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Kiyoomi isn’t a prude about where he has sex.
He prefers beds as the most practical option, but he’s gotten adventurous before—couches, showers, and desks have all seen their fair share of his exploits, especially recently, along with the occasional romp on the floor or against a wall. There was even last month’s particularly memorable incident involving the sharehouse washing machine during its spin cycle.
It’s just that all of those instances have been within the confines of his or his partner’s home. Somewhere predictable, clean, and—most importantly—private.
He is not the sort of person who has sex in public.
He’s definitely not the sort of person who finds himself inside of a cramped stall in a lesser-used bathroom of a seedy club, pushing his teammate, housemate, and somewhat-recent friend-with-benefits up against the wall with a thigh slotted between his legs and a hand shoved up his shirt, sucking a hickey into the side of his neck.
Apparently desperate times call for desperate measures.
And Kiyoomi won’t deny that these are decidedly desperate measures.
He’s fully aware just how desperate, too—how even though the stall door’s closed, anyone who walks in would still hear them, the music of the club not quite loud enough to block out the sounds of wet lips and shuddering breaths, how people could come in to use the other stalls mere feet away, how any of their friends could walk in and recognize their shoes in seconds. How getting caught could have consequences ranging from highly embarrassing to public indecency charge.
It’s just impossible for him to care about that when Miya laughs breathlessly in his ear and grinds down against his leg.
“Never took ya for the jealous type, Omi,” he teases, one hand tangling in Kiyoomi’s curls, the other seizing his ass to pull him impossibly closer. His voice is pitched low, just loud enough for Kiyoomi to hear him over the muted bass thudding through the bathroom’s walls. “Not that I’m complainin’.”
Kiyoomi finally separates from Miya’s neck, admiring the dark purple-and-red bruise already blooming under his skin. It’s high up—high enough that it’ll be impossible to hide during practices. High enough that Miya won’t be able to look in a mirror for days without it being the first thing he sees.
“Not jealous.” He runs his hand higher, rolling Miya’s nipple between clever fingers and reveling in how the other man tries to swallow a moan. “I’m just sick of waiting.”
It’s partially true. Between Miya’s twin visiting during the first half of the week and practices going late leading up to yesterday’s game, it’s been a full week since they’ve had the time and privacy to hook up. It’s the longest they’ve gone since… well, since that night half a year ago, when Kiyoomi had kissed Miya on the kitchen floor and started this whole thing, he realizes.
Before that, he’d hardly even notice a month without sex.
Now, seven days feels like an eternity.
Miya draws him into a kiss, the kind he knows Kiyoomi loves—rough, filthy, more teeth and tongues than lips. He tastes like vodka soda, sharp and sweet, and Kiyoomi naively hopes that this means Miya’s accepting his answer at face value.
Fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his head back far too soon, and one look at Miya’s smirk reminds Kiyoomi that hoping he’ll drop something is about as fruitful as wishing he could fly.
Both are nice fantasies, but ultimately are wastes of time.
“Aww.” Miya presses a kiss to the tip of Kiyoomi’s nose, holding him in place with infuriating ease when he tries to dodge. “Ya missed me that much?”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, scowling. “I missed sex,” he snaps. “No need to flatter yourself.”
Another partial truth. He can admit he wants Miya physically; anybody with working eyes and an even fleeting attraction to men would, and Kiyoomi has extensive first-hand knowledge of his skills in the bedroom to keep him wanting to come back for more.
It does absolutely nothing to stop Miya from flattering himself. “It hasn’t been that long, ya know.”
He leans in, nosing along Kiyoomi’s jaw, brushing his throat with soft lips, tracing over his pulse point with a feather-light tongue—a wordless reminder that he knows exactly how to drive Kiyoomi insane.
Kiyoomi can’t hide the whimper that escapes when Miya nips sharply at his earlobe. He definitely can’t hide the way his hips jump, desperately seeking friction for his aching cock. “Miya—“ he grinds out, and he’s not sure if it’s a warning or a plea.
