu has on his face when he's with Kiyoomi that makes it look comfy, and that’s it. He’s had to settle with sneaking his hands under the hem or grabbing onto it, much like he is now, because Atsumu was running out of a wardrobe and Kiyoomi was hardly getting the cost-of-Atsumu-catching-a-cold worth in stealing.
When he trails his sight back upwards it’s to Atsumu looking at him, knowing in his face. Kiyoomi narrows his eyes and brings his hand up to squeeze the fat of his cheek. Hilariously, Atsumu doesn’t even yelp, despite Kiyoomi knowing it had to have hurt, only squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces, probably because no amount of moaning will ever get Kiyoomi to stop.
“Look at you, trained like a good-boy.”
Kiyoomi lets go of Atsumu completely to fall backwards onto the carpeted floor, howling with laughter at the wided-eye look of distress and embarrassment that smothers his face.
He’s still letting out peals of laughter as Atsumu moves to hover over him, still red but also annoyed. He stares down at Kiyoomi’s smile until it shrinks some, but keeps his eye on the smile lines around Kiyoomi’s eyes.
“You think yer so funny,” he accuses, to which Kiyoomi lifts his shoulder in a shrug, awkwardly because he’s still lying down.
“You said use your words ,” Kiyoomi mocks, leaning up onto his elbows, once again close to one another.
“Yer words are mean an’ bad. I liked it better when ya were too embarrassed to say stuff like that.”
Scrunching his nose, Kiyoomi decides to argue this, “That’s not true. I’m never embarrassed.”
Atsumu’s eyebrows raise slowly, like he knows better, which he doesn’t. “Yeah ya were. Overwhelmed with yer love for me, or somethin’.” Kiyoomi retaliates by squeezing both of his cheeks at once.
Atsumu does make a small sound of protest this time, or maybe it’s just a sound, because when he’s released he goes to wrap his arms around Kiyoomi, tucking his face into his neck. Kiyoomi lowers them down, and then promptly kicks his legs in a spasm when Atsumu bites down on the flesh there.
“Ow! You motherfucker—“
Atsumu is laughing too loud to care about the profanities being thrown his way, arms still wrapped securely and face tucked out of pinching-range. Kiyoomi is going to get him at 4 am, when he’s in the middle of REM sleep.
“Use your words, Kiyoomi,” he tries again. His voice is soft and hopeful, as if asking is all he must do to get what he wants. He’s the absolute worst person Kiyoomi has ever known.
“I don’t like you,” Kiyoomi says, now staring up at the ceiling with Atsumu wrapped around him. He doubts he’s getting free anytime soon. “And stop saying my name, like that.” His voice warbles at the end, fuck. His own body, a useless fucking traitor.
To his surprise Atsumu releases him, rolling onto his side to get another look at his face. Kiyoomi theorizes he does this so often because he enjoys staring down for once, being the shorter one of the two.
“That one’s pretty good, baby. Not even ‘hate you’, but the cold indifference of like , yeesh. Six out of ten.”
Leveling him with the flattest look he can manage, Kiyoomi does his best not to give Atsumu the satisfaction of getting the response he wishes for. “Don’t rate my fucking remarks.”
Atsumu whistles low, “Can’t say your name or rate your poisonous insults? We’re fresh out of’a relationship.”
“I don’t even know who you are,” Kiyoomi says, “You just showed up here one day.”
This succeeds in making Atsumu laugh. Kiyoomi feels his stomach warm so much it nearly hurts. His laughter is not hard to find, not hard to inspire, but that makes it good, better. He gets to listen all the time. He latches right back onto Atsumu’s t-shirt, and Atsumu understands what this means immediately.
“You’re warmer than usual,” Atsumu muses, somewhere between the slow rolling of their lips, hands, eyes, teeth, fingers. “Yer not sick are ya?” He brings his hand up to palm Kiyoomi’s forehead. His fingers resting against his temple there. It’s such a vulnerable place, yet he can’t remember ever once thinking about it before he knew Atsumu.
Kiyoomi shakes his head no, and tugs on his shirt again, impatient. “Kiss,” he voices.
“Hold on will ya,” he says, and lifts them both off the floor like it’s nothing. Kiyoomi can’t help the way he finds this impressive. He’s long, muscled man, there’s no doubt about this, but so is Atsumu. He wiggles one of his feet where it dangles in the air.
Atsumu isn’t looking at him, but the smile on his stupid pretty face is telling enough; he knows that Kiyoomi appreciates his strength.
He leads them out of their bedroom and into the living room, where only a single lamp lights the space. It’s not late, but they’d been cooped up in their room for some hours now. Kiyoomi’s strangely annoyed they’re relocating.
“We should eat,” Atsumu states as he places him onto the couch, and Kiyoomi absolutely gapes at this.
“I don’t want food.” He sounds as childish out loud as he did in his head.
While Atsumu is never one to forgo the opportunity for an ego-stroking, food is something he takes seriously. We have to take care of ourselves, this is the first way I learned how.
“I wasn’t askin’,” Atsumu replies, but he sits down anyway. “You sure ya aren’t sick?”
“Why would I be sick?” Kiyoomi asks, annoyed that he wasn’t getting his way. “We basically have the same schedule every day of the week. You would be sick too.”
“Mm, I guess.”
“We also spend a lot of time swapping saliva so there’s more reason.”
“Pff—ah, Omi?! Don’t say that!” Atsumu is staring at him like he’s said something outrageous. He was only stating an objective truth.
“Why not?” Kiyoomi leans back into the couch, grabbing one of Atsumu’s hands to keep himself busy.
“It’s not romantic, that’s why.” He’s pouting. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.
“I am not a romantic—“
“Liar! You’re holdin’ my hand right now.”
“I do lots of things. They don’t have to have ulterior meaning.”
“Well. I know you’re lyin’. You get mad if I get out of bed without kissing you.”
Kiyoomi aggressively begins waving his free hand in the middle of that, as if to dispel the words and fling them away from him. “Shut up. You’re always saying ridiculous things.”
“Like what? Your name? Kiyoomi Kiyoomi Kiyoooomi.”
Kiyoomi feels his heart begin to race. “Yes exactly. Now be quiet.” He leans forward to place a hand firmly over Atsumu’s mouth. “Like this.”
Atsumu licks his palm.
“Yer calling me ridiculous yet you act like this. You love me so much it makes you look stupid.”
“So what!” Kiyoomi blurts, now Very flustered. “Weren’t you going to cook?”
He’s so caught up in his embarrassment he covers his face with his hands, including the hardly-dried saliva palm. Atsumu immediately works at trying to peel them away. “Ahah, ‘m sorry.” More laughter, bastard. “ Baby .”
Kiyoomi only shakes his head. The most vulnerable place of all? The inside of his ears, probably, because they have to deal with everything Atsumu decides to say out-loud. He’d asked Kiyoomi how many bottles of apple juice he thought it would take to flood their apartment once. And Kiyoomi thought it was endearing .
“You’re not forgiven,” Kiyoomi says, when Atsumu manhandles him into his lap.
“Okay, okay. Will ya look at me, at least?”
He does. Atsumu gives him a kiss for it, which is more of a punishment, because it makes it hard to remember what was going on in the first place.
“I love you. You know that?”
Kiyoomi is right back where he’d started. Out of his depth, floundering, not even upset about it.
“I know, too much. Can’t you just kiss me more so I don’t die young, hearing you say it?”
Atsumu’s eyes are so warm. Kiyoomi loves him so much.
“Then I’d die. So no.”
Kiyoomi sighs. “I love you,” he swallows the satisfaction like honey, “I love you the most.”
But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that, too truly. Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf (1926)