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Two men stand beside each other on the ocean shore, staring into each other’s smoldering eyes. Waning sunlight dapples their bare chests, highlighting the fine lines of their taut muscles, and dark blue waves lap at their feet. It’s a still image, but the tension does not need much more than a singular look. They belong to one another. Maybe their love is new. Maybe it has a long, storied history. Maybe their love is a jumbled mess like a thousand choppy waves. That matters very little.
What matters is that the two men are hot.
Kiyoomi tosses the romance novel onto the table and clicks his tongue. “I’m not reading that.”
Yachi slides the book back toward him. “Why not? I think you might like it.”
Kiyoomi taps the man’s abs on the book cover. “What would ever make you think I would want to read this?”
Yachi flips over the book and points at the synopsis. “See for yourself.”
Kiyoomi skims the summary for only a second before shoving it away from him. “Is this your subtle way of expressing your disapproval of my relationship?”
“I don’t disapprove of your relationship,” Yachi says with a sad smile. “I don’t like that you’re unhappy.”
He stares at the small print on the back cover. The plot sounds generic, a seaside romance filled with secrets and drama. That doesn’t stand out to him. What does are the three words qualifying the fictional men’s relationship:
Friends with benefits.
“I’m not unhappy,” Kiyoomi says stiffly. Yachi’s sad smile grows unbearably sympathetic, and he clarifies, “I’m not unhappy with my relationship with Miya. If I was—if—I wouldn’t find answers in a romance novel.”
“Where would you find answers?”
“I don’t need to find answers,” he says with a cross look. “I’m not unhappy.”
Yachi chews on her bottom lip and toys with a stray piece of blonde hair, her knee bouncing underneath the table. Her apprehension around Kiyoomi, whom she initially found terrifying, has abated over the course of their unlikely friendship, but now she is a fireworks display of nerves.
“What is it?” Kiyoomi asks in his best attempt to sound neutral rather than exasperated. “Say what’s on your mind.”
She takes a small sip of her iced coffee and leans forward, planting both elbows on the table. Voices from a nearby table suddenly rise in pitch and rumble with laughter, and the espresso machine behind the counter whirs and hisses with steam. On another day, these everyday sounds would fade to the background and provide comfort. Today, the coffee shop is an explosion of vibrating, high-pitched sounds that set Kiyoomi at unease. Yachi lowers her voice and says, “Whenever you talk about him, it looks like something is bothering you. You might not necessarily be unhappy, but you aren’t content.”
Kiyoomi curls his hands into fists and grits his teeth. “Nothing is bothering me.”
Yachi’s eyes flit to Kiyoomi’s fists and then linger on his tensed shoulders, and he wants to bang his head against the table and scream.
He is not sure when it happened, if it was a recent occurrence or an underlying insecurity quietly growing over months and months without detection until now. He can’t speak to its origins, but he knows what it is: dissatisfaction.
He is dissatisfied with his relationship with Miya Atsumu.
He wishes he could say their sexual arrangement came about by accident after months of sexual tension. That would be a lie. Their attraction was immediate. Atsumu’s childish nicknames for him and even more childish personality did not lessen that attraction. Their competitiveness and arguments were fuel, not water. All it took was Kiyoomi getting tipsy enough to kiss him after a team celebration at a bar, which led to the hottest kiss and then later the hottest sex of his life.
Since then, that’s been the extent of their relationship: sex. Kiyoomi leaves his dorm room unlocked at night for Atsumu to come over (almost every night), they have sex (half of the time), they cuddle afterwards while bickering or watching television (every time), and then fall asleep together (a rare occurrence a few months ago but now much more frequent). Kiyoomi classified Miya Atsumu as stress relief. That was all he was to him.
But ever since he saw him dancing with that girl at the bar—
Kiyoomi actually bangs his head on the table.
Yachi tentatively places her hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle pat. “You hate dishonesty.”
“Yes.”
“You’re lying to yourself,” she says softly. “It’s going to eat at you until you’re honest with yourself.”
“And how do you know that?” His voice is accusatory, but it’s too weak to land a meaningful blow.
“Because I’m your friend,” she says. “It’s also obvious.”
“What’s obvious?”
She taps his shoulder, and he begrudgingly rises to a sitting position again. Her smile softens, and her expression is concerned yet patient when she speaks with a firmer voice. “You like him.”
Kiyoomi picks up the novel and mindlessly thumbs through the pages, words both mundane and romantic flickering into view and then disappearing. “Define like.”
“Sakusa,” she sighs. “You know what I mean.”
The book falls open to a page toward the end of the story, and he grimaces when his eyes dance over the first sentence:
“As long as I love you like this, we can’t be friends.”
Kiyoomi slams the book shut and closes his eyes.
“Oh,” Yachi says.
“Don’t.”
“You love him.”
“Define love,” he says weakly.
“That’s something only you can define.”
That is not something Kiyoomi has ever had to define. Even most of his boyhood “crushes” he could chalk up to sexual desire or curiosity but never anything resembling limerence or love. It wasn’t like he could find a definition at home. His parents were never there, and they fought when they were. Kiyoomi was not afraid of love; he simply never found it necessary.
But if he were forced to define it, he would not build a definition out of words. He would build it out of images: platinum blond bedhead splayed across his pillow, lazy smiles and triumphant grins, eyes that grow dark with intensity or light with amusement, and pink cheeks after soft kisses or an unexpected compliment. He would build it out of sounds: uncontrollable laughter, teasing words in a Kansai accent, praises and taunts and reassurances, and a content sigh after sex. He would build it out of the smell of his shampoo, and he would build it out of the warm touch of his careful hands.
“I don’t know if I could call it love,” Kiyoomi says. When she raises her brow at him, he surrenders with slumped shoulders. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Hasn’t your ‘relationship’ been going on for a year?”
“More or less.”
“Then it’s not surprising,” she reassures him. “You see him all the time at practice, and then on top of that, what, a few more times at night?”
“Almost every night,” Kiyoomi corrects her.
“Oh.”
He wishes his face mask could swallow him whole or at least obscure the humiliating fear in his eyes. He is a careful person. He is cautious and fastidious and a realist. He should have never let it get this far. He should have at least known about it before reading a single sentence in a romance novel.
“Why are you so scared?”
“I’m not scared.”
“Why are you hesitant to be in a relationship?”
He taps his fingers against the table. “It would interfere with volleyball.”
“Is seeing him ‘almost every night’ interfering with volleyball?”
He clenches his fists. “No.”
“What are your other reasons?” she asks, her voice gentle and patient.
“I’ve never dated before. I don’t know how to do it.”
“You can learn,” she says. “Do you really think you can’t learn how to do that?”
