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It was sweat that woke Atsumu up. He opened his eyes while the rest of his body remained unmoving, blinking the dryness away as he skimmed around the room.
The room that wasn’t his.
He’d been there before, countless times. The scene wasn’t unfamiliar to him; he had memorized the shapes of the peeling paint in the corners of the walls by now. If he were a little more awake, he could probably say where in the closet was the stack of university textbooks that hadn’t gotten resold, or fetch a pen from its holder in the stationery drawer.
(Of course there was a drawer dedicated to pens and papers. Atsumu had even bought some cute washi tape, muted colors, something simple that reminded him of the handwritten letters he still sometimes saw in his mailbox—).
He sighed, making a face of disgust at the taste of his mouth. Some water would be nice. His head didn’t hurt, and he didn’t feel sore, for once, but he was hot, covered in thick blankets. The sun hadn’t been up for long—certainly not long enough to warm the room in the way the blond was feeling it.
“Who turned the AC off?” He mumbled, groggy, finally turning around to face the other side of the bed.
‘Kiyoomi’ served as the answer to the open question. He lay beside Atsumu, nearly naked (save for a pair of underwear snug against his hips, indenting those impossibly soft thighs), only his feet covered by the blankets that were swallowing Atsumu. He seemed to still be asleep. His lashes almost touched his cheeks, and the two moles on his forehead were covered by the indent in the pillow. Atsumu wandered.
His right hand reached out, gentle fingers brushing out the other’s dark and unruly curls (which he preferred over the wet look, honestly, but whatever was more convenient for Kiyoomi—). They grazed over his soft cheek, down his neck, circling along the line of his collarbone. The faint line of hair on his chest trailed down to his stomach, stopping just shy of the hem of his briefs. Atsumu was soft, smitten, nearly ready to get closer and shut his eyes for just a little longer.
“Do you always hog the blankets, or is that just with me?”
Atsumu’s heart picked up at the sound, and he looked to the other’s face, finding watery eyes staring back at him. He didn’t sound groggy.
“I’ve been told I have a bad habit of huggin’ in my sleep,'' he chose to say, sliding his hand back up Kiyoomi’s face. It settled at the nape of his neck, fingers touching the short hairs at the base. “‘Samu used to bring his own blanket when we shared the bed.”
“Thank you for warning me ahead of time.” His voice was flat. One hand was rubbing at Atsumu’s arm, and he was smooth in pushing it closer to his face, pressing a kiss to the warm skin. “I got cold last night.”
“Is that why ya left me to fend for myself under the sheets?”
Kiyoomi didn’t hesitate to roll his eyes. “You see how that could have been resolved, right?”
Atsumu kicked the blankets off. Kiyoomi smiled.
“Well.” Atsumu sat down; Kiyoomi observed the way the lean muscles in his back contracted with each stretch of his long arms. He only turned his head next, peeking at him. “At least tell me you enjoyed yerself last night.”
Kiyoomi was still looking at him, features neutral. He reached out, fingertips following Atsumu’s spine in a seemingly mindless action, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “It was fine. I didn’t expect you to be so vocal this time.”
Atsumu got out of bed, leaving Kiyoomi’s fingers in the air as he looked through his drawers. He could tell which vinyl was in the farthest end of the cabinet, but not where Kiyoomi kept his clothes, apparently. Kiyoomi remained quiet. As Atsumu wiggled into a pair of fresh underwear, he replied,
“Darlin’, I’m surprised you can’t tell by now.” He moved back to bed, diving down with half his body on top of Kiyoomi’s. He was trying to be sappy, kissing his cheeks as much as he could before Kiyoomi began trying to shove him off. “I’ll sing for you, Omi-kun! Any time, any place!”
Kiyoomi could only roll his eyes again at how dramatic the response was. He gave one more hearty shove, bouncing in his spot as Atsumu’s dead weight fell on the bed. “I really hate you. Just thought you should know that.”
A huff from Atsumu. He lifted his head, propping it up with one hand to take a better look at the man below him. “Why do you only say that after we fuck?”
“Do I?” Kiyoomi pretended to think, looking out the window. “You get really insufferable when your tosses are off, too.”
Now Atsumu’s head fell, cheek squishing against the pillow. “Omi. Yer not answerin’ my question.”
“Right.” Kiyoomi turned to his side, sneaking a leg in between Atsumu’s. He held his chin, then, inspecting his face—swollen eyebags and a pink nose, chapped lips, the hint of dry drool. Morning glory. “You don’t think when you’re horny. You get all dramatic and annoying the second the blood starts flowing back up to your brain.”
