Work Text:
“So he’s got this corpse, and he doesn’t know what to do with it-”
You lay a pair of tights over your hanging rack, and then another, listening to the tinny voices blaring from your phone and feeling the dryer rumble next to you, nearly completed. It’s your last load of the day and you’re beyond grateful. It’s been a long one, and you’ve felt yourself grow more and more weary as it’s gone on, made worse by the stubborn overcast skies that have threatened rain for most of the day.
You wish it would just commit to storming. Then, at least, you’d have the chance to break out of this sluggish energy that’s been dragging you down all day into something actually peaceful.
A click from your front door permeates your brain fog just enough to make you start.
You turn away from your laundry and peek out into the hall to see Kiyoomi toeing off his sneakers. He looks up at you wordlessly, exhaustion evident in the lines of his face under the harsh light of your entryway. He’s holding two to-go cups in one hand, so he lifts his free one for a small wave, before stepping into the kitchen.
Right, your brain supplies as Kiyoomi pulls his disposable mask off and drops it in the trash can next to your fridge. It’s Sunday.
Sundays for you are usually chill, albeit sometimes dreary, your standard laundry slash get your life together before Monday day. Sundays were for sleeping off the Saturday hangovers, catching up on the podcasts you’d missed from the week while dusting every possible surface in the apartment, and double checking your inbox for missing assignments.
Sundays for Kiyoomi however, meant evening weight training, an experience he abhors with every fiber of his being.
Now, the lifting weights part wasn’t bad. Kiyoomi was an elite level athlete, he was no stranger to the methodical and tedious parts of maintaining his impressive physique. He did plenty of training on his own too, at least three times a week outside of usual practice, in the early morning while you were snoozing away in bed.
No, what was difficult for him was group weight training. Training where he wasn’t alone in the gym and therefore couldn’t stop to disinfect every machine before and after use. You know he’d tried pulling his usual lines, insisting that it was in the best interests of everyone on the team if they practiced proper gym etiquette but he’d been vetoed almost immediately by the coaches the third time he made them stop so wipe down something.
So he was forced to concede, despite his obvious discomfort, for the sake of efficiency.
Your lips purse at the thought. Inefficient was not a word you would use to describe your boyfriend, methodical and dramatic, yes. But inefficient? It was almost laughable.
You finish dumping the contents of the dryer into your pink laundry basket and prop it on your hip, closing the door swiftly before moving into your bedroom. Kiyoomi isn’t there yet so you drop the basket on your bed, flick on the lamp, and make your way to the kitchen, filled with purpose.
He’s standing by your island, staring down at the granite with unseeing eyes and a telling grimace. He hadn’t bothered turning the lights on so you don’t either, sidling up to him with what you hope is a reasonably blank expression. You stand a few inches away, hands spread on the counter, itching to touch.
“Hey.” You try, peeking at him out of the corner of your eye.
The smallest hint of a smile cracks through the grimace, accompanied by an even smaller exhale of a laugh. He flips his hand upwards towards you and you jump at the opportunity to link your fingers together.
“Hey.” His hand is so warm. If you focus you can just make out a hint of your lavender hand soap mingling into his usual warm, clean scent. “Got you a tea. The one with the lemonade.” He nods towards the two mugs on the counter, he must have rummaged through your cabinets and poured the contents of the to-go cups in while you’d been in the laundry room.
You mean to say something along the lines of awww thanks or, you shouldn’t have, but he looks so soft and sweet and clean that all you can blurt out is, “can I have a kiss?”
The first real smile of the night finally shatters Kiyoomi’s cool expression and he’s turning towards you with no preamble, sliding his free hand behind your back to tug you in close for a gentle kiss that makes your lashes flutter closed.
It’s over before you know it, but Kiyoomi’s hand stays on your lower back while your blush of surprise finally catches up to you. It creeps up your neck and you suck your cheek in between your teeth to reign in the dopey grin that always follows kisses from Kiyoomi. You want another.
He’s still got that little half smile on, and he tightens his fingers around yours almost imperceptibly before continuing, “I got decaf but I’m a little suspicious of it. I might have to raid your cabinet for a substitute.” He says it with a put-upon air, exhaling with an honest to god pout while you try and process what he’s saying while your heartbeat pounds in your ears.
“You’re welcome to anything,” you manage after a few seconds, picking up your mug and bringing it to your face to distract you from Kiyoomi’s plush lower lip. Sweetness explodes on your tongue at the first sip and you hum happily. “I have some decaf pods lying around here somewhere, or I just got this new peppermint tea that’s pretty good if you wanna try tea.”
You have to detangle your hand from Kiyoomi’s to turn your electric kettle on and find your new box of tea, but after you plop the teabag into his now-empty mug you grab at it again.
“Come on.” You tug him from the kitchen down the hallway. “We both know why you’re here. I just remade my bed before you got here so they’re fresh and clean.”
He follows closely behind you, the gentle drag of his socked feet nearly silent against your wood floors. “Am I that predictable?” He teases, squeezing your hand a little tighter before letting it fall.