Kiyoomi’s pride bristles at the question; he can learn anything if he applies himself. Underneath his pride, however, is fear. He can feel it now with each layer Yachi pulls back. It is not the fear of love or dating or other people.
It is the fear of losing him.
He looks up at the ceiling and frowns at a cobweb in the corner. “This conversation is irrelevant. If Miya is fine with our current arrangement, then there’s no point in considering my feelings about the alternative.”
“What makes you think he is fine with how things are now?”
“You’ve seen him enough to know,” he says, returning his disgruntled gaze to Yachi. “He says and does whatever he wants. If he wanted something different, he would have said so by now.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
He furrows his brow. “How can you say that?”
“Ever since I first saw him in high school, he’s terrified me,” Yachi says with a shiver. “You’re right. He talks without a filter, and he does what he thinks serves him and the team’s success best. But I see it from the stands. He’d do anything for you. You’re the one person he’d hold himself back for.”
Kiyoomi’s face warms, and he looks back down at the garish book cover. “Hold himself back?”
“Is it fair to assume you’ve never hinted at wanting to make your relationship official?”
“Yes.”
“Then he wouldn’t want to pressure you,” she explains. “He’d wait for you to make the first move.”
“I don’t think he’s waiting,” Kiyoomi says, his voice tight. “I saw him at the bar last weekend dancing with another woman. He seemed happy.”
“Your relationship isn’t exclusive, right?”
He hangs his head low. “No, but I haven’t been with anyone else.”
“Has he?”
He sifts through his recent memories. They spend most of their time either together in his room or on the court. If he pulls back the curtain of his jealousy, he remembers that Atsumu ended up in Kiyoomi’s bed after that night of dancing. They didn’t even have sex. They washed up and passed out in Kiyoomi’s bed without planning on it. It just happened.
“I don’t think so.”
Her mouth lifts into a hopeful smile. “Then what are you waiting for?”
To not be afraid, he wants to say. Instead, he picks up his empty cup of coffee and sips on something that’s not there. Yachi hands him the romance novel, and he begrudgingly accepts it.
“Read it,” she says. “You may think it’s silly, but romance novels can help you sort out your feelings. Reading sapphic stories helped me with my feelings for Kanoka. It could do the same for you.”
He stares at the two shirtless men on the cover before shoving the book into his gym bag. “I am not making life decisions based on a romance novel.”
“Read it,” she repeats. “You don’t have to make any decisions. Just read it and see what happens.”
“Fine,” he huffs. “I’ll read it, but I am not promising I’ll like it.”
He should have closed the book after the first page—or the second or the third. The writing is not particularly captivating, and the premise is riddled with tropes and a predictable plot. But he takes one step into the mind of the narrator, a young man named Sota, and disappears into the story. When he meets the character of Ritsu, a man he meets in a beachside town, Kiyoomi officially loses himself in the pages. Their conversations are witty and dynamic, and the plot moves along at a steady pace. There is a tenderness to it, but it’s not as sappy as he thought it would be.
He reads several paragraphs from the first sex scene and sets the book down on his chest. His whole body feels hot, and his stomach flutters. The humiliated part of him wants to toss the book into the trash and tell Yachi he tried. The other part of him, which is most of him, does not want to stop at all.
The smut is indulgent and evocative. There is little emotion to it beyond lust. It reminds him of the first few months of having sex with Atsumu, back when they were desperate to relieve the sexual tension brewing on the court. He is embarrassingly turned on, but he turns the page because he wants to know what this means to Sota and Ritsu.
The sex scenes only increase in frequency, but their dialogue, once witty and flirtatious, slowly becomes more vulnerable and intimate. They learn about each other’s pain and insecurities, and they muse about why they keep on living. It’s hard to pinpoint in which paragraph their love begins, but Ritsu is the first to name it. It’s him that says, “As long as I love you like this, we can’t be friends.” Sota is blindsided by the confession, and he is too afraid to respond. Upset and rejected, Ritsu storms out of the house and leaves Sota alone in the dark.
Kiyoomi stares at his worst fear detailed in a single paragraph, and his heart thunders in his chest.
He turns the next page.
The next chapter is miserable. Sota is drunk and despondent and desperate, and he is lonely. He searches for comfort in strangers at a downtown bar, but he becomes a drunken, crying mess when he can’t even bring himself to kiss someone else without thinking of Ritsu. He stumbles home and calls Ritsu, too drunk to tell if he reached his voicemail or not, and tells him he misses him. He collapses in bed and cries himself to sleep.
Kiyoomi turns the page, and the next chapter begins with Ritsu on his doorstep. Emotions are fraught, and apologies are exchanged. He tells Ritsu he still doesn’t know how to put his feelings into words, but he’ll try. Ritsu promises to be patient, and he seals his promise with a kiss.
A kiss which turns into something more, and Kiyoomi’s hand trembles when he turns the page. The first few paragraphs are as erotic as earlier scenes, but there’s a new passion and urgency to it. It’s sensual and vulnerable, and Kiyoomi feels delirious with each sentence. He turns another page, and Sota says—
Kiyoomi’s bedroom door opens, and he freezes.
“Fuckin’ traffic,” Atsumu grumbles, locking the door behind him. “Didn’t mean to come over so late, there was some sort of accident. Hopefully I didn’t keep ya waitin’ too long ‘cause I—” He pauses, his eyes darting from Kiyoomi’s flushed face to his apparent erection and then to the book in his hands, and grins. “Whatcha readin’ there, Omi?”
Kiyoomi panics and throws the book into his closet, to which Atsumu cackles and races to fish it out from Kiyoomi’s collection of shoes. Not wanting to leap out of bed and wrestle the book from his hands, Kiyoomi throws a pillow at Atsumu’s head—but he only catches it and throws it back. He studies the book cover with an amused smile and mischievous eyes, tracing the outline of the half-naked men on the cover. “Into Something More,” he says, reading the title. “I didn’t realize ya liked books like this.”
“I don’t,” Kiyoomi says with a scowl.
Atsumu nods at Kiyoomi’s obvious arousal. “Seems like ya do.”
Kiyoomi sits up in a cross-legged position and glares at him. “Give that back.”
He waggles the book. “So, this does belong to you?”
“Someone gave it to me.”
Atsumu frowns and hesitantly asks, “Who?”
“Yachi.”
Atsumu immediately relaxes and smiles again. He opens the book, which opens roughly to where Kiyoomi left off, which means—
“Wow,” Atsumu says, squinting at the text. “No wonder yer all hot and bothered.”
“I am not ‘hot and bothered.’”
“Oh yeah?” Atsumu teases. “Yer not in the mood at all?”