He’s not sure if it matters.
The hand on his ass guides him to roll slowly against where Miya is straining in his own pants. “I think ya missed more than just my dick.”
Kiyoomi can feel him smile against his neck and tries to brace himself for whatever stupid shit is about to come next.
“I think seein’ that guy grind up on me made ya so fuckin’ jealous, you couldn’t even wait ‘till we got home t’ let me fuck you.”
Kiyoomi’s hips stutter out of the rhythm Miya set.
He can’t admit that he missed Miya.
They’re friends with benefits; they fuck like animals whenever they get a chance, they hide it from everyone they know, and they never talk about it. It’s just so they can blow off steam. Because it’s fun, because it’s convenient, because they’re comfortable with each other, because it’s easy.
It’s not anything serious.
It’s not the kind of arrangement where Kiyoomi can ever, ever let Miya find out that his favorite part is after the sex is over—when they’re half-drunk on exhaustion and endorphins, trading hushed whispers in the dark, tangled together in their own private universe.
He definitely can’t admit that seeing Miya dance with that handsome stranger made him jealous, either. He doesn’t have any claim here, shouldn’t expect to. No matter how many times they wake up in the same bed, no matter how strongly some insane animal instinct urges him to mark Miya as his, he isn’t.
But he also can’t lie.
Miya can read him too well. A denial might as well be an open admission.
Miya knows it, too. Kiyoomi feels that smile turn to a wicked smirk, teeth grazing against his neck.
He doesn’t need to hear Kiyoomi’s answer.
A split second later Miya is behind him, pushing him chest-first up against the inside of the stall. “I’m tired of waitin’ too, Omi.” He presses up along Kiyoomi’s back, hips rocking against Kiyoomi’s ass to make his point. “You missed my cock so bad, seems like I should give it to ya.”
Kiyoomi bites back a whimper, squeezing his eyes shut. He won’t give Miya the satisfaction. He tries to focus on the fact that he’s touching a bathroom stall, probably crawling with germs—this place is disgusting—
“Yer actin’ like such a slut.” Miya slips a hand to rub over the front of Kiyoomi’s pants, feeling him harden at the words. “So desperate to get fucked, aren’t ya, baby?”
Kiyoomi bites his lip hard, pressing forward against Miya’s palm. It feels too good not to.
Lips press against the side of his neck, sucking lightly at the spot that makes Kiyoomi’s knees weak. “Say it,” Miya purrs. “Say yer my slut. Beg for me to fuck you.”
Kiyoomi tastes blood when he bites harder. He shakes his head, even as his hips betray his desire with little helpless twitches. He can feel Miya’s dick burning against him through their pants. He wants it so badly.
He won’t say it.
“Omiiii,” Miya sing-songs.
“‘M not—“ Kiyoomi cuts himself off when another thrust threatens to make him groan aloud.
He won’t.
“Ya are.” Miya’s free hand strokes along Kiyoomi’s jaw, fingers brushing against his lips. “Ya know how deep I can get in this position. How good I can make ya feel.”
Kiyoomi tries and fails to not think about the time Miya had him like this inside their shower. How Kiyoomi had screamed himself hoarse as he came all over the glass. How Miya had laughed at him when his legs nearly gave out after, then helped him get clean before a second round between clean sheets.
He whimpers.
“Say it, an’ you can have me right now.”
He doesn’t want to.
He knows he will anyway.
“I’m—I’m a slut.” Kiyoomi’s face burns. He can’t tell if he hates himself or Miya more right now. “I need—just—please fuck me, Miya, please—“
Miya smirks against his neck. “See? Was that so hard?”
Kiyoomi definitely hates him more.
“Shut up and fuck me.” He tries to make it sound like a demand; it comes out closer to a plea.
