Work Text:
Awakened Senses
I love you as though the currents of the sea could ever hope to sweep away the shores
The sea
ravenous
In its hunger it tries to consume itself
To swallow whole the arms that cradle it
As fingers of foam etch their longing onto every speck of you
Digging in the mud
Until you’re clay soaked with love
Moulded by my storm
Crushed underneath my waves
The tides fall back and I’m once again dark depths kept at bay beneath the surface
Waiting
Roiling
Always seconds away from consuming you
— LindtLuirae
i. touch
They begin on the court, with a handshake, with a nod, with a mutual understanding of what it means to hold a volleyball.
Atsumu is the best high school setter, Kiyoomi is Japan’s top high school ace.
Perhaps they were always meant to stand side-to-side like this, to soar together.
Sometimes they orbit each other outside the court, the way the sun chases the moon. Atsumu longs to unravel the darkest depths of Kiyoomi, to pick him apart, to understand all his nuances.
And Kiyoomi, in his quietness, from the mystery of his shadows, chases the sun of Atsumu’s presence.
“You’re early,” Kiyoomi remarks, passing by him.
Their elbows knock in silent hello.
A fleeting touch shouldn’t mean so much, and yet Atsumu watches the way Kiyoomi keeps everyone else at arm’s length.
There’s a quiet invite in every brush of skin.
A silent longing in the way they leave him tingling.
He's never met anyone quite like Kiyoomi, or was drawn to anyone with the same magnetic pull.
Kiyoomi is sharing tea at the foot of their building as they watch the cars whoosh by.
Kiyoomi is wordless acknowledgments after every perfect set, expressed in the slightest twist of his lips and a twinkle in his eyes.
Most importantly, Kiyoomi is the one who visits his dreams at night, only to show up at his door first thing in the morning to go on a run.
“Omi,” Atsumu calls out, following him. “Want me to set for ya?”
Kiyoomi glances his way. Sometimes the way Kiyoomi looks at him makes Atsumu’s cheeks warm. Kiyoomi’s eyes burn through him until Atsumu feels naked and exposed.
“Sure,” Kiyoomi says.
They play.
This is their choreographed dance, the most familiar ritual.
This is where they know each other best.
“Higher—faster—stronger—“
They push themselves because that’s the way they show love to their shared sport.
(Atsumu pushes himself, because that’s the way he shows love to Kiyoomi.)
“You’re the only one who can keep up with me,” Atsumu tells him each time, mouth dry as desire thrums through him because Kiyoomi—Kiyoomi is a star that Atsumu wished upon.
“You’re the only one I want to set to me,” Kiyoomi returns, and Atsumu burns. He burns .
They toe an invisible line.
Will we, won’t we, in every interaction, like a trip wire bound to send them stumbling all over each other.
At this point, Atsumu wonders if they’re just waiting for the other to fall first.
Atsumu can’t wait to crash down. He aches to his teeth.
He sits on the MSBY gym floor that day in the midst of their break, only half-listening to Hinata’s ramble about Kageyama as Atsumu’s eyes track Kiyoomi’s from across the court.
Kiyoomi is just finishing his post-game stretches, his body contorting beautifully.
Atsumu’s mouth pools like thick honey, cloys in his chest, syrupy and warm.
When Kiyoomi catches his eye, a thrill zaps through him.
He silently beckons him with his eyes, and Kiyoomi joins him, tentatively settling down on the floor but making sure his bare skin doesn’t touch it.
Atsumu forces himself not to stare. He knows that if he gives in, he’ll only have eyes for Kiyoomi.
He's watching Hinata and not registering a single word now, hyper-aware of Kiyoomi’s proximity.
His heart careens into his ribcage when he feels the barest, most careful of touches over the back of his splayed hand.
Atsumu holds his breath, careful not to react, as Kiyoomi’s fingers slide over his own, slowly, slowly , mapping him, until his entire hand covers Atsumu’s own and he can’t breathe.
He casually turns his palm up on the floor, and Kiyoomi silently accepts the invitation, their palms pressing together. Kiyoomi’s fingers slot perfectly between his own.
Atsumu’s breath hitches.
“Atsumu-san, are you okay?” Hinata asks, jolting him out of his trance. “Your face is red.”
Atsumu chokes out a laugh, “I’m fine Sho-kun. Just tired. I think I over-exerted myself.”
But Atsumu is filled with so much adrenaline that he feels like he can run around the court five times over.
He kind of wishes he can, just to have somewhere to channel the giddiness rising through him.
Omi , he wants to say, hey Omi, I’ve been waiting for this.
I’ve been waiting for us to fall.
ii. hearing
Sometimes I want to apologize for wanting you out loud, like too many people know the reasons I am going to have laugh lines. — Trista Mateer
Kiyoomi is not a blatant man, as Atsumu will soon learn.
He loves in the shadows, and softens in the privacy of an empty room. When he steals kisses from Atsumu, they’re fleeting and private. When he touches him, it’s the barest of brushes to the arch of Atsumu’s cheek that leave Atsumu earthed to his spot with so much longing coursing through him that he can barely move.
Kiyoomi’s smiles are reserved for him, tender and secret. Atsumu cherishes them, tastes them on the tip of his tongue, and allows Kiyoomi to bury them against his skin.