Kiyoomi’s glare only grows sharper, but it does not extinguish the fire in his blood. He wants release. He wants what Sota and Ritsu have, he wants the passion that underlies their sex, and he wants to feel it with Atsumu. What makes him glare so fiercely, what makes him fold his arms over his chest so protectively, is fear. He doesn’t just want sex. He wants more.
“I got an idea,” Atsumu says, smirking as his eyes travel further down the page. “You wanna reenact this with me?”
Kiyoomi’s glare falters. “Reenact?”
“I wanna do this with you,” he says, and the earnestness in his voice sends a bolt of electricity right through Kiyoomi. “I wanna hear you read it, and I wanna do whatever it says to you. For example, this sentence right here—“He kissed slowly down my throat, grazin' his teeth along my collarbone, before circlin' his tongue around my nipple”—I’ll do that to you, word for word.”
Kiyoomi can’t feel humiliation anymore. He only feels need, coursing through his veins, throbbing between his legs, coloring his mind with a golden haze. He needs Atsumu’s lips on him. He needs his gentle, worshiping touch. He needs to know how the story ends.
Kiyoomi extends his palm. “Give me the book.”
“Fine,” Atsumu says with a sigh. “Maybe we can try that some other time, and tonight—”
“Give it to me,” Kiyoomi clarifies, “so I can read it to you. I want to start on the previous page.”
“Oh.” Atsumu stares down at the book and slowly flips to the previous page, quietly reading the words before widening his eyes. “Oh.”
“Give me the book,” Kiyoomi repeats. He smirks at Atsumu’s red cheeks and asks, “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
He grabs Kiyoomi’s hand, pulling him to a stand and pushing the book into his hands. “Whenever yer ready.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes travel down to the open page and then up to Atsumu’s face, free of amusement and brimming with anticipation. In a loose fitting white t-shirt and sweatpants, he looks like he always does: sexy, beautiful, and charming. His blond hair is freshly washed and dried, and he smells like cedarwood. Kiyoomi wants to kiss him. He wants to see where their story can go.
The scene begins near Sota’s front door, and Kiyoomi and Atsumu slowly walk toward the bedroom door without breaking eye contact. Kiyoomi can feel Atsumu’s reverent eyes on him when he holds up the book in his left hand and begins to read.
“‘I miss you,’ I say.” He starts with the dialogue, cowering behind the words of others, and Sota’s voice becomes his. Atsumu’s breathing becomes erratic, and Kiyoomi breathlessly says, “‘I want you. I want you so badly.’”
“Yeah?” Atsumu breathes, either rehearsing what he glimpsed on the page or accurately guessing Ritsu’s response. “How do ya want me?”
“‘I want you to kiss me,’” Kiyoomi says, his voice low and gravely.
Atsumu leans forward and whispers, “How do ya want me to kiss ya?”
Through a visible shiver Kiyoomi continues, “He pushes me hard against the wall, tangling his hands in my hair and pressing a hungry kiss to my lips, and—”
Atsumu threads his fingers through Kiyoomi’s curls, pushes him up against the wall, and kisses him with his own interpretation of hungry. He almost drops the book when Atsumu’s kiss devolves from smooth and passionate to desperate and frenzied. It’s all teeth and tongue and panting breaths, and Atsumu clings onto Kiyoomi’s hair like he’s trying to stay afloat. Kiyoomi lets out a soft moan, and Atsumu steps back.
“What next?
Kiyoomi skims over the description of the rest of Sota and Ritsu’s kiss, which is more or less exactly how Atsumu kissed him, and his stomach flips when he lands on the next paragraph.
“He trails his fingers along my jaw—“ Atsumu traces the length of Kiyoomi’s jaw with his thumb, and Kiyoomi stumbles through the rest of the sentence. “—then my throat…” Kiyoomi bites his lip when Atsumu slowly ghosts his fingers across Kiyoomi’s pulse point toward his collarbone. “…and then down my shirt until he slips his fingers underneath the hem and draws a teasing line along the waistband of my jeans.”
Kiyoomi’s vision loses focus, the words on the page blurring together, and he remains transfixed on Atsumu’s hand obediently touching Kiyoomi exactly how he told him to. When he presses the pad of finger into the sensitive skin just beneath his waistband, Kiyoomi swallows another moan.
“Omi,” Atsumu murmurs. “What happens next?”
“He looks at me like I’m something to be worshiped—” Kiyoomi’s breath hitches when Atsumu’s dark eyes glow with adoration, and he forces himself to return to the page. “—and tells me in a husky voice, ‘Take off—”
“Take off yer clothes,” Atsumu says, reciting the line from memory. “I wanna see all of ya.”
He rubs a slow circle against Kiyoomi’s stomach before retracting his touch. He plucks the book out of Kiyoomi’s hand and says, this time with a little smirk, “He starts with his shirt.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but there’s no amount of indifference he can feign that will obscure his excitement. He slowly removes his shirt centimeter by centimeter, smiling to himself when Atsumu swears under his breath. He tosses it to the ground, uncharacteristic of him but something Sota would do, and unbuttons his jeans. Atsumu’s eyes chase after Kiyoomi’s fingers undoing the zipper and then shoving his pants to the floor. He kicks them to the corner of the room, and he looks to Atsumu for his approval—which he finds immediately. Atsumu’s face is flushed and pink, and his heavy-lidded eyes roam down Kiyoomi’s bare skin.
“All of ya,” he whispers. “I wanna see all of ya.”
Kiyoomi removes his briefs in one swift movement, and he shivers when he frees his erection from the fabric.
“Fuck,” Atsumu murmurs, and he shakily hands Kiyoomi the book. “What next?”
“Your turn,” Kiyoomi says, nodding at Atsumu’s sweatpants. Both he and Atsumu know that’s not in the book, but Atsumu obeys him anyway. His t-shirt joins Kiyoomi’s clothes on the floor first, quickly followed by his sweatpants and boxers. Kiyoomi shamelessly stares at Atsumu’s own erection, those perfect thighs he will never tire of seeing or kissing, and every strong, toned muscle. Atsumu’s laughter is light, and Kiyoomi scowls at him.
“What’s next, Omi?”
His hand trembles so violently he has a hard time reading the words, and Atsumu steadies it with a hand of his own. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and reads, “He kisses me again, softer this time, like he was seeing my body for the first time. He presses light kisses against my mouth, my jaw, my neck, my chest…”
Atsumu silences him with a kiss, and the book falls out of his hands. He kisses both corners of his mouth, soft brushes of lips against lips, before kissing his way along Kiyoomi’s jaw, scraping his teeth where Kiyoomi is most sensitive. He slowly presses his body against Kiyoomi again, and they both moan when Atsumu shifts in a way that makes his dick glide along Kiyoomi’s own length. He stays true to the text, however, and he keeps his kisses exploratory and soft.