Finally, thankfully, it seems like Miya’s gotten tired of teasing, too. “Alright, alright,” he whispers. His hands disappear for a moment, and Kiyoomi can hear a zipper being pulled down and some fabric rustling behind him. A second later Miya’s arms wrap around Kiyoomi’s waist, expertly flicking open his button and inching his pants down his hips.
Kiyoomi could cry in relief when his cock slips free of his underwear, already painfully hard.
Miya doesn’t touch him there, though, because he’s dedicated to being a fucking menace tonight.
Instead, he presses up against Kiyoomi’s back again, holding his own length to push between Kiyoomi’s thighs.
You know what, this is actually good too, Kiyoomi thinks dizzily. He squirms, moaning a little when he feels Miya’s tip press behind his balls.
“Shh, shh—gotta stay quiet, remember?” Miya murmurs, decidedly less obnoxious than he’d been a minute ago. At least he’s also worried about getting caught. “Can ya stay quiet for me, baby?”
There it is again—baby. Kiyoomi had barely noticed it the first time, but now it’s sending a hot flush across his face.
It’s new.
And fuck, he likes hearing it.
He nods. “I—I think so.” He turns his head enough to see Miya out of the corner of his eye and decides to try to level the playing field a little. “And if I can’t, you’ll just have to help me.”
Miya freezes for a half second, processing, before his cock twitches between Kiyoomi’s legs. “Oh, yer on somethin’ else tonight,” he purrs with a feral grin.
There’s a sound of tearing foil.
“I’ll make sure ya need my help.”
Kiyoomi almost does, immediately, when two lubed-up fingers rub against his hole, right above where Miya’s squeezed in his thighs. The only way he hides his shuddering gasp is by stuffing his wrist into his mouth.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Already takin’ two,” Miya observes, almost conversational as he sinks both fingers inside. His other hand lands in Kiyoomi’s hair, tugging at the curls. “A week’s not enough to tighten ya back up?”
Kiyoomi bites down around his arm, a whimper vibrating in his throat.
“Or were ya goin’ out, gettin’ fucked by strangers in club bathrooms like the cheap little whore you are?”
The fingers twist cruelly, pumping in and out, scissoring apart a little too quickly to be comfortable. It doesn’t matter; Kiyoomi moans into his makeshift gag anyway, trying to shake his head no.
“No?” Miya pulls out for just a second, pushes back in with three fingers that burn in the best way. Kiyoomi desperately hopes other people can’t hear the squelch of the lube. “So were ya fuckin’ yourself? Ridin’ a dildo, pretending it was me? Thinkin’ about how much ya wanted me inside you?”
Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes closed again. He doesn’t want to admit that Miya’s guess is spot on.
Miya interprets his lack of response correctly and laughs, low and dark. “Filthy bitch.”
The fingers slip out. Kiyoomi almost sobs at the loss until he feels Miya’s hips shift back, too.
There’s another tearing sound. A bit of shuffling. A pause.
He goes very, very still when the head of Miya’s cock presses against his rim.
“Ready?” Miya asks, slipping back into the softer tone he’d used to hush Kiyoomi. “Yer okay?”
Kiyoomi’s not sure he knows the answer to that. All he knows is that he’s desperate. “Please,” he whispers, hoarse. “I need it—I need you—“
Miya quiets him with a kiss as he slides in to the base.
Tiny whimpers bleed into Miya’s mouth in spite of Kiyoomi’s best attempts to stay quiet. He shudders, trying to catch his breath, trying to ground himself with hands pressed to the wall in front of him before Miya tears him to pieces.
Miya stays still, hands on Kiyoomi’s hips, lips hovering millimeters apart as he waits.
Second tick by. Kiyoomi feels himself relax, feels his head clear enough to regain some semblance of self control.
After a long moment, he nods. He doesn’t quite trust himself to speak.
Luckily, Miya doesn’t need his words.
“Good boy.”
Before Kiyoomi can react, Miya pulls halfway out and slams back in.