He was mirroring Atsumu’s pout. Neither of them moved; at most, the blond hitched Kiyoomi’s leg farther up, feeling at the skin of his thigh with his thumb. It took them a good while to build up the trust to do little things like these. There were days where Atsumu still felt insecure about it, date nights canceled because of Kiyoomi’s own ruminating thoughts and uncontrolled anxieties. They were pushing through it, for the most part.
“Yer real good at hurting my feelings.”
“I take pride in that,” Kiyoomi replied, carding his fingers through Atsumu’s hair. It was a soothing sensation, compared to the night before. “Are you going to cry about it? Ask me to kiss it better?”
“With that morning breath?” Atsumu’s brows, thick and unkempt, met in the middle. His hand was reaching for something atop the bedside table behind him. His cigarettes. “Positively not. What type of person do you think I am?”
Kiyoomi looked out the window again, separating himself from the other just long enough to crack it open. An invitation for him to smoke inside. Atsumu didn’t light the cigarette yet, waiting for whatever snarky response his lover would come up with.
“I don’t know if you recall how we got here last night, Miya. I suggest you don’t talk to me about unpleasant smells.”
That got a laugh out of both of them. It was small, as if they’d wake up an imaginary third person if they were too loud. The same method was used the night before—Kiyoomi had to cover Atsumu’s mouth, in a surprising turn of events.
“I’m sorry about that. I don’t tend to flirt next to Dumpsters,” Atsumu said after a pause, fingers picking at a corner of his cigarette pack. It could wait just a little longer. “As you can imagine.”
“Certainly. You must have really been desperate.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Atsumu’s lips pursed before he bit the lower one, a feeble attempt to not smile. He finally sat down and got a cigarette from the pack, lighting it. The smell filled the room in no time. He placed the pack back down on the nightstand, trading it for the tacky, low quality ashtray he’d brought over once.
(“If you’re going to keep up with that habit, could you at least be tidy about it?” Is the way Kiyoomi brought it up to him. Atsumu could only oblige.)
“When’d ya find the time to shower?” Atsumu looked down at the other, half his mind still replaying the night before. He was tired; he’d fallen asleep shortly after Kiyoomi wiped him clean, just a bit past midnight. “And how come I didn’t join?”
Kiyoomi was quiet. The good quiet, the one with pink cheeks and half-lidded eyes. If Atsumu had to guess, he was probably noticing that Atsumu noticed he showered. As if he wouldn’t.
“You were asleep. God knows how fussy you would have been if I woke you up for something like that.”
A hum. The cigarette ashes were tapped on the tray.
“Miya.”
“Yeah, baby?”
Rather than answering, Kiyoomi reached out and rubbed his back again, staying silent. Atsumu took another drag, patient. Baby, Omi, baby. Mental notes.
“The team knows by now, right?”
Atsumu scoffed. “I’d be offended if they didn’t. It ain’t exactly a secret.”
The pause in Kiyoomi’s movement was interpreted as a point conceded.
“Do you think Wakatoshi-kun knows?”
Atsumu brought the cigarette to his lips, contemplating the question. Soaking it in, as if he were analyzing the opposing team’s starting rotation. “I don’t think he has a clue. Have you told him?”
Kiyoomi shook his head as an answer. Atsumu didn’t see (he was looking at the shelf with the medals again), but he knew the answer. It felt implicit in the first place.
So he turned around, giving Kiyoomi his very best puppy-dog eyes, being ruined by the smoke coming out of his nose. “You haven’t told yer best friend in the whole wide world about our very romantic, very loving relationship, Omi-kun?”
Kiyoomi looked unphased. If he had his mask on, he’d look straight up irked. “Do you want me to also tell him of the time I had to clean vomit off you after a night out, darling? My shoes still smell. I might throw them out.”
“That was three months ago.” Atsumu moved closer to him, the tobacco dangling between his lips. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw ‘em in the nearest fire pit sooner.”
“I haven’t worn them since then,” the other offered. It wasn’t a confession. “I told Motoya.”
“About me vomiting? Is that why he keeps lookin’ at me weird when we meet up?”
“No.” He glanced at Atsumu. His lips were downturned, showing embarrassment. “Yes. He told me it was a funny mental image. But I mean that I told him about us. Apparently, it was obvious.”
“Your cousin’s the brains between you two.”
Atsumu barely saw the pillow coming his way before his shoulder was swatted with it. It was a soft blow, but he still made a noise of complaint, waving his cigarette in the air. The ashes seemed to disappear before reaching the sheets. He poked at Kiyoomi’s side in retaliation, dodging another hit by reaching over to the nightstand and putting the ashtray in its place.
He lay down, gentler this time, barely shifting the bed. Kiyoomi’s space always had a coziness to it; he often spent time wondering if it was the same in his home back in Tokyo. If things continued as they were, maybe he’d get the chance to find out for himself during the holidays.