Kiyoomi frowns when Atsumu stops, which makes the latter laugh. He picks up the book, opens it to the right page, and places it in Kiyoomi’s hand. “Gotta tell me the next part of the story, Omi.”
He wants to smack the back of his head with the book. He wants to throw the book out the window and kiss him senseless without direction or narration. He wants to see how the story goes. He wants to see how the story of two friends with benefits ends.
“He picks me up, and I hook my legs around his waist.” Kiyoomi pauses, and he knows his ears are bright red. He’s never been picked up by a partner in his life, and the image is embarrassing. He’s also not opposed to it—for the sake of the story, of course. He continues, “He kisses me again, this time with more urgency, as he carries me to bed.”
Atsumu doesn’t hesitate. Kiyoomi may be taller, but Atsumu is stronger. It is not as awkward or impractical as he thought, and he easily wraps his legs around Atsumu’s waist and his arms around his neck. They kiss again, and Kiyoomi moans when Atsumu sucks hard on his bottom lip as he carries him to bed.
Atsumu lays Kiyoomi gently onto the bed, tucking a pillow underneath his head. He lies beside him and nuzzles his neck. “We’re on the next page now, right?”
“Yes.” Kiyoomi brings the book to his face and turns the page, and a feverish warmth clouds his vision. Atsumu kisses his neck, and Kiyoomi shrugs him off. “You’re distracting me.”
“Then start readin’,” Atsumu says with a smile.
Kiyoomi hides his blush behind the book. “He straddles me and kisses me again. He—ah!”
Atsumu swings his leg over Kiyoomi’s hips until he’s straddling him, rocking their hips together and grinding down on Kiyoomi’s dick.
“That wasn’t in the book,” Kiyoomi hisses.
“No?” Atsumu asks with an arched brow. “My bad.”
“You’re supposed to kiss me,” Kiyoomi scolds him.
“Am I?” He smiles down at Kiyoomi and shrugs. “Well, if you insist.”
Atsumu presses his smile against Kiyoomi’s frown, and the amusement is short-lived as they lose themselves again in the kiss. They sigh into each other’s mouths, and Kiyoomi runs his fingers through Atsumu’s hair.
Atsumu comes up for air and sits up. “Tell me what to do next.”
“He kissed slowly down my throat, grazing his teeth along my collarbone—” Kiyoomi keeps the book high above his head as Atsumu mimics Ritsu’s actions with kisses and soft bites. He tightens his grip on the book and continues, “—before circling his tongue around my nipple. He—fuck!”
The book wobbles in his hands when Atsumu wraps his mouth around his nipple and teases it with his tongue. Kiyoomi’s hips jerk forward, and Atsumu holds him in place with his body weight. He whispers against Kiyoomi’s chest, “Keep readin’ for me, Omi. Tell me what happens next.”
Kiyoomi tries to catch his breath, his eyes screwing shut as he searches for inner stability. Atsumu’s breath tickles his skin, and he lets out a soft whimper that has Atsumu groaning in response. He inhales slowly, opens his eyes with his next exhale, and continues, “He teases the other nipple with his fingers, pinching and rolling it while continuing to lick the other…” Kiyoomi throws his head back against the pillow as the words are brought to life by Atsumu’s touch; he is more sensitive than usual, simultaneously aroused by what he’s reading and what he’s experiencing.
“Keep readin’ for me,” Atsumu tells him. “Yer doin’ so good.”
Fuck you, Kiyoomi wants to snap. Stop knowing exactly what to say. He instead brings the book closer to his face and resumes, each word shaky and interrupted by shallow breaths. “He hums against my skin as I writhe underneath him, continuing to play with my nipples, his every move deliberate and passionate. When I cry out his name—” This makes both of them pause. Kiyoomi still calls him Miya. Now, looking back on it in the context of what he forced himself to acknowledge earlier, this is the flimsy wall he built between them to prevent their relationship from growing into something more. As long as he was Miya, he could pretend their relationship was nothing more than teammates that destress via sex at night.
Pretending is no longer an option. Yachi made that clear. This book has made it clear, and Kiyoomi wants to see the story through to the end.
“Don’t stop,” he says, his cheeks warming at what he is about to say. “Atsumu, don’t stop.”
He stares at Kiyoomi wide-eyed, his jaw slackening and his fingers stilling. Kiyoomi stares back through the furious blush on his face and the wild thrashing of his heart, and Atsumu’s mouth lifts into a beaming smile.
“I told you not to stop.”
“Are ya gonna keep callin’ me by my given name?”
Kiyoomi squeezes the book until the pages wrinkle. “Yes.”
He flicks Kiyoomi’s nipple with his tongue, and Kiyoomi moans. “Atsumu.”
He should have called him Atsumu sooner. Each time he moans or breathes his name, Atsumu responds with scorching touches and a grin that is downright sinful. The hand holding the book falls onto the pillow above Kiyoomi’s head, and he forgets about Sota and Ritsu. There is only an exchange of whispering each other’s names and Atsumu’s warm mouth.
“Read for me,” Atsumu encourages him, shifting forward and planting an affectionate kiss on his neck. “What happens next?”
The book has the weight of a boulder, and Kiyoomi steadies it with both hands. “I run my fingers through his hair—” Kiyoomi immediately threads the fingers of his left hand through his hair, and Atsumu shivers when Kiyoomi grazes his ear. “—and I tell him, ‘It’s my turn.’”
That makes Atsumu cock his head, and Kiyoomi’s eyes skate over the next page. He licks his lips with each sentence, and his pulse throbs in his neck. He slowly pushes Atsumu off of him and hands him the book. “Your turn to read.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.” He nods at the pillow. “Lie down.”
Atsumu nestles into the indentation left behind by Kiyoomi’s body and squints at the book, looking for the next sentence. “Oh. Oh fuck.”
“Read,” Kiyoomi says, straddling him this time.
“Fuck, okay,” Atsumu says. “I frame his face with both hands and kiss him slowly, takin’ my time as I map every centimeter of his mouth, jaw, and neck—”
Kiyoomi pushes the book away from Atsumu’s face, and he cups Atsumu’s jaw with his palms. He kisses him, and Atsumu eagerly kisses him back. Atsumu whines when Kiyoomi leaves his lips, trailing kisses along his jaw, around the shell of his ear, and then down his neck toward his chest. “Read.”
“I take my revenge, playin’ with his nipples in the same way he did with mine—but slower, removing my fingers or mouth to tease him before playin’ with them again.”
