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Atsumu hears him when he's sleeping - or rather, when he's teetering on the edge of sleep, his boyfriend's words drawing him back to reality with syllables molded in the softest, deepest, sweetest voice Atsumu's ever heard. A sound on par with the rolling of ocean waves.
Atsumu hears him, and he doesn't say anything, and he doesn't smile, doesn't even react - a feat of great strength, if you must know. Instead, the only hint that may give him away is the soft fluttering of his eyelashes that precedes the whispering of words so quiet they're almost nonexistent. Ephemeral. Sweet.
They're a song stuck in Atsumu's head, for him and him alone to hear and to cherish. They play on repeat when the cold seeps in, their emotional value never draining, their lyrics synonymous with twin moles and eyes that hold endless universes.
Sometimes it's something as simple as,
"I think you're beautiful," a reminder maybe, because he feels he doesn't say it enough. Maybe not for Atsumu's ego, but for Atsumu himself, Kiyoomi doesn't need to say it for the message to ring through loud and clear.
Other times it's,
"You're the best part of my life," said so sweet and soft that Atsumu almost responds - yer the best parta mine - but is forced to bite his lip under the veil of sleep. Sometimes he shifts, just to relieve the tension, buries his face against Kiyoomi's skin as if that's an actual answer.
In the end, he's sure it's not even close to substantial. But it's what he can give without breaking the perfect balance between them, stepping on Kiyoomi's toes and ruining their choreographed waltz.
Tonight, his back is pressed to Kiyoomi's chest, skin against skin so that Atsumu can feel his heart beat, strong and solid, his breaths as even and tempered as one would expect with Kiyoomi Sakusa. It's a position so intimate, Atsumu feels protected within the confines of muscle-packed arms, relishes Kiyoomi's nose buried in his hair.
He sighs into the feeling, nestling himself tighter against his boyfriend, tucking himself neatly against the crevices of Kiyoomi's body, fitting like a puzzle piece. He masks it as an unconscious adjustment, skillfully so - he's never been much of an actor when words are involved, the truth always slipping out unpoliced.
But without words he's an Oscar winner, stilling himself and lulling his heartbeat into a gentle rhythm. He pushes himself toward sleep as he always does: with a gentle touch as he devises wandering melodies with Kiyoomi's even breathing to set the tempo.
Atsumu is almost there, nearly falling off the edge into blissful restfulness when Kiyoomi dips his head and presses the softest kiss to the nape of his neck, so fleeting and gentle it could almost be considered a trick of the mind.
"I love you," Kiyoomi whispers into the silence, the time on the clock seemingly inconsequential.
Atsumu hears the words for the first time, riding on the hills and valleys of thunder, the timber low and gravelly and deliciously Kiyoomi. And he can't help but smile, the urge to turn around and kiss Kiyoomi until he can taste the words on this tongue almost overpowering.
He resists, just barely.
Words said under the secret of night are meant to stay that way. Atsumu will abide by such a rule until such time as Kiyoomi says them for him to hear in broad daylight.
I love ya too Omi. I love ya so much. I just wanna holdja close an' never letcha go. I love ya, I love ya, I love ya.
Instead of saying any of that, Atsumu keeps quiet, sealing his lips in testament to the love he feels. Kiyoomi will say the words out loud when he's ready for Atsumu to hear them. And when that day should come, Atsumu will return those sweet words in full.
-
Kiyoomi drinks his coffee so dark and bitter you could throw it into the night sky and open up a black hole.
Atsumu has told him more than one time that he's going to burn a hole in his stomach lining with it, but Kiyoomi insists that if Atsumu is allowed to eat like a child, he's allowed this one indulgence.
Atsumu can't possibly fathom why he would choose black, sugarless coffee as his one indulgence, but that's Kiyoomi Sakusa for you.
Atsumu is so stupid in love that he prepares and makes it despite the way it makes his nose wrinkle with merely the thought of drinking molten sadness. He's stupid about many things, but Kiyoomi Sakusa most importantly.
So absorbed in the task of being the absolute fucking best boyfriend in the entire world, he doesn't hear Kiyoomi's near silent (disturbingly so) footsteps making their from their bedroom to the kitchen. He walks so quiet it's damn near eerie.