Kiyoomi’s mouth falls open as Miya sets a punishing pace. Even with his hips stopping just short of hitting Kiyoomi’s ass to minimize the noise, he’s so deep, rubbing harshly over Kiyoomi’s prostate with each stroke, filling him in a way that his toys couldn’t for the past week.
Counterintuitively, it’s easier to stay quieter with his mouth open. He’s able to let out harsh breaths in the place of moans, soft enough to be inaudible under the thumping bass from outside of the door. He scrabbled at the wall, arms shaking, trying to grab onto something solid. His head spins when he tries to rock back against Miya, only to find himself pinned solidly in place by Miya’s grip.
He can’t move.
All he can do is take it.
Miya, somehow, still seems perfectly capable of both speech and keeping a low volume, even as he switches from brutal snaps of his hips to a deep, dirty grind that has Kiyoomi seeing stars. “God, ya take me so fuckin’ well,” he growls into Kiyoomi’s ear. One of his hands snakes under Kiyoomi’s shirt, rubbing against his nipple, and somewhere in the back of his mind Kiyoomi wonders if it’s payback for pulling the same move on him earlier.
“Think about this all the time, y’know. Havin’ ya anywhere I want, anytime. Blowin’ you in the bathroom at team dinners, eatin’ you out in the showers after a game, bendin’ you over the bench in the locker room, touching’ you on the bus to games, fuckin’ you in the backseat of yer car—“
“Anywhere,” Kiyoomi chokes, trying desperately to stay quiet. “Anywhere you want.”
Miya’s groan is soft enough that only Kiyoomi can hear it. “Need me inside ya that bad, baby?”
“Yes—Miya, yes—“ He knows he’s getting a little too loud, but Miya doesn’t shush him. This bathroom’s mostly hidden, tucked into a little-used hallway Kiyoomi had found by chance. It’s about as private as they could get, given the circumstances.
And at this point, Kiyoomi honestly wouldn’t care if half the city was packed in here. Not if Miya keeps fucking him just like this.
“Need you—only you—“
“Yeah?” Miya sounds a little breathless. “Want me to be selfish? Keep ya all for myself? Make ya my personal fuck toy?”
“Oh—“ Kiyoomi moans dizzily, his untouched cock bobbing with each grind into him, a steady stream of precome leaking from the slit. “Yes, please—oh god, fuck—“
“You can have it.”
Kiyoomi’s stomach dips. He’s so close, he barely knows what Miya’s saying, barely knows what he’s saying—
“Call me Atsumu, an’ I’ll keep ya.”
There’s not a moment of hesitation in Kiyoomi’s mind. “Atsumu,” he babbles. “Atsumu, Atsumu, please—please, I’m gonna come—“
Atsumu keeps up that incredible steady grind as he kisses over Kiyoomi’s pulse point. “Good, baby. I want ya to. I wanna see you come for me.”
Kiyoomi feels insane, feral, nothing but raw, desperate sensation as Atsumu drives him closer and closer. “Right there—oh, fuck, don’t stop—Atsumu, I’m—“
THUD.
The music from outside suddenly spikes louder.
A hand slaps over Kiyoomi’s mouth moments before he tips over the edge.
“Omi? Tsum-Tsum? You guys in here?”
Kiyoomi whips his head around, staring at Atsumu with wide, terrified eyes. Atsumu looks back with equal horror, hips pressed to Kiyoomi, frozen mid-thrust.
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
Kiyoomi clenches every muscle in his lower body, desperately trying to hold back what’s already started.
He’s too late.
Atsumu flickers out of Kiyoomi’s view as his eyes roll back in his head.
His cock twitches, his hole pulses hard around Atsumu’s length, and fuck it feels different than a normal orgasm—weird, good, but different.
Even though he has no idea what’s happening to his body, Atsumu must, because he picks up a slow, gentle grind, pressing right where Kiyoomi needs it most to draw out the bizarre, overwhelming pleasure.