Kiyoomi gets his revenge, and Atsumu moans his name in full, chanting it like a sacred incantation. “Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi…” Kiyoomi is unrelenting in his slow pace, completely stopping every time Atsumu pleads with him to go faster. He even smirks at him, and the book shakes in Atsumu’s hands. He’s not sure which is better, reading or being read to. Either way, this is by far the hottest thing they’ve done in bed, and there’s no way they’re stopping now.
“Read.”
“Goddammit.” Atsumu breathes in slowly and begins the next sentence after exhaling. “I kiss down his stomach until I reach his jeans—” Atsumu laughs at the definitive proof that Kiyoomi asked him to undress before the book did, and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes but begins kissing down his stomach to the little trail of hair beneath his bellybutton. When Atsumu peeks at the upcoming paragraphs, he stops laughing. “I wrap one hand around his cock and give it a slow, tentative stroke, glidin’ my thumb over the glistenin’ head before trailin’ the pre-cum down his length.” Atsumu’s words blur together with each syllable, and he cries out when Kiyoomi follows the book to the letter. Kiyoomi moves and twists his hand up and down, suppressing a moan at the sight of Atsumu shuddering. He tightens his grip, and Atsumu whines, “Omi.”
“Keep reading, or I’ll stop.”
“Fuck,” Atsumu murmurs. “While I keep strokin’ him with my hand, I wrap my lips around the tip and swirl my tongue around it, teasin’ and lickin’ it—fuck, Omi, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Kiyoomi hums at the taste of pre-cum, sucking and licking the head while moving his hand up and down the rest of his length. Giving Atsumu head isn’t a rarity, but it isn’t commonplace either. It’s never been a favorite of his across all of his past partners, but he’d always reciprocate or at least do certain things for the sake of his partner’s satisfaction. Since starting their sexual relationship, Kiyoomi quickly learned the appeal of giving a blowjob. Atsumu, unlike many of his past partners, is so reactive—he moans loudly, he swears, he moans his name, he writhes and shivers and flexes those perfect muscles, and he practically melts under Kiyoomi’s touch. It makes Kiyoomi delirious to see Atsumu’s wild eyes on him, and he hums again when Atsumu grabs Kiyoomi’s hair by the fistful.
“I take him fully into my mouth,” Atsumu continues, “movin’ my hand and mouth up and down in tandem. Just as his cock hits back of my throat, I reach up and pinch one of his nipples hard, and—” Atsumu closes his eyes and lets out a long, broken moan as his dick nudges the back of Kiyoomi’s throat, and he whimpers when Kiyoomi pinches his nipple and then slowly circles it with his fingertip. “—I lick my way back up the head, tracin’ circles with my tongue against its sensitive underside while strokin’ him faster.”
Atsumu’s thighs violently shake, and his grip on Kiyoomi’s hair tightens. Kiyoomi ignores the sting in his scalp and continues teasing him with tongue, occasionally pinching his nipple again and moaning when Atsumu cries out his name again.
“I return to deep-throatin’ him,” Atsumu reads. “I stop playin’ with his nipple, trailin’ my fingers down his body until I cup his balls—fuck!”
Atsumu pulls hard on his hair, and Kiyoomi roughly swirls his tongue around the head in retaliation. The book begins to slip out of his hands as he incoherently murmurs expletives and praises, and Kiyoomi pointedly stares at the book.
Atsumu regains enough of his composure to continue, reading, “I continue takin’ him as deep as I can while strokin’ him with my hand, playin’ with his balls until he comes down my throat—you don’t gotta do that, Omi.”
Kiyoomi never swallows, but he’s never wanted something so badly in his life. He shakes his head and continues bobbing his head up and down, maintaining a steady pace with each lick, stroke, and squeeze.
His legs shake and then tense, indicative of an impending orgasm, and Atsumu breathes, “Are ya sure? ‘Cause, I’m gonna, I’m gonna—”
Kiyoomi takes Atsumu so deep he chokes, and Atsumu comes with Kiyoomi’s name on his tongue. He continues sucking him through his release, only stopping when Atsumu taps him on the shoulder, and swallows. When he sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, Atsumu stares up at him in bewilderment. “Are ya okay? You didn’t have to do that ‘cause of the book. You can say no, y’know that, right?”
“I wanted to do that,” Kiyoomi says, reaching for his water bottle and taking a long drink. “Was that okay for you?”
“Fuck yes,” Atsumu says, setting aside the book. “That was the hottest blowjob I’ve ever received in my goddamn life.”
He can’t help but smile at the compliment. There’s always been a small part of Kiyoomi that wonders why Atsumu wants to have sex with him when someone that attractive could have anyone. Kiyoomi is nowhere near his attractiveness or charm or extroversion, and he can’t help but doubt why Atsumu would want to be in his bed.
But Atsumu always quells those insecurities as they appear, showering him with praises and appreciating looks. Atsumu stares up at Kiyoomi like he’s laid his eyes on a god, and a red hot blush sears Kiyoomi’s skin.
Kiyoomi clears his throat. “Should we keep going?”
Atsumu snatches the book up so fast Kiyoomi snorts, and Atsumu dismisses him with a wave. He flips to the next page, and a devilish grin unfurls on his face as he scans the page. “Yer gonna need lube for this next part.”
“Which one of us will be reading?” Kiyoomi asks, grabbing lube, condoms, and a towel from his nightstand.
“Me,” Atsumu says with a smile that summons butterflies in Kiyoomi’s stomach. “For now, at least.”
“For now?”
“You’ll see,” he says with a wink. “Ready?”
Kiyoomi kneels beside him and nods. “I’m ready.”
“I kiss him again,” Atsumu reads. “Slowly, softly. I kiss his forehead, his nose, and then brush my lips against his again.”
Kiyoomi has never kissed anyone so affectionately, and it’s initially awkward to pay attention to parts of Atsumu’s face he normally does not. Atsumu sighs when Kiyoomi kisses his forehead, and the awkwardness is gone. Just to hear that sigh once more, Kiyoomi kisses him there again and again. He kisses the tip of his nose and then unprompted kisses the pink blush on both of his cheeks. He kisses his mouth, and Atsumu abandons the book to kiss him back in full force. He takes Kiyoomi’s chin in his hand and angles his face in order to deepen the kiss. It’s a slow, lazy kiss. It’s not the sort of kiss that precedes a quick fuck after practice. It’s not the sort of kiss that is casual. It’s not the sort of kiss one could ever give to a friend.
“I could kiss you forever,” Atsumu murmurs after breaking the kiss. “But I wanna read the next paragraph. Ready, Omi?”
No, because I could kiss you forever, too, Kiyoomi thinks. But I want to see where this leads. I want to see where this ends. I want to see where we begin.
He nods, and Atsumu reads, “‘I want to be inside of you,’ I tell him.”
“I want to be inside of you,” Kiyoomi tells Atsumu, who has never looked so shy and vulnerable until now.