Atsumu always gets a good scare out of being tapped on the shoulder by his virtual ghost of a boyfriend, spinning around so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash with the task of regarding his boyfriend. He gets in a half revolution before Kiyoomi is dropping his head to the blond's shoulder.
Against the crook of his neck, Atsumu feels long lashes flutter - a sigh escapes him at the content that hums low in his veins. In all the years of thinking that domesticity this disgustingly saccharine was far below him, Atsumu never once considered the possibility that it might become one of his favorite parts of life. Kiyoomi changes a lot of things for him though, so he shouldn't be surprised.
"Mornin' sleepyhead," Atsumu says, earning a light bite to his shoulder with canines so sharp they border inhuman. He rolls muscular shoulders but makes no move to adjust his absolute bastard of a boyfriend - the heavy affection strikes again, the instrument of his inevitable downfall. "Yer a menace."
He used to think that a boyfriend would be a cage, that if he couldn't reaffirm his standing as the second hottest playing in V. League volleyball, his self-image would sink and life would become as dull as watching paint dry.
The contradiction of the century came the first time Kiyoomi muttered "cute" over their third coffee date and he just felt so good about himself. Invincible, like he could fight the whole world with one hand tied behind his back. He didn't do that. He smiled, receiving the sneer that had been shot at him with grace.
From then on, Kiyoomi never ceased to make Atsumu feel so wholly worth it. He retains to this day that no one will ever fulfill such a basic need as well as his Omi-Kun does.
The universe decided that it was tired of him being a fuckboy - "Getting boring," it said. Consequently, it handed him Kiyoomi Sakusa on a silver platter and proceeded to goad, "Just wait, you'll see. It's gonna be fuckin' amazing."
Atsumu is a stubborn bastard, but he must admit that it was right. One year in and Kiyoomi has ruined him for anyone else in every and all ways. If they ever breakup, Atsumu might as well throw away the idea of a love life, for Kiyoomi holds his heart in callused spiker hands, and such precious things are not left behind in parting.
Atsumu admires the two cups of coffee that weight each hand evenly, a delicate balance.
"Ya want coffee or just gonna stay grumpy an' keep huggin' me?" Atsumu used to suppress smiles that weren't edged with smugness, an ingrained defense mechanism in case the unfiltered emotion isn't returned in full.
"Hug," Kiyoomi decides for them both.
One of the discoveries Atsumu will never get over is clingy morning Omi. The way the spiker tethers himself to Atsumu in any way shape or form possible will never cease to be one of Atsumu's most closely held truths.
No one else gets to see it. No one else gets to feel strong arms become pliant and soft around his waist. No one else gets to hear sleep-addled ramblings tumbling in abashedly from his lips. No one else gets to see Kiyoomi Sakusa's icy facade crumble away revealing the teddy bear beneath.
On many days, Atsumu barely resists the urge to scream I love you I love you I love you.
Today he swallows down the thick, overly sweet feeling with bitter black coffee he forgot to sweeten - Kiyoomi could care less. He likes his coffee the same way he likes people to think his soul is: bitter darkness.
In reality it's much more like a Starbucks latte, but Atsumu's an absolutely fucking amazing boyfriend, so he keeps that to himself.
They brush their teeth after that for reasons unknown it Atsumu, who thinks that their morning routine should come either before everything, or after everything. Not in between coffee and breakfast, like what kind of psychopath does that?
Whatever. If it makes his Omi happy, he's more than willing to go along with it.
He happily bounced along to the bathroom where two ceramic cups sit on either side of the sink, a point of symmetry and simplicity that Atsumu never expected to adore so much.
They set about their routine like they always do, plucking their brushes from their holders in sync, practices and choreographed.
Kiyoomi brushes his teeth like he does everything else in life: organized with measured movements, timing how long he brushes each row of teeth for and keeping a consistent pattern. Atsumu also brushes his teeth like he does everything else in life: haphazardly without plan, minty foam coating his lips as he gives his boyfriend a bright grin through the mirror.
Kiyoomi scrunches his nose, but the action is too fond to hold any real disgust.
