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Atsumu grew drunk after the third cup of mulled wine, and he turned quiet and clingy and curled himself around Shouyou on the couch before promptly passing out. Shouyou deliberated falling asleep like this: the lights low, the air warm and tingling with the lingering smell of spices, the living room a littered mess. The two of them, not yet showered, Atsumu still smelling like the inside of an airplane.
But in the end he untangled himself from Atsumu’s heavy limbs and climbed off the couch to tidy the living room. Gathered the half-empty cups, collected the wrappers, turned on the tap at the sink. He rinsed the cups under the warm water and remembered when he opened the door today and saw Atsumu. He’d slung a travel bag over his shoulder, his hair mussed; he’d looked like he had a thousand words ready on his tongue and yet couldn’t find any the moment he saw Shouyou, so he only stood, embarrassed.
I just missed you.
He’d come all the way from Japan, just like that. Just like that, he was standing before Shouyou, all six feet and 1.9 inches and cow-licked dyed blond hair. Shouyou couldn’t find words; his heart was swelling out of his chest and brimming out of proportion. He would have dusted the snow off Atsumu’s shoulder except it was summer here in Brazil, there was no snow, only the perpetual lingering warmth of dusk, and Atsumu shuddered lightly in it when he shrugged off his shirt in Shouyou’s living room, laughing a little, self-conscious. They cooked mulled wine at Atsumu’s insistence, like how those fancy Europeans do it, and added more oranges than should be legally allowed, and then even more spoonsful of sugar when Atsumu learned he couldn’t stand the taste of all the spices.
And how could Shouyou refuse? How could he refuse anything? They jestingly waltzed around Shouyou’s tiny living room, and Atsumu’s arms under the short sleeves of his t-shirt were as warm as the summer outside. It’s funny, how Shouyou missed him the most at this moment, when he was right here in his arms; that ache swelled before it was soothed, like the tender flesh of unripe fruits.
He placed the cups upside down on the drying rack and climbed back onto the couch, hands still slightly wet. Atsumu was sleeping like a rock. He’d never been able to hold much alcohol. Shouyou touched his nose to Atsumu’s neck; he smelt like red wine, like oranges. He smelt just like how Shouyou smelt, he smelt like summer. And if the night had to end then they still had a few more hours, and Shouyou would hold them in his very hands, he would sink himself in them so seconds became forever. He buried himself back into Atsumu’s arms.
In sleep, Atsumu pressed his face closer to Shouyou, and the weight that wrapped Shouyou in was a solid one.