“Yeah?” Atsumu whispers, going off script.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. “I want to be inside of you.”
He takes a ragged breath and refocuses on the book. “I pour a generous amount of lube on my fingers, and I kiss him as I tease his entrance with my fingers.”
Kiyoomi pours the lube onto his fingers and shakily sets aside the bottle. Atsumu spreads and slightly raises his legs, and Kiyoomi first returns his attention to Atsumu’s mouth—kissing its corners, tasting him, tracing its outline with his tongue. He brings his finger to Atsumu’s hole and tentatively presses against it, and he continues to kiss him while waiting for him to relax. He slowly circles it, and he shudders when Atsumu moans into his mouth.
Kiyoomi pulls away, propping himself up on his elbow. His eyes drink in the colors—his red lips, his pink flushed skin, his blond hair dark with sweat—and the sounds—his shallow breathing, his soft gasps, his sultry reading voice—that make up his newfound definition of love. Of course, I love him, Kiyoomi thinks to himself. How could I not?
“Like whatcha see, Omi?”
Kiyoomi blinks at him, suddenly embarrassed at his staring. He shakes his head, which only makes Atsumu laugh. “Just read the book.”
“You got it,” he replies with a wink, holding the book over his head. “I slowly sink one finger inside of him, reassurin’ him with tender kisses and gentle words. ‘Yer so perfect,’ I tell him. ‘Yer doin’ so well.’”
Kiyoomi has never said much in bed over the past year beyond the usual profanities and generic compliments. Atsumu never asked for more, but the way Atsumu teems with excitement tells Kiyoomi this is something he’s wanted this whole time.
He lowers himself and kisses Atsumu’s neck, breathing in the smell of cedarwood and lavender. Atsumu hums and sighs, angling his head away so that Kiyoomi can better kiss down his throat. He presses against Atsumu’s hole again before slowly sliding his finger inside, eliciting a whimper and tensing muscles.
“You’re perfect,” Kiyoomi murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”
“Omi,” he breathes.
“You drive me crazy,” Kiyoomi says, indifferent to what Sota did or didn’t say. He slowly retracts his finger before thrusting it back inside of him, less gently than before. He begins fingering him at a steady pace, kissing and softly sucking his neck throughout. “You have no idea how perfect you are.”
Atsumu throws his head back, and he grips the book tighter. “Omi…”
“Read for me, Atsumu,” he says, wanting to praise him now that he knows its effect. “You’re doing well. Can you keep reading for me?”
He nods fervently and reads in a shaky voice. “‘Can you take—‘“
“Can you take two?” Kiyoomi asks, guessing how the sentence ends.
“Yes,” Atsumu says. “I want yer fingers inside of me.”
Kiyoomi adds more lube to his fingers and pushes two inside of him, and he himself groans at the sound of Atsumu’s breathy moan.
“Keep reading,” Kiyoomi gently reminds him.
“Fuck,” Atsumu says. “I thrust my fingers in and out of him over and over, reveling in his every moan and quiver, and I kiss him hard just as I find his prostate and—fuck, Omi, fuck!”
Kiyoomi kisses him roughly, nipping his bottom lip as he brushes against Atsumu’s prostate with each thrust of his fingers. Atsumu desperately kisses him back, and it’s a haphazard kiss with no clear rhythm to it—but they quickly lose themselves to it. It’s only when Atsumu starts to shake that Kiyoomi remembers the book.
“Read,” Kiyoomi says between labored breaths.
Atsumu squints at the pages, his eyes dark and unfocused, and reads, “When he’s ready for me, I add another finger—I’m ready, Omi. I want another.”
Kiyoomi removes his fingers again and coats them with more lube. As he sinks all three inside him, Kiyoomi whispers into his ear, “You’re doing well for me. You’re taking my fingers so perfectly.”
“Fuck!” Atsumu’s hips jump off the bed, and he buries one side of his face into the pillow. “If you keep talkin’ like that, I’m gonna come.”
“Should I stop talking like this?”
“You can talk like that when yer fuckin’ me,” he says. “Let me read the next part of the book—one second, fuck.”
Atsumu continues to shake and moan while Kiyoomi fucks him with his fingers. He opens the book wider and reads in complete silence before saying, “Okay, it’s yer turn to read.”
“In which position?”
He pats the bed. “On yer back.”
Atsumu groans when Kiyoomi removes his fingers and wipes them on a towel, and he swaps positions with Kiyoomi and hands him the book. Kiyoomi finds where Atsumu left off at the bottom of the page, and his mouth drops open.
“Tell me, Omi,” Atsumu says. “Tell me what happens next.”
Kiyoomi’s arms already feel tired from holding up the book, but he wants so badly what’s on the page that he doesn’t care. “He tells me, ‘I want to—’”
“Ride you,” Atsumu says. “I want to ride you.”
Kiyoomi has a fever; that’s the only explanation for the rising temperature of his skin, how his mind can only scream Atsumu’s name, how endless images of that beautiful face tumble through his vision. He is hard to the point that he is dying for relief, and he clumsily turns the page.
“‘I want that,’ I tell him. ‘I want you.’”
Atsumu rips open a condom and rolls it down Kiyoomi’s length. He pours lube into his palm, coating Kiyoomi’s dick with it. He straddles him, positioning the tip of Kiyoomi’s dick at his entrance. “What next?”
“He lowers himself on my cock until I’m fully inside him, and he—Atsumu!”
He lowers himself completely and gives Kiyoomi no opportunity to react before fucking himself on Kiyoomi’s cock at a relentless pace. The bed rocks against the wall so hard Kiyoomi drops the book—but he has no mental room for stories. It isn’t even about how tight and hot Atsumu feels around him. It is about how Atsumu looks and how he sounds. His heavy-lidded gaze, his moans, his strong thighs, the slapping of skin against skin, his erection swaying with each bounce. He reaches out his hand, and Atsumu interlaces their fingers.
“Fuck,” Kiyoomi says. “You’re so—”
“What?” Atsumu breathes. “I’m so what?”
“Perfect.”
Atsumu’s entire body trembles, and Kiyoomi steadies him with his free hand. Kiyoomi doesn’t even know where to look without going insane. Sweat drips down Atsumu’s forehead, and his face is flushed pink. Kiyoomi usually likes this the least about sex—the sweat, the lube, anything that’ll turn sticky if not cleaned up immediately. Now, he could care less. Atsumu glistens and glows, and he looks unbearably sexy riding him, taking his dick with ease, and moving his hips in intoxicating circles.
“Fuck,” Kiyoomi groans. “You feel so fucking good.”
Atsumu slowly lifts his hips until only the tip is inside him before bearing down on him hard. “Yeah?”
