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Atsumu thanks his good looks for getting him this far in life. It's not his brain, and it's definitely not his mouth - that's gotten him into more trouble than he'd like to admit - which means it must be his face. He's looked it up.
I mean, there's no way you make an entire modeling career without taking your shirt off at least once, but somehow, he's managed to do it. Yes, the Atsumu Miya who for most of his life has been the useless twin actually made something of himself. And it's all thanks to his frighteningly symmetrical features and long eyelashes.
It's not like he hasn't been asked - who wouldn't want to look at smoothly tanned washboard abs? And his toned back muscles, nice v-line, sculpted obliques. He worked hard on them. But some things can't be helped.
Like wings.
Legally they can't fire him for having them because that's discrimination blah blah blah, but does it really matter if no one will willingly work with you because of it? Normal people don't want to work with Avians. They don't even want to be around them. But Atsumu still needs to eat and pay rent on his very expensive apartment, so he makes do.
There's no point in lamenting that which you can't change.
So he doesn't take underwear ads or jobs that will make him strip down to skin, and because pearly white feathers lay smoothly across the plane of his back, they're easily concealed by a hoodie or loose-fitting t-shirt, so he owns a lot of those. And he makes it work. Because what else can you do?
Avians have been fighting for acceptance since day one. Fighting for people to realize that they're not dirty or disease-ridden or feral or dangerous, that they're normal human beings and can function in society as such. But each step forward sets them three steps back. And Atsumu's tired of resisting being told what he knows is the truth. So he accepts it, adjusts, and moves on.
Osamu's done it. Reasonably speaking, Atsumu can do it too. Plus, if someone with something that's considered an ugly birth defect can become a model, then just think of what else he can do. He's beautiful everywhere else. Why should an ugly little scar dismantle his entire life's work?
Plus, he likes his job. And his photographer.
"Chin up and to the right," Atsumu obeys, molding his body like he's so used to doing. It's easy for him now. Volleyball in high school increased his brain-body coordination tenfold.
Shutter clicks are a lulling sound by now. Where at first they were startling and distracting, they are now a normal part of life, a perk even, the satisfaction of knowing that the camera (or rather whoever's behind it) can't get enough of him). It feeds his already overinflated ego to the point of bursting.
"Don't smile," Kiyoomi glares at him over the camera, pretty eyes narrowing. Atsumu almost smiles at that, at how counterintuitive it sounds to tell a man who's smile is his living not to do the one thing that makes him money. But he follows the order nonetheless, pressing his lips into a flat line.
It's harder than people think. He's not going to make any great case for modeling, it's not like physics or mathematics where you need a degree and a four year blah blah blah, he will admit that it's ninety percent looks, but there's a certain level of skill involved. A certain coordination is required when it comes to making yourself a living breathing piece of art - at least that's what his agent says. Atsumu's never really gotten into the art aspect of it.
To him it's just flaunting what nature gave him, taking advantage of the fact that he's well-proportioned and dedicated to working out.
By the time they're done, Atsumu feels exhausted. He knows that he pretty much just sits in place all day and makes money off his face, but there's something tiring about doing nothing. Plus, Kiyoomi seems to thoroughly enjoy poses that strain his thighs, fleshing out the lines and divots of his chorded muscles.
A lot of people like his thighs, actually, but Kiyoomi practically worships them.
Okay, now both of them know it's a little shady to be dating someone you work so closely with. You were probably expecting a 'but' there. There is none. It is shady and they probably shouldn't be shouldn't be doing it, but you have to understand. Kiyoomi Sakusa is really, really, hot.
Plus, working together isn't all that bad. Kiyoomi is nothing if not professional, and Atsumu finds it easy to follow suit. Not that Atsumu isn't perfectly open to tanking both of their careers with workplace PDA.
Kiyoomi drives and Atsumu yawns, dragging out the process even though he knows it'll only make him sleepier. They don't talk because Kiyoomi says small talk is for people who have nothing of substance to say. And it's comfortable because Atsumu has a tendency to ramble without really knowing what he's saying anyway. (That's the part where his mouth tends to get him into trouble).
When they get to Kiyoomi's apartment (because Atsumu's is constantly being stalked), Atsumu feels like he's coming home. It might as well be his house anyway seeing as he's there most nights anyway. He wonders sometimes if the reporter camped out down the street misses him while he's gone.