“What are you smiling about?”
Atsumu turned his head to the side again, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Nothin’. I wanna kiss ya.”
His not-question was answered with a lazy lean of Kiyoomi’s body, pressing their lips together. The bit of smoke left in Atsumu’s mouth passed on to the other before dissipating in the air, and if it were any other day, they both would have probably taken it as initiation to foreplay. The mood didn’t call for it.
“You sure seemed eager,” the blond noted after pulling away, wiping a smidge of spit from Kiyoomi’s bottom lip. “Don’t mind the tobacco taste?”
Kiyoomi’s eyes wandered, showing he was really thinking about his answer. “Not really. My dad used to smoke cigars in his study, so I’m kinda used to the smell. It’s different, but… not.”
They nodded. The air seeping in through the window felt nice. It was early morning and late afternoon at once, and the sheets added just the slightest hint of an endless night between the two. Atsumu turned to his side again, moving Kiyoomi’s curls away from his forehead. “I wanna try somethin’.”
Neither man moved.
“What is it?”
Atsumu hummed, and tentatively, moved the filtered end of the cigarette closer to Kiyoomi, until it met his lips. The interaction was almost automatic then, as if they had rehearsed the way he’d open his mouth, not breaking eye contact as he inhaled the last bit of smoke the paper could offer. It was exhaled just as seamlessly, like a condensed sigh in the middle of winter. Watching him made Atsumu’s hairs stand on end—their new secret, a new side of the volleyball superstar only meant for him to see.
“Jesus, Miya, what is it with you and staring?”
“Have you just been keeping it a secret from me that you smoke?”
Kiyoomi furrowed his brow. He sat down, grabbing the cigarette butt from Atsumu and reaching over to put it out on the ashtray. “In the six months we’ve been—”
“Dating?”
“—hooking up, when have you seen me smoke?”
Atsumu gave him a bored look. It’d be a bad move if he decided to nudge his stomach or ribs now. He had to strategize. “I think it’s safe to say we’re kinda dating.”
“We’ve gone on dates.”
“I spend more nights here than in my own place. I’m about to move my plants to yer livin’ room to make sure they won’t dehydrate.”
Kiyoomi flicked him in the ear. Atsumu flicked him back, barely flinching. He had years of practice under his belt. “Stop avoiding my question.”
“Never,” Atsumu answered then, sitting down. “I have never seen you, Kiyoomi Sakusa, collegiate MVP—”
“Get to it.”
Atsumu smiled. He was getting better at knowing when he was really bugged and when it was just for show. “You don’t smoke now. Did ya stop recently?”
“A little before moving to Osaka. I never smoked things with nicotine, it was mostly…” his hands waved around in the air a bit. It was rare to see him at such a loss for words. “Ah, just herbal stuff. Helped with the college stress and whatnot.”
“Huh.” Atsumu sniffed, making the mental image of Kiyoomi concocting a blend of dried leaves and rolling them into a not-cigarette. Kiyoomi only nodded in response. “When are we gonna solidify this?”
“Whenever you can actually receive one of my serves. Or maybe when Wakatoshi figures it out, whichever one happens first.”
“Low blow, Omi-kun.”
“Always a pleasure, Miya.”
Atsumu rolled his eyes. There was no ill intention or aggravation behind the action, just… a knee jerk reaction to Kiyoomi getting the last word. “Six months whizzed by, huh?”
Kiyoomi hummed a yes. “Think you’ll last the year?”
Atsumu looked around the room again. His jeans were hanging over the desk chair. The unopened box of face masks he bought as a precautionary method was on top of the dresser, right beside a picture frame with a collage of pictures—Kiyoomi and Motoya, Kiyoomi with his siblings, Omi with Atsumu. His heart swelled.
“Will I be able to call you my boyfriend then?” He looked to the other, arching a brow. “Ma didn’t raise a quitter, just so ya know.”
“Negative. I’ll start calling you Miya-san in public.”
They giggled.
“You don’t gotta twist my arm like that, sweetheart.” Atsumu’s motions were slick, automatic, slinging one arm across Kiyoomi’s shoulders and using his other hand to cup his cheek and bring him close. A wet kiss was planted on his face, and Kiyoomi groaned, trying to shove him away again.
“You’re so disgusting, I swear—”
“Oh, Omi, that’s not what you were sayin’ last night—”
A wail from Kiyoomi. A loud laugh from Atsumu. They tussled in bed for a minute, trying to swat at each other while one of them continuously tried kissing the other. They both eventually gave up again, low chuckles rumbling in the room at their situation.
They’ll push through it.