Kiyoomi’s hips jerk upwards, and he lets out a loud moan.
“Yeah,” Atsumu says with a chuckle and then a whimper. “You feel fuckin’ good, too.”
He leans forward and kisses Kiyoomi, losing some of his leverage and balance, but he keeps riding him at a fast albeit more erratic pace. Kiyoomi kisses him back, alternating between sucking on and biting his lower lip, and Atsumu pulls away with a hum.
“What happens next?”
Kiyoomi tilts his head in confusion. “What?”
“The book?” Atsumu nods at the abandoned novel with a grin. “Forget ‘bout it already? It must feel that good, huh?”
“Shut up,” Kiyoomi grumbles, picking up the book and finding the right page. “It’s hard to read when you’re—” Kiyoomi closes his eyes as another wave of pressure rocks through him and pools between his legs, and he cries out Atsumu’s name.
“When I’m what?”
“Nothing,” Kiyoomi says with a glare. He holds the book out to the side, his eyes flitting from the page to Atsumu. He takes a deep breath and reads, “He rides me at a fast pace—” Atsumu immediately speeds up, and Kiyoomi nearly stutters through the rest of the sentence. “—and I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’ve never felt this good before.” He’s not sure if that’s Sota’s voice or his own. Their sex has always been amazing, but tonight has teased out the vulnerability he had been hiding all year. He’s said and done things he’s always wanted to but never had the courage for—until he learned of Sota and Ritsu, who both are and are not Kiyoomi and Atsumu.
“Yeah, Omi?” Atsumu asks. “What happens next?”
His vision goes in and out of focus, his eyes struggling to make out the words on the page through the haze. “‘You’re so perfect,’ I tell him, and he responds with a loud moan.” Atsumu’s moan is better than anything that could be described in words, and Kiyoomi shakily reads, “He is perfect. This is perfect, everything about this and then and now is perfect. He suddenly slows his pace, almost as if savoring every second. I look at him, and I say—” Kiyoomi gasps when Atsumu grinds down on him, and he reads the next words without thinking.
“'I love you.’”
Time stops the moment the words leave his mouth. Atsumu immediately freezes, and Kiyoomi is too terrified to look at his face. This isn’t how he wanted to find out if this could go somewhere. This isn’t how he wanted to know if Atsumu would find his feelings laughable. He peers at Atsumu out of the corner of his eye, and his chest constricts at the sight of that beautiful smile and warm eyes. Happy. He’s happy.
Then Atsumu’s eyes land on the book, and the smile vanishes and is replaced by hurt.
Atsumu clears his throat and forces a smile absent of any joy. “What’s next?”
If Kiyoomi’s love is a puzzle, then every piece has made itself known and marched itself into place.
Piece one: Telling him “I love you” felt natural, and it felt true.
Piece two: Atsumu without a doubt feels the same way.
Piece three: Kiyoomi would do anything to see that happiness again.
Piece four: Kiyoomi would do anything to take away that hurt.
He tosses the book onto the floor and squeezes his hand. “Atsumu.”
“Yeah, Omi?”
“I love you.”
Atsumu blinks at him, and the pained expression returns. “I heard ya the first time. I asked what happens after that.”
“I’m not repeating the line from the book,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m telling you how I really feel—I love you.”
“How you really feel,” Atsumu echoes. “You…love me?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. “I love you.”
“It’s not ‘cause of the book?”
“It’s not because of the book,” Kiyoomi says. “I recently came to terms with my feelings, and I wasn’t planning on having this conversation like this, so—wait, are you crying?”
“Fuck,” Atsumu sniffles, rubbing his eyes with his forearm. “This is so embarrassin’.”
Kiyoomi’s heart leaps into his throat, and he almost chokes on his words. “Did I do something wrong? Are my feelings…inappropriate?”
“No, Omi, no,” Atsumu says with a little laugh. “I’m happy.”
“You’re happy?”
“Yeah,” Atsumu says, and that beautiful smile graces his lips again. “’Cause I love you, too.”
“You do?”
He dips his head low to kiss Kiyoomi sweet and slow. “Yes, Omi. I love you.”
When he sits up straight again, they both groan and are abruptly reminded that they are in the middle of having sex.
“Fuck,” Atsumu laughs. “I killed the mood, huh?”
Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Not for me. I want to keep going.”
“Yeah?” Atsumu asks, and that beautiful smile somehow only grows in radiance and happiness.
Kiyoomi swallows and then nods. “I’d like to know what it’s like to have sex with my boyfriend.”
Atsumu covers his face with both hands and groans. “Oh my god.”
Kiyoomi frowns. “What?”
“Didja get that from a book or somethin’?”
“I did not get that from a book,” he scoffs. “I am capable of saying affectionate things on my own accord.”
“On my own accord,” Atsumu mimics him, his hands dropping away to reveal a smirk. “Well, now I know for a fact it’s you speakin’.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Do you want to continue or not?”
“I wanna continue,” he says. “Like this?”
“I want you inside me this time.”
“Goddammit, Omi,” he mutters. “Yer killin’ me.”
Before Kiyoomi can reply, he slowly lifts himself up and hops off of Kiyoomi. He cleans both himself and Kiyoomi with the towel, and he stoops over to give Kiyoomi another kiss. “What position?”
“You on top,” he whispers. “That okay?”
“Of course, that’s okay. It’s perfect.”
They start over, but this time it is their own story. Atsumu coaxes Kiyoomi’s legs open and tucks a pillow under his lower back so that he is completely comfortable. Each caress is cherishing; each touch is tender. He kisses Kiyoomi when he sinks one finger inside of him, and he kisses him again when he adds the second one. He only ever pulls away to add more lube or to whisper, “I love you.”
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi whines, canting his hips so that Atsumu can finger him deeper. Atsumu’s fingers glide against his prostate, and Atsumu kisses him while Kiyoomi moans and breathes, “I love you, too.”
He roughly thrusts three fingers inside Kiyoomi, but his kisses remain gentle and slow. He kisses Kiyoomi’s mouth, his nose, his forehead, his ear, his neck, and then his mouth again. His fingers brush against Kiyoomi’s prostate at the right angle, and Kiyoomi tells him, “I need you inside of me now.”
Atsumu removes his fingers, rolls on a condom, and quickly positions himself between Kiyoomi’s legs. “Ready?”
Kiyoomi nods, and Atsumu slowly pushes himself inside until their bodies are joined. It’s been a while since Kiyoomi’s bottomed, but Atsumu takes it slow and patiently waits for him to acclimate to his size. He tentatively rocks his hips forward, and Kiyoomi wraps his legs around his waist.
“Perfect,” Atsumu whispers, kissing him on the lips. “Yer so perfect.”