The minimal decor is comforting in a way, the absence of clutter leaving plenty of open space for Atsumu to crowd the place with his presence. And that he does, immediately flopping on Kiyoomi's couch when the chance presents itself.
The photographer looks at him with narrowed eyes, an expression that says in all its non-expressive-ness, you better be planning to wash that - he doesn't like his stuff being touched before Atsumu's showered. His reasoning when the model had asked had been something along the lines of, 'you touch your face too much'. Quite frankly, Atsumu hadn't understood, but he abides by his boyfriend's rules like the good partner in crime he is.
"Fine, fine I'll take a shower geez," Atsumu rolls off the couch with a thunk - he can't see the expression on his boyfriend's face, but he knows it's somewhere between amused and unimpressed. "But I'll have ya know I'm perfectly clean Omi."
"Yeah, I definitely believe you."
"Such a cynic, babe."
Atsumu bounces off to the shower with that, though not before planting a sloppy kiss on his boyfriend's cheek and getting a disgusted sneer as payment. It's a usual occurrence, Atsumu's not in the least deterred, mainly because he knows very well that Kiyoomi will be chasing after him for more in the not-so-far-off future.
Atsumu knows he's safe. He trusts Kiyoomi. He loves Kiyoomi, and trust is the first step in that. But he checks the lock on the ensuite bathroom door a grand total of four times before actually gathering the courage to disrobe (he keeps getting distracted by his hair, also not an uncommon occurrence).
Yes, he trusts Kiyoomi, but he's allowed to have secrets too.
Atsumu runs the water first, a routine by now. The ruffling of feathers is soft, but detectable if someone cared to listen for it. He knows his boyfriend won't. He twists the shower on full blast anyway.
He pulls off his shirt with a sigh, the pressure on his wings released, and allows them to flutter freely. In the moment, he's grateful he remembered to preen them this morning, no loose feathers for Kiyoomi to happen upon, no relationship-ending evidence to be discovered.
The freedom is only seconded by the rush of cold wind across his cheeks - nothing will ever approach true freedom as closely as flying will. For now, he will take solace in this small moment of peace. Absent-mindedly, the tip of his wing worries at his hair for him. Much like hands, they are instruments of unconscious fiddling.
When the tip of his finger deems the water warm enough, Atsumu slips into the shower, blowing out a sigh. There's nothing like the feeling of warm water on feathers that have been crimped and cramped all day long. Even if they are hydrophobic, it still feels nice.
The only thing that cuts the feeling is the sting of hot water on welted scars, failed attempts to make him normal. He winces, however small the fleeting expression may be.
Atsumu knows it's all mental. He knows. But the mind is a powerful weapon, one he's unwittingly using against himself. It's not as though he can change the past. And if he could, the scars wouldn't be the only thing he erases.
-
"The fuck is it thatcha want anyway?!"
Atsumu's cheek crushes into the wet ground of an alleyway, gravel scratches at his skin, rough concrete digs at his jawline. This is not how he'd been intending to spend Saturday out with his team. He'd been intending to eat good food and laugh and celebrate winning. But instead, he's here. Facedown. Hands pinned behind his back.
He can't see them, didn't see them, actually. Only saw the flash of metal and the brush of a dark hoodie before the ground became his new bed and the dumpster rats his only witnesses.
Atsumu's never been mugged before, but he's guessing cooperation is what they want so that's what he's going to fucking give him. Even if it is a bit aggressive and laden with swear words. This is a mugging, right?
Wrong.
"Yer a dirty, disgustin', animal," there's a knee between his shoulder blades, the edge of a kneecap presses against Atsumu's joints, eliciting a sharp cry to accompany the even sharper pain.
It hits him like a slap to the face, what this is about, not something as fucking pointless as money, but something so precious as belief. Belief that Avians are lesser, that wings make him some sort of disgusting monstrosity. Belief that he doesn't deserve to live in the same world as them much less exist in the same town.
Atsumu doesn't like to consider himself a cry baby, but he cries this time and considers it justified. Hot tears wet the pavement below him, the side of a rusted recycling can becomes the center of his universe as he feels his shirt pulled up and over his wings to the nape of his neck.
He briefly wonders if this attack is sexual in nature, but that's before there's cold steel and the tip of something sharp pressed between the joints of his wings. A hand crushes his skull into the ground, etching wounds into the side of his face. And in the moment he panics because, one inch to the left and he's about to be in a hell of a lot of pain.