He’s vaguely aware of Atsumu shouting some sort of response to Bokuto, voice remarkably even for the circumstances. The words are totally lost to him, buried under the rush of blood in his ears and the effort of holding back moans behind Atsumu’s palm. Whatever it was must’ve been the right thing to say, though, because the door swings shut, taking the music with it just as Kiyoomi’s climax ends.
There’s another beat before Atsumu lets his hand fall away, pressing his forehead to Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Fuck. That was close.”
Kiyoomi pulls in a breath, trembling. He’s still hard. Still leaking precome onto the grimy tile floor. Atsumu still feels so good inside him, even without moving. Too good, even—no unpleasant edge of overstimulation creeping over his nerves.
It takes two tries to find his voice. “What… was that?”
“Oh, Bo was lookin’ for us, I told him ya drank too much an’ felt sick—“
“No, not—not that.” Kiyoomi makes a mental note to yell at Atsumu for that later. “I mean—what…”
Atsumu tilts his head, confused, until he follows Kiyoomi’s quick downward glance and flushes red from his hairline all the way to his collar, eyes stuck on Kiyoomi’s drooling cock.
“Fuck, did you come dry?”
“I—I don’t know?” Kiyoomi isn’t sure he has enough brainpower for this conversation. He’s never felt like this before, head somehow fuzzy from both his orgasm and his still-aching desperation to come—sensations he didn’t even know could exist simultaneously. It definitely isn’t helped by the fact that Atsumu’s still in him, hard and hot, and all he wants is for him to move. “That’s never happened before—I just—I felt like I came, but I didn’t—?“
He cuts off with an aborted yelp when Atsumu’s hips twitch, pressing into him.
“Does it still feel good?”
Atsumu’s voice is ragged, raw. He gives another little thrust that turns Kiyoomi’s mind to jelly. “Fuck, baby, that was so fucking hot, please say it still feels good, gotta fuck ya, please—“
Kiyoomi moans at Atsumu’s rambling, already overwhelmed. He knows he should be worried about someone walking in again after that way-too-close call, but every inhibition he’s ever is currently turning to sand and slipping through his fingers. “Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, so good, even better now, holy shit—“
Atsumu kisses Kiyoomi, hot and desperate, picking up that deep, head-spinning rhythm again and driving Kiyoomi back towards the edge faster than he thought possible. His mouth falls open, not able to kiss Atsumu back, not able to do anything but submit to the feeling. “Oh, fuck…”
“Gettin’ close, baby?” Atsumu’s own thrusts are getting sloppy, a telltale sign of his own impending climax. “Gonna come for me again?”
Kiyoomi moans helplessly, eyes crossing as the pleasure builds and builds, somehow impossibly higher than the first time. “Atsumu—oh, fuck—fuck, Atsumu—“
His vision goes white as he’s hit with the hardest orgasm of his life.
He doesn’t even try to stay quiet; he’s completely silent anyway, scream trapped in his throat as his cock kicks again and again, painting the wall in front of him. Atsumu sinks his teeth into Kiyoomi’s shoulder, muffling his own moans as he comes buried deep inside, working them both through it with jerky, uncoordinated movements.
They both fall quiet when Atsumu finally slows to a stop. The muted bass seeping through the walls seems quiet under their gasping breaths, under Kiyoomi’s pulse still pounding in his ears.
It’s Atsumu who breaks the silence.
“…Holy fuck.”
Honestly, that about sums up Kiyoomi’s feelings, too.
Miya leans against the door to the stall, watching as Kiyoomi tucks himself away and pulls his pants back up. “So.”
Kiyoomi fights back a grimace. This feels awkward. Uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel like it usually does after they hook up. The lights in here suddenly feel too harsh, reminding Kiyoomi of exactly where they are, what they did, and he suppresses a shudder. “So.”
He shoves off of the wall to face Miya.
His knees completely give up under him.