“That’s you,” Kiyoomi whispers back. “You’re perfect.”
“Fuck,” Atsumu says. “It drives me crazy when ya talk like that.”
His dick hits Kiyoomi’s prostate, and his head drops back onto the pillow. “Fuck, Atsumu. Fuck.”
“I love it when you say my name,” Atsumu says, his voice low and husky. He thrusts again at the same angle, and Kiyoomi gasps. “Say it again.”
“Atsumu,” he moans.
“Again.”
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi breathes, shivering with each hard thrust and with the growing pressure precipitating release. “Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.”
“Kiyoomi,” he moans, shaking as rocks his hips faster. “Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi.”
“I’m close,” Kiyoomi whispers, and Atsumu slips his hand between their bodies and grips Kiyoomi’s dick. “Atsumu…”
He strokes him exactly how Kiyoomi prefers, twisting his hand and rubbing the head with his thumb. Warmth and then tingles rush over him, and he comes while crying out Atsumu’s name. Atsumu swears, and his hips move erratically as he chases after his own orgasm. Once he regains lucidity, Kiyoomi squeezes Atsumu close with his legs and whispers, “You’re so perfect. You’re doing so good, just for me.”
“Fuck!” Atsumu buries his face in Kiyoomi’s neck while he comes, his hips shaking and then completely stilling. They catch their breath together, sharing light kisses and touches as they both slowly crawl out of the haze.
“Well,” Atsumu says, “how was havin’ sex with yer boyfriend?”
Kiyoomi blushes and angles away his face. “Perfect.”
“So, is that what I am now? Yer boyfriend?”
“I assumed so because our feelings are mutual—did I assume wrong?”
Atsumu shakes his head. “Let’s have this conversation after we clean up.”
Kiyoomi should have gotten the hard part out of the way by confessing his exact feelings, but Kiyoomi suddenly feels nervous as he wipes off the sweat and cum before stepping into clean boxers. He settles down on the bed beside Atsumu, who immediately holds his hand.
“I wanna be yer boyfriend,” he says. “I don’t wanna just have sex with you.”
“I don’t want to only have sex either.”
“Yer okay with doin’ couple stuff then? Y’know, dates, meetin’ my mom eventually, that kinda shit?”
“I don’t have any experience with it, but I want to do it with you.”
“Good,” Atsumu says with a smile. “I wanna do it with you, too.”
“I do have to ask one thing,” Kiyoomi says, dread pooling in his stomach. “Are you seeing anyone else?”
Atsumu frowns. “No, I am not seein’ anyone else. Why—are you?”
“No,” Kiyoomi says with a vigorous shake of his head. “No, I’m not. It’s just…”
Atsumu squeezes his hand. “What?”
“That girl at the club,” Kiyoomi says, resenting how jealous he sounds. “The one you were dancing with.”
“I’m not seein’ her. I only danced with her.”
“Oh.” That brings some relief, but the jealousy still burns hot in his chest.
“I only danced with her ‘cause she’s one of Inunaki’s friends. She was dancin’ with Hinata and Bokuto, too. Were you jealous?”
Kiyoomi looks down at his shoulder, but even the hair falling over his face can’t hide his embarrassment. “Yes.”
“Aw, Omi.” Atsumu brushes the hair out of his face and kisses his cheek. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if I knew.”
Kiyoomi looks at him with a quizzical brow. Hearing Atsumu be this apologetic is jarring. “Why would you apologize? We weren’t exclusive. You could do whatever with…anyone if you wanted to.”
“I’m apologizin’ ‘cause I love ya, ‘kay?” He kisses him again on the cheek and then the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been in love with you for a while now. I was wonderin’ when you’d figure it out.”
Kiyoomi’s throat is painfully tight, and it hurts to speak. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t wanna get rejected,” Atsumu replies with a shrug. “You never really indicated you were into that, and I didn’t wanna ask and make it seem like I was pressurin’ ya. I was also a little scared. I guess I thought that I’d rather have some of ya rather than none of ya.”
Jealousy and embarrassment have said their goodbyes, and yet Kiyoomi can’t name what causes the stabbing pain in his throat, the pang in his chest, the wobble of his chin, and the stinging in his eyes. There are thousands of emotions he could blame for the tear that slips down his cheek, but only love comes to mind when Atsumu wraps his arms around him and kisses away his tears.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi says. “I don’t usually cry.”
“I don’t either,” Atsumu says. When Kiyoomi arches his brow, Atsumu grumbles, “Okay, but I’ve never cried during sex.”
Kiyoomi snorts, but the heavy emotion in his chest devours any levity. “I don’t like the idea of you waiting around like that or settling for something you didn’t want. It makes me sad.”
“I didn’t say that to guilt ya,” he reassures him. “They’re my choices, and I don’t regret ‘em. ‘Specially since yer my boyfriend now—okay?”
Kiyoomi wipes the last tear away with his hand, and he breathes out any lingering sadness. “Okay.”
Atsumu kisses his temple. “I am curious now ‘bout what made ya ‘come to terms’ with yer feelings. Was it the book?”
Kiyoomi awkwardly shifts on the bed, glancing at the book on the floor. He wants to finish the story, but that book is now a biohazard. “Partially.”
“Partially, huh?” Atsumu asks with a laugh. “Well, I guess I gotta thank Yachi for givin’ it to ya.”
He glares at him. “If you mention this to her, I’ll kill you.”
“Will ya now?” Atsumu teases, kissing him this time on the mouth. “I’m terrified.”
Kiyoomi waves him away. “I’m serious. I will murder you if you even say the word ‘book’ in her presence.”
“Fine, fine,” Atsumu says with a nod. “I won’t talk ‘bout any books with her. But I do gotta say, that sex was fuckin’ hot. Wouldja wanna do that again?”
Kiyoomi thinks back on how the book was an exercise in control, obeying the words of someone else while also acting on their ownauthentic desires. It was freeing, demanding, and terrifying. It was hot and sexy and perfect.
“I’d do that again.”
“It’s our day off tomorrow,” Atsumu says, nuzzling his neck. “Should we go to the bookstore? Pick one out together?”
He can see it already, their first date and their new love spelled out in images and sounds. Colorful books on endless shelves. Atsumu’s laughter as he points at ridiculous covers and reads aloud absurd premises. Atsumu leading him by the hand through the store. Kiyoomi and Atsumu bickering over which books to buy, and Kiyoomi smacking Atsumu for reading aloud the smut. Atsumu’s smile—beautiful, joyous, and adoring.
“Fine,” Kiyoomi says, excitement peeking out through his almost flat affect. “We’ll go to the bookstore tomorrow.”
Atsumu kisses his forehead and grins at him. “It’s a date.”