The joint where the humerus connects to his scapula had more nerve endings than the lips - one million five-hundred thousand, to be exact - making them the most sensitive parts of an Avian's body. Which is why the fear that knots in his throat, intending to choke him, feels like someone is burning him alive from the inside out.
The cold of metal sits where back muscles meet the bone of his joint, the sting of it is palpable, a megaphone for the fear playing in his stomach. He wants to scream but chokes on his words, wants to cry but can't risk sobbing, wants to run but stays stuck to where he's being held in place. In the end, he's helpless to submit.
"Ya think ya belong here, butcha don't. Ya don't belong anywhere, really. If anythin', we're doin' ya a favor," Atsumu bristles at the words, but for lack of courage and fear of the turmoil words will bring, he keeps his lips clamped shut. It's as if, maybe, if he doesn't talk, he can escape this. Whatever this is.
So he closes his eyes and prays to a god he was never taught to believe in that this is all some twisted nightmare. In, out, in, out. He breathes but it hurts, ribs pressed into the ground like whoever is on top of him is trying to flatten his skeleton.
Rough hands hold down his wings, pin them to the dirty ground, he can feel the cracking of delicate bones and the sharp agony that ripples through their hallow concavities.
For a moment the is nothing, nothing but silence and the weight on top of him that lightens with every trying breath in. For a moment. And only for a moment. Because after that moment, there is everything.
At the first cut, Atsumu screams, the noise tearing from his throat rough and broken, not if his own volition, his entire body jolting with the sudden sharp pain, so unimaginably intense that he can barely think, let alone have the good sense to call for help.
It hurts. It hurts more than any broken limb or bone-deep bruise, more than any fight with 'Samu or crushing defeat in volleyball. At the end of the day, physical pain seems to win out. If it was even a competition in the first place, though Atsumu knows it doesn't matter. Each takes precedence in the moment it's happening.
And another cut, and another cut, and another cut, each on digging deeper than the last as if they're trying to cut the very wing from his body. He wants to tell them they can't just dig out the wing like that - even if they succeeded, they'd have to carve out a chunk of his shoulder blade too. He wants to tell them to fuck off, that he's not scared of them. But he is scared. And his words don't come. All that's voiced is,
"Please...please, stop."
"So yer beggin' now?"
Another cut, another cut, another cut, Atsumu flashes between blinding pain and total numbness, almost worse than the sting or the stab.
He watches a raggedy rat root for food under the recycling bin, a useless and futile effort. It tries to find food but it won't. The trash is where you're more likely to find discarded nutrition, not the place where people dump their plastics and empty containers.
Another cut.
But the rat just keeps sniffing, pathetically rooting around as if the facts of its surroundings will change if he just puts his nose to the ground and takes what life gives him. Atsumu wants to yell at that stupid emaciated rat, tell it to look somewhere else. He doesn't, just watches it.
Another cut.
Atsumu bites his bottom lip, holds together a broken sob with duct tape. Move ya stupid fuckin' rat. Move. Just fuckin' move yer not fuckin' brainless.
Another cut.
And then there are voices, familiar ones that spark relief, a familiar sense of comfort. And Atsumu cries for real, because they're going to see him like this, weak, bloody, beaten down and ugly. They're going to see his wings. They're going to see him dirty and disgusting.
"What the fuck is going on here?! 'TSUMU!"
The pressure on his wings relieves. The cuts stop coming. Combat boots thunk heavy as nameless bodies scatter at the sound of Atsumu's brother and friend appearing around the corner - they were looking for him. He almost forgot about that. It's easy to let things slip when you're living your worst fears as reality.
"'TSUMU," Osamu's voice rings in his ears, muted yet all-consuming. There's a hand in his hair, another clutched over his. "'Tsumu what happened? 'Tsumu talk ta me. Talk ta me please."
But he can only cry, heavy, rich sobs painted in navy blue.
"Rin call the police."
Atsumu hears the call, he hears the way his friend's voice shakes, the wobble in their middle blocker's normally steady timber.
"'Tsumu please talk ta me. Say somethin' ta me."
So he says what he's thinking about, which isn't the pain or the dirt or the tears but-
"Sunarin....Suna does he..." know? About his wings? That he's a disgusting dirty rat? Does he know about 'Samu's wings? Is he going to tell people about this-
"It doesn' matter," his brother assures him, but it doesn't bring him relief. "It doesn't. Not right now. All that matters is that yer okay, yer gonna be okay."
Yer gonna be okay.