Miya curses, catching him before he can actually hit the floor—or worse, the toilet—and he’s newly horrified by the fact that he just had sex in the bathroom of a grimy club. He feels a little dizzy, still trying to process everything that just happened.
“I think I need to sit down.”
Miya curses again. “I don’t think ya wanna sit in here—fuck, c’mon—“
He pilots Kiyoomi out of the stall and over to the sinks with an arm around his waist, helping him up onto a drier patch of countertop. It’s not ideal, but it’s probably the cleanest surface available and Kiyoomi isn’t really in a headspace to care right now.
“Uh. Gimme a sec to clean up, yeah? I’ll be right back.”
Kiyoomi nods faintly. He watches as Miya dips back into the stall for a minute before reemerging.
He stops at the sink next to Kiyoomi, washing his hands thoroughly. From here, Kiyoomi can see the reddish-purple mark he’d left on his neck, stark under tanned skin.
He thinks about everything Atsumu said. All his teasing, his coy guesses at what was going on in Kiyoomi’s head.
Suddenly it feels so fucking obvious.
“I was jealous.”
The words come out without a second thought.
Miya pauses, blinking over at Kiyoomi with his hands half-dried. “You…”
“Because I missed you this week,” he adds.
He takes in a breath. Talking about his feelings has never really been his strong suit, but if he’s reading this right—and he hopes to god he is—then this is his chance. His rom-com confession moment, sitting on the sink counter in a public restroom, letting feeling come back into his legs as he hands his heart to the man he’s in love with.
It’s not necessarily how he pictured it going, but he’ll take what he can get.
“I missed being around you. Not just the sex, I mean, but the part after. When it’s just us talking and I can pretend we’re more than just… friends with benefits.”
Miya stares at Kiyoomi, wide-eyed. The paper towel is still clutched in his hands.
Kiyoomi speeds up, needing to make sure that he gets out everything he wants to say before he can panic and back out. “When I saw you dancing with that guy, I hated it. I know I don’t have any right to, but I did, and I wanted to—I’m not sure, remind you that I was there, I suppose, steal your attention back. I wanted you any way I could have you, and if that meant sex in a horrible bathroom stall, I would do it, because I want you.”
He swallows.
Now or never.
“I want to be yours. I want you to keep me.”
Miya blinks.
For the first time since they’ve met, he seems completely speechless.
Kiyoomi’s stomach sinks at the shock on his face.
Fuck.
He read it wrong. It was all just dirty talk, all just the meaningless stuff people say during sex, no real thought behind it.
It was nothing. This is nothing.
He stares down at his hands, suddenly unable to hold eye contact.
“…And if that was just something you were saying in the moment, I’m going to change my name and flee the country. Preferably to somewhere where nobody’s ever heard of volleyball.”
“Wait, jesus, fuck, don’t do that,” Miya says, his voice a little strangled. He takes a step closer, nearly between Kiyoomi’s knees, one hand hovering halfway to Kiyoomi’s cheek like he’s afraid to touch. “Shit, you—d’you mean it, Omi? Ya wanna be with me?”
Kiyoomi knows he can’t lie.
Miya knows him too well.
He nods, not looking up. Not trusting himself to speak.
Waiting for rejection.
Fingers press under his chin, tilting his head, and Miya’s mouth meets his.
It’s warm, gentle—no hint of teasing, no pent-up need, no desperation.
It’s the kind of kiss that Miya gives him right before they both fall asleep, when Kiyoomi’s eyes are closed, when Miya thinks he won’t remember in the morning.
It’s always been his favorite.
“I meant it, too.”
Kiyoomi’s heart skips a beat.
Miya continues. “All the stuff I said—“ another soft press of lips—“always wanted ya, even before we started this—“ another—“can’t believe makin’ ya jealous worked—“
Kiyoomi pulls back, frowning. “Wait, you planned that?”