They wash out their mouths, dry their lips, and Atsumu's never been or known a happier man than he is in this moment. Too happy to describe in flimsy words. Too happy seeing as all he really did was perform a basic hygienic task. Too happy and doing nothing to change that fact.
Atsumu swipes his phone from the bedside table before bouncing back out into their open floor plan living room. He stands in the middle of it, where the kitchen, living room and dining room melt into one.
It's a minute later when Kiyoomi follows his lead that Atsumu's giddiness drops to the floor and shatters. When his six-foot-something boyfriend (Atsumu refuses to admit that he likes the slight height difference, that he enjoys having to tip himself up slightly to kiss his Omi-Kun) walks into the room looking like someone just ran over his dog, dread curls itself around Atsumu's stomach faster than you can say 'totally fucked'.
It isn't any of Kiyoomi's words exactly, just the solemn expression marring beautiful features as he says,
"You hear me."
Stall, his brain screams even though he has no reason to take the flying jeté to conclusions that he is. But Atsumu was never trained for serious situations and heavy conversations. So he does what any conflict-averse chucklehead would do and...he stalls.
"Uh, yeah, my ears'r workin' fine," he says, but he's turning off his phone and giving his full attention to the spiker. He may be a master at dodging precarious emotional situations, but Kiyoomi deserves the best version of him, deserves the attentive boyfriend they both know Atsumu can be.
Kiyoomi breezes past the small roadblock, pushing the conversation along despite the hidden meaning squashed between the words of Atsumu's jest.
"What I say, you hear me, when you're..."
Oh...that.
Atsumu doesn't have a read on the situation, has absolutely no way to see what's lying beneath the surface of ink black eyes. It's swirling like a hurricane, but whatever it is remains a mystery to the setter.
He'll do it. He'll take the leap of faith for his boyfriend, the initiative. Kiyoomi will catch him, both of them know that. It's a fact as ingrained in their relationship as their taunting and teasing, as their endless competition. Kiyoomi, even if Atsumu fucks this up real goddamn good, Kiyoomi will always pick him up off he ground and be there to hold him through it.
"...Not actually asleep."
The spiker's nose wrinkles with discontent, and Atsumu thinks it might just be okay. That this conversation will turn out fine.
"Well, I realize that now," Kiyoomi grumps, arms folded.
There's a moment of nothing, just still silence strung taut between them. Atsumu wants to break it with a joke of a kiss, swallow whatever stupid words are on his lips and save the hard conversations for another time. But Atsumu always uses that get out of jail free card whenever he's uncomfortable.
This time, he decides he'll be patient, and he'll wait, and he'll talk and spit out all the feelings that make him stupid and dumb.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Kiyoomi says finally into the silence, and it's so much easier of a question than Atsumu was expecting.
He's almost giddy with it.
"Well...I just figured if ya aren't ready ta say somethin' out loud, yer probably not read fer me ta respond," it's always been as simple as that. If Kiyoomi isn't ready for something, Atsumu is okay with that, he's okay with waiting until the day he dies, because that's how Atsumu knows how to love: patiently, unwaveringly, unconditionally. "An'...I'm okay with waitin'."
Kiyoomi just stares at him like he's from another planet, completely uncomprehending. Atsumu can't fathom why - in the back of his mind, he's always wondered if anyone has ever loved Kiyoomi Sakusa like he should be loved, if Atsumu is meeting the bare minimum of what his Omi-Kun deserves.
Soft lips fall slightly parted, dark eyes grow somehow darker and lighter, wider and brighter than they were before. Atsumu revels in it. He drowns himself in the fact that he's literally witnessing the melting of Kiyoomi's walls, that he's the one to break them down.
"Atsumu," Kiyoomi snaps him from his own head, bringing him back to beautiful reality - Kiyoomi all handsome and shirtless, constellations of moles highlighted, golden and glowing by the soft sunlight streaming through their floor-to-ceiling windows. Atsumu wants to kiss every one of those moles, worship each one and shower them with the attention they deserve.
Beautiful.
"Omi?" He's stupidly breathless.
"I love you," the words are sweet and gorgeously crafted in his boyfriend's tongue. Kiyoomi is looking at him like he's worth every star in the endless cosmos.
Atsumu smiles, basically beams outright with no attention spared to his ego.
"I love ya too."