Atsumu will be. 'Will' being the operative word in that sentence.
Osamu helps him clean his wings that night, their father stitches up his back, they don't go to the emergency room, and they don't press charges. Like the rat searching for food in a fruitless location, they would only be wasting their time.
-
Atsumu cages his wings again, slipping a loose t-shirt over his head, shrugging a hoodie on just for good measure. He's lucky it's winter, hiding full wings at the gym gets tricky.
When he steps out of the bathroom, Kiyoomi sits on the bed, waiting for him. But there's an air around him, something tense and pensive, like he's stuck in another world with his own thoughts. Atsumu bites his tongue to quell his rising anxiety.
Kiyoomi only gets like this when he can't figure something else, this dark and brooding mood when he can't solve a puzzle. It's the same look, same energy he exudes when he can't figure out why a certain shot isn't working, when he's trying to dissect the perfect way to position a model to capture their "essence" or whatever he calls it.
"Omi?" Atsumu breaks the tension with an unspoken question, slicing the silence in half.
He doesn't take a seat next to his boyfriend, standing across from him instead, but hazel eyes hold fondness for the man in front of him. How to cure his ailment, Atsumu doesn't know. He can try though, Kiyoomi likely knows he will.
"Atsumu are you bothered by the idea of having sex with me?" The question feels like a punch to the gut.
Well...fuck, Atsumu had been anticipating this for some time now - you can only go so long without taking your clothes off in front of your boyfriend before he starts to suspect something is up. Up until now, Atsumu has almost always had at least one or two layers separating his body from the rest of the world - the rest of the world including Kiyoomi. And yes, he knows it's not normal in a relationship to date for almost ten months and have never seen each other shirtless.
But he also knows that wings are relationship ruining things that need to stay hidden even if it hurts. He might not be willing to endure it for anyone else, but Kiyoomi Sakusa isn't anyone else. Kiyoomi is Kiyoomi and Atsumu can deal with cramped wings and dirty secrets if it means he gets to have him.
"No!" He starts immediately before he's smart enough to think of an excuse. He always does that, dammit, jumping in without planning things out ahead of time. One of these days, it's going to get him into a situation he can't talk his way out of. The urge to flee shivers through him when he realizes that this might just be that situation. "No that's not it."
"Then what is it?" Is the exact question Atsumu had been hoping to avoid, because he doesn't have a good excuse for this. He doesn't have a pre-conceived story in his head. He doesn't have an out. So he's trapped. And it's going to stay that way until the truth comes out or Kiyoomi leaves. Most likely both. "I'm not going to be upset if it is."
"No Omi. It's not that, I swear. I promise ya. Yer really hot an' I'd love ta jump yer bones."
"But...?"
But I'm a monster.
"There's no but Omi I just-" he has no idea where that was supposed to be going. He just what? The beginning of a justification sounds lame even to his own ears. Maybe he should just settle for the truth. His Ma always told him honesty is the best policy. "I just can't tell ya." Okay, maybe half the truth.
"Why?" Fuck, why does he have to ask all the hard questions?
"I just can't, okay?" Loud, that time his voice is loud and insistent because he's cracking under the pressure like an expensive vase. And then, softer this time: "You'll leave me."
Kiyoomi regards him with a stare as calculating as it is compassionate - how both of those contradictions can exist simultaneously, Atsumu doesn't know, doesn't try to understand because there's far too much going on at the moment for him to spare the processing power.
"Are you a serial killer?" Kiyoomi asks, completely unprompted after a moment of deafening silence, voice holding all the emotion of a rock.
"What?! No!"
"Are you cheating on me?"
"Omi, literally never. Have ya seen you?"
"Do you have more than three nipples?" More than three? What the fuck?
"What?! No- Also more than three? Why more? Don'tcha want two?"
"Ideally yes. But I can deal with three. Four is too many," Atsumu wrinkles his nose at the mere suggestion and shakes his head adamantly at the idea that he has more than three nipples. No, although, when he thinks of the way Kiyoomi will inevitably walk out and leave him standing in the rubbles of their relationship, he almost wishes it were true, almost wishes that his wings were something that small and inconsequential.
"No. I don't have four nipples. Or three. I have a normal amount of nipples."
"Then I'm not going to leave you," he says simply, easily, digging in the knife between Atsumu's ribs in deeper.