He gets a shrug and a shameless grin, not an ounce of remorse on the other man’s face. “I mean, I wasn’t expectin’ the whole stall sexcapade thing, but I was hopin’ it’d maybe get ya to make a move.”
“Jesus, Atsumu—“ Kiyoomi shakes his head, but even with the horrible phrase of ‘stall sexcapade’ fresh in his mind, he can’t hold back his own smile. “I guess it did work.”
Atsumu’s grin widens, going a little wolfish. “So I’m officially Atsumu to ya now?”
Kiyoomi leans in, pulling him into another kiss. It’s a little deeper this time, a little hungrier. His legs squeeze around Atsumu’s hips. “Yeah. It does.”
“Good, ‘cause it got confusing when ‘Samu was visiting—“
“Please don’t talk about your brother right now.”
“Yeah, good call.“
One of Atsumu’s hands crawls under Kiyoomi’s thigh, starting to hitch it up around his waist as their lips part against each other, tongues slipping together—
“Hey, guys—oh! Omi’s feeling better?”
Kiyoomi nearly headbutts Atsumu in the face. They only avoid it through Atsumu jumping back at the same time, equally startled by the outburst behind them.
Apparently neither of them heard the door open this time.
Hinata blinks at them, tilting his head as they stare. “…What?”
He… doesn’t look surprised. Or shocked. Or scandalized.
Actually, he looks totally unfazed to have found his teammates making out on a bathroom counter.
Kiyoomi manages to recover first, remembering Atsumu’s earlier lie. “Nothing, sorry—yes, I’m feeling much better. We were planning to head home, actually.”
Hinata nods, face going grave. “That’s a good idea. You wouldn’t wanna get banned from the club for hooking up in here.”
“Good advice, Shou.” Atsumu nods back, equally serious, then looks to Kiyoomi. He holds out a hand. “Shall we?”
Kiyoomi reaches out and takes it. “Yeah.”
He slides off of the bathroom counter onto much steadier legs. He’s kind of bewildered by this whole interaction, but it feels like he’s better off leaving now and asking questions later. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of Atsumu’s hand in his, the way Atsumu lets their fingers intertwine, not letting go.
He smiles.
“Let’s go home.”
-
Early morning sunlight filters through Atsumu’s window, turning his hair to fine gold against his sheets. His limbs are tangled with Kiyoomi’s, bare skin warm and solid where they’re pressed together. He blinks at Kiyoomi with sleepy brown eyes, a soft smile on his lips.
He’s so beautiful. Kiyoomi can’t believe he’s his.
Atsumu reaches out a finger, gently pressing the crease between Kiyoomi’s eyebrows. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”
Kiyoomi shrugs. “Just… I’m glad we finally figured this out.”
He is. Even if it took them a while, he’s so, so happy they made it here eventually.
There is something else on his mind, though.
He hesitates. “But also… did it seem like Hinata… knew about us already?”
“So I wasn’t the only one pickin’ up on that!” Atsumu sits up, newly energized. “I didn’t tell anyone but ‘Samu about us, how the hell’d Hinata figure it out?”
“I don’t know, I only told Motoya—“
Kiyoomi’s interrupted by a low knocking sound near his head.
He and Atsumu both glance over just in time to hear Hinata’s voice, muffled but still perfectly understandable.
“We share a wall, guys! I can hear you!”
Kiyoomi and Atsumu exchange a look.
Kiyoomi bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to giggle.
Atsumu buries his face in his pillow with a mortified groan, and Kiyoomi completely loses it.
He tips his head back, cackling at it all—their pointless secrecy, their fears of getting caught, their cluelessness about everything. Atsumu’s whines of how it’s not funny only make him laugh harder, until Atsumu starts laughing, too.
It’s so stupid. They’re so stupid.
Kiyoomi doesn’t mind.
Unnecessarily desperate times had apparently called for unnecessarily desperate measures, but right now, sitting in bed with his boyfriend, laughing at their own absurdity, he can’t say he regrets it at all.