It trails down the side of your hip as it goes. You suppress your shiver.
“If there’s one thing you are, Kiyo, it’s consistent.”
He huffs at that, a little puff of air from his nose that you’re almost positive is amusement. You don’t read into it, choosing instead to hoist the laundry basket off of the bed and onto the floor.
You’re glad he’s found his way over here on Sunday nights, as of late. Both for his sake, and yours.
“Mind if I keep listening to my pod? It’ll be quiet.”
“Of course not. Pretend I’m not here.”
Like it’s that easy.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he sheds his sweatshirt, folding it carefully and placing it on the chair next to your window. His t-shirt comes off next, then the track pants and his thick wool ankle socks, and before you know it Kiyoomi is tugging your quilt out of its meticulous folds and climbing into your bed with a grunt.
The word cute permeates your consciousness like an intrusive thought as you watch him snuggle in, face squishing against the gray silk pillowcase he’d given you a few months ago. You gulp and fumble in the pocket of your shorts for your phone as he huffs a contented breath, tapping the screen to start up where you’d left off on your podcast.
Your speaker is still in the laundry room so you leave the room to grab it, stopping by the kitchen to pour Kiyoomi’s tea. He grunts in acknowledgement when you whisper that it still needs to steep, and you don’t try to resist the urge to run the pad of your thumb over the cheekbone not currently squished into the pillow.
It’s soft and warm, but you don’t linger. Your podcast drones on while you plop down on the floor to fold the rest of your laundry, matching your socks and folding your underwear into neat little rectangles that fit perfectly in your drawers. Once your clothes are put away you turn off the lamp and putter around the apartment picking up the last bits of clutter from the week, sipping your own tea as the two hosts wrap up that weeks horrible, gruesome murder.
Kiyoomi snoozes through it all. Every time you pop your head inside your room he looks the same: face relaxed and contented, chest rising and falling with his soft breaths.
It hurts to pull your gaze away every time, but at least now your apartment is clean and you can join him under the covers after a quick shower.
It’s raining in earnest when you step back into your room, wrapped in a fluffy robe and skin dewey from the lotion you’d rubbed in after your shower. You can hear the steady patter of rain outside your cracked window, but Kiyoomi makes no indication that he wants to close it so you leave it alone in favor of locating a pair of cotton panties from your dresser and tugging them up your legs.
You’re staring down at your drawer of potential sleep shirts when Kiyoomi finally speaks up again.
“Hurry up.”
Your eyes flick to him and he’s pouting, brows creased with clear annoyance at the fact that you’re not jumping into bed with him. The eye roll you give in return doesn’t do much to change his expression, but you didn’t think it would, so you simply pluck his own tee shirt from the pile of clothes on your chair and pull it on over your torso.
He’s sprawled out in the center of your bed so once you get close enough he simply pulls the quilts off his body so you can slide into the warmth of his arms.
The exhale he lets out as you slot in place has you sighing yourself, hoisting a hip over his and snuggling into his broad chest, head on his bicep. It’s so warm under the covers, his own body heat warming you up steadily as he wraps an arm around your torso.
“You took too long.” He murmurs, hooking his chin over the top of your head. “I had half my tea before you even got here.” You fidget around in his arms with a giggle, getting your restless energy out before the comforting weight of Kiyoomi becomes a vice you’ll have no hope of escaping.
“I had to shower, Kiyo. I knew you wouldn’t have been this sweet if I came in here all sweaty.”
“Of course I would have.” He states, almost offended, slipping his hand underneath your (his) shirt and dragging it up your back, warm and broad. You shiver at the feeling. “I kissed you when I got here, didn’t I? And I held your hand. You were sweaty then.”
“That’s totally different.” You laugh gently again, pulling your chest away from his and peering up at him. He looks down at you, blearily, so you hoist yourself up on the pillow so your face is inches from his own. He’s so close, breath warm and smelling softly of peppermint tea. You kiss him, a tiny press of lips you can barely help, and he closes his eyes.
“Whatever.” He mumbles against your lips, nosing along your face while you try and fail to tamper down your dopey grin. “You’re here now, so can we just cuddle and go to sleep? We can talk about me sucking later.”
You’ll have to get up at some point to close the window before it gets chilly, or maybe Kiyoomi will, citing the potential of mold growth on your windowsill. But the task feels lightyears away in the face of Kiyoomi’s soft breaths mingling with yours, and comforting weight of your quilt, and how you seem to fit like puzzle pieces in your fullsized bed despite how big he is against you.
“You don’t suck.” You mumble, tongue already feeling thick with sleep in your mouth. You yawn and close your eyes, rolling over onto your other side and scooting until your back rests against Kiyoomi’s front and he wraps his arms back around you. “In fact, I don’t know anyone who sucks less than you.”
A rumble of a laugh, just barely shaking in his chest. He noses along the back of your neck, where the fine hairs at your nape are still slightly damp from your shower. You shiver again, and he pulls you impossibly closer.
You’ll deal with the window later.