Ya say that now, Atsumu bites his tongue to tamp down the rising sadness creating a lump in his throat. It's just because he sounds so sure of that fact, like it's unshakeable when really you can never know something like that. Things happen, people change. If he knew about the wings and the scars, that Atsumu is a creature to be shamed and shunned instead of a person just like him, Kiyoomi would leave.
Even if he doesn't harbor that passionate hatred for Avians himself, he would leave. The mere idea of being associated with one would tank his career faster than that iceberg sank the Titanic. His family wouldn't be happy about it, most likely. His life would fall apart just for knowing Atsumu.
Atsumu would leave himself too. Not even out of hate, but out of self-preservation.
"Ya can't say that," is the only thought that falls from his lips, weak and meager, a pitiful excuse for what he's actually thinking, what he actually wants to say. Kiyoomi looks at him, almost hurt, eyes shining with sincerity as he says,
"Why not? It's true."
"Circumstances change."
"And I'm willing to change with them," and Atsumu wants to cry, because the statement is so simple and easy, said without even the slightest hint of hesitation. It is concrete. Kiyoomi is willing to mold to him.
But it hurts because people aren't willing to mold to things that will hurt them. Would you be okay with staying with someone who's cheating on you because 'circumstances change and you're willing to change with them'? Would you be okay if you found out that you and your partner had diametrically opposing beliefs?
There's silence. Kiyoomi stands to face him. And then:
"Don't you trust me?"
Atsumu cries, but not loudly and obnoxiously like he's used to doing, not letting the entire world know how much he's hurting. His entire world already knows, is probably reading the expression on his face. Tears are inherently silent things, singing trails down soft skin without a sound, without need for recognition. It's humans that do all the heavy lifting when it comes to making them known. Tears ask for no fame.
Atsumu resigns to this new version of reality - Kiyoomi's going to leave one way or another. He might as well go out knowing that yes, Atsumu does trust him. With everything. His life, his heart, his soul. His wings don't have to be an exception.
"Okay," is the only word that comes to mind - acceptance - as he fiddles with the hem of his shirt, shrugging his hoodie off and letting it fall to the ground. He feels like he's in the closing scene of a movie, the moment just before everything fades to black, just so that the viewers don't have to see the inevitable crumbling of their relationship. He decides with finality: "Okay."
Atsumu starts to pull up, stopping himself just momentarily to ask one last thing of his boyfriend.
"Just, so, don't tell anyone about this. An' if yer breakin' up with me, can ya just leave an' not say anythin'? 'Cause I don't really feel like hearin' the 'it's not you' speech right now."
Kiyoomi looks like he's about to deny such an accusation, but his lips close seconds after parting around unspoken syllables, a silent nod stepping in where words would be a futile effort.
Atsumu takes his word for it, pulling his shirt up and over his head in one fluid motion.
He won't deny that there's something freeing about having it all out in the open, a weight lifted off his chest so he can finally breathe again. But for however liberating it may feel, it is equally terrifying. He's free-falling through the air without a parachute, not having a clue when he's going to hit the ground, only that he will and it'll hurt more than anything has ever hurt before.
"Atsumu, your torso looks fi-"
"I'm not done yet," Atsumu cuts off that line of reasoning before it has a chance to begin because he would rather get it over and done with all at once, not have Kiyoomi believe that everything is okay only to be let down again by the sting of reality. Atsumu's experienced such a feeling so many times. Kiyoomi deserves better if this is the final impression of Atsumu he's ever going to have.
Oxygen feels a dying resource as Atsumu fails three attempts at a deep breath, managing it only barely on the fourth. With what he hopes are slow, unstartling movements, he unfolds his wings, delicately, carefully. He lets them flutter slightly, relaxing into the open environment, stretching out like cramped muscles finally moving after too long sitting stationary.
The silence is like a knife to the chest, a confirmation of what Atsumu had been expecting all along - disbelief, disgust, hatred, fuck my boyfriend is monster. Kiyoomi only stares, mouth shut, expression unreadable, he regards Atsumu with sparkly eyes. And the tears fall faster and harder, clumping his eyelashes together and making his lips salty and swollen because the beginning of the end is taking too long. Prologues aren't supposed to be this drawn out and painful.
"I'm a monster, Kiyoomi," he asserts, a twisted 'I told you so'. Because he tried, Atsumu tried to warn him. But Kiyoomi refused to listen. And now they're broken.
A horrible beat of stagnent silence. And then,
"You're beautiful."
"What?" Atsumu is crying loud now, giving the tears the credit they deserve, casting them under a spotlight because he can. Because Kiyoomi isn't gone yet and he's not leaving and instead he's smiling softly, and Atsumu wants to scream about this to whoever will listen to him. But all he can do is cry. So he cries loud.
"Can I...?" Kiyoomi reaches for him with unmatched gentleness, hesitation pushed out by wonder as graceful fingers reach for freshly cleaned feathers.
Atsumu doesn't have to say yes. The acceptance is understood without words.
Gentle fingertips first probe his torso, splaying across toned abs and pectorals, feeling every inch of warm skin they can reach so slowly Atsumu thinks he might melt at the touch. They trace along his collarbone, over the smooth muscle of his shoulder, before finally making the jump they'd so clearly been waiting for to his left wing.
Kiyoomi is almost inhumanly soft with him, the touch of his fingers to silky feathers almost nonexistent as he makes his way around, feeling Atsumu's wings like he's never seen anything more captivating before. He splays his palm over the back of them, inching farther into confidence with each slight movement, becoming more comfortable with the feeling of touching Atsumu freely.
When a thumb swipes over the joint of his wing, Atsumu shudders - always the most sensitive part where skin meets feathers, no protective layers to keep it safe. But the full-body half-jolt isn't solely because of the reaction of his nerves. It's also because he knows Kiyoomi's reached the scars. Kiyoomi pulls his hand back so fast Atsumu thinks he can hear his wrist popping.
"D-Did I hurt you?"
Atsumu shakes his head rapidly.
"No- No...Just, that's the most sensitive part. Lotsa nerve endin's," he manages.
"Oh," then Kiyoomi's hands are back on him, keeping a safe distance from the touch-sensitive joint, instead moving onto the scars. Atsumu can feel the gentle drag of barely-there calluses over ugly scar-tissue. He wonders what's going through his boyfriend's mind, if Kiyoomi is disgusted by the horrific stories carved into his skin. At a whisper, Atsumu's answer comes, so soft it could almost be mistaken for imagination. "Who did this to you?"
Atsumu swipes the back of his hand over his eyes. Atsumu trusts Kiyoomi. His life, his heart, his soul, his wings. His past goes on the list.
"Was years ago. I...Dunno. Couldn't see their faces. But they obviously weren't the brightest," for both their sakes, he tries to keep his tone as docile and steady as possible. "Or at least didn't know anythin' about Avian's anatomy. They went fer the joint, which is stupid 'cause s'attached ta my shoulder blade. Haveta cut through two layers of bone. A pocket knife can't do that."
He's sure the way he clears his throat gives him away, but he figures there's not much to hide anymore.
There's a gentle kiss pressed to the juncture between his shoulder blades, carefully avoiding any troubled areas and leaving a lingering warmth that has Atsumu crying for completely different reasons.
When Kiyoomi returns to face him again, hands smoothing over every inch of exposed skin like he's worried that, if he stops touching, Atsumu will disappear, dark eyelashes are clumped with tears. Kiyoomi's crying. Atsumu's crying. They're a total mess. A pretty mess with feathers.
"Let me take your picture," Kiyoomi proposes the impossible. "Like for everyone to see."
Atsumu's heart straight up falls apart in his chest like a broken doll, and just as it was healing too.
"Omi, that'll ruin yer career," there are industries for Avian models - granted not as successful because rampant discrimination or whatever, but he has options. But hell if he's willing to flush his boyfriend's hard-earned career down the drain for something so impulsive.
"Do I look like I give a fuck? I want the world to see you how I see you," he smooths gentle thumbs over his boyfriend's tear-stained eyelashes. Atsumu can see it, the dead honesty, the plain-stated truth without ulterior motive clouding the lens. "I want everyone to see how beautiful you are. Because you are. And you deserve for people to know it."
Kiyoomi presses their foreheads together gently, and Atsumu sobs because he doesn't think he'll ever deserve this no matter what he does with his life. And he thinks that maybe, whatever happens, might not matter because they'll figure it out together. And Kiyoomi will be there.
So he says,
"Okay Omi," and wraps his arms and wings both around the man he loves, soft feathers sheltering what muscled limbs can't reach.
"I love ya, so much," he whispers against his boyfriend's ear, the words so saccharine on his tongue that he thinks they could be the only words he said for the rest of his life and he'd be content with them.
"I love you too. I love you," Kiyoomi asserts like it's the only true thing he'll ever say. "I love you."