So Atsumu learns to steal from Kiyoomi; his smiles, his touches, his kisses, and marvells that only he can do that.
He never thought he could steal more.
He hadn’t dared to hope to.
As he enjoys a warm cup of coffee in a cozy nook in their favourite coffee shop, Atsumu is simply content with their little bubble of peace.
“It took you like, a single touch to tell me how you feel. I’m sorry I took three eternities to tell you,” Atsumu hides his smile behind the rim of his cup. Blurting his best-kept secret hadn’t been easy at all.
“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi returns, a smile beginning to tug at the corner of his lips. “You were always a little slow on the uptake.”
“Hey!” Atsumu isn’t even really indignant, but he plays along.
“Osamu-san must have stolen some brain cells,” Kiyoomi sighs, though his smile grows.
“Well. I stole his sense of humour,” Atsumu says petulantly. “… and the great ass to boot.”
Kiyoomi pauses for a moment, eyes widening. And then, with the sort of abandon that steals Atsumu’s breath, he throws his head back and laughs . “Oh God. Well, I can’t really argue about that.”
Never mind the compliment, Atsumu is thunderstruck. There’s a moment when he's absolutely certain that his heart tripped on a full beat, because he chokes a little when it regains rhythm.
The sound settles warmly in the center of his chest.
And honestly? Atsumu is feeling a little indignant that Kiyoomi has kept such a pretty sound from him.
He waits until Kiyoomi’s laughter peters off, before taking a cursory glance around. No one is watching them, he confirms.
With a smooth slide of his chair, Atsumu leans over the table, grabbing Kiyoomi’s face with both hands, and kisses him.
The surprised huff Kiyoomi releases melts into his mouth.
It’s deeply satisfying when Kiyoomi kisses him back with equal fervour.
Atsumu drops back in his seat, his mouth slick, to observe Kiyoomi’s bewildered expression. “What was that for?”
“Just felt like it,” Atsumu says, instead of the truth.
This is another secret he’ll keep to himself. Another thing he plans to steal.
iii. smell
You said, 'I love you.'
Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? 'I love you' is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them.
— Jeanette Winterson
Atsumu arrives at Kiyoomi’s apartment right from the gym, and doesn’t waste time before heading for the shower.
They planned a movie night at Kiyoomi’s request. His boyfriend is an avid fan of K-drama and romantic movies, despite the vibe he gives off. Atsumu finds it unbearably endearing.
He scrubs himself raw, steam rising from the curtain to fog the mirror, and shaves for good measure, knowing how sensitive Kiyoomi’s skin is to stubble.
Once he's done, he sweeps the floor, and meets his boyfriend in the living room.
Kiyoomi already has everything set up. The lights are dim, and a soft blanket rests in his lap. On the coffee table, there’s a bowl of popcorn and wet wipes.
“Hi baby,” Atsumu croons, bending at the waist to peck his lips. “What are we watching?”
Atsumu drops in the seat next to him, moving the blanket to join Kiyoomi beneath it.
“Call Me by Your Name.” Kiyoomi curls against Atsumu’s side, resting his head on his shoulder.
“I hear it’s really good,” Atsumu remarks.
Kiyoomi nods. “I’ve been meaning to watch it.”
They settle down and Kiyoomi starts the movie.
Atsumu relaxes against him, tilting his head to rest his cheek on Kiyoomi’s hair and marvels at being this close to him.
He notes that Kiyoomi smells like tea tree, which feels like such a quintessentially Kiyoomi smell that it makes Atsumu smile and nuzzle his face into it.
“What are you smiling about?” Kiyoomi asks curiously, sensing Atsumu’s smile.
“Nothing,” Atsumu says softly, gathering the courage to extract his arm to curve it around Kiyoomi’s frame. He tucks him against his chest to be pleasantly invaded by his smell. “I like the way you smell.”
Kiyoomi falls silent. Atsumu can hear the blush in his voice. “Thanks.”
The movie is somber. Atsumu wasn’t expecting that, because it started out with tentative interactions that morphed into erotic scenes, and finally, the most bittersweet ending.
He can feel Kiyoomi’s shoulders shake, and hears his little sniffles.
Atsumu’s own eyes sting.
“Shh,” he murmurs to Kiyoomi as the end credits roll. He nuzzles him lovingly. “Hush, sweetheart.”
“It’s so unfair,” Kiyoomi says. “How dare they. They deserve a happy ending!”
Kiyoomi pulls away in his fit of indignation, and Atsumu gets to witness the sweetest, wobbling pout of his lips.
His heart swoops.
“I can’t believe it,” Kiyoomi sniffs again, wild curls falling in his eyes.
Atsumu forgets the movie for a moment, completely caught up in the sight of him. The warmth of Kiyoomi lingers in the circle of his arms. His smell has saturated Atsumu’s clothes.
The rare, raw expressions are another thing Atsumu gets to steal and lock away in his chest.
“Come here,” Atsumu manages, his heart racing in his chest.
Kiyoomi shuffles closer, and Atsumu rises on his knees to pull him into a hug. It takes Kiyoomi by surprise, but his arms wrap around Atsumu in return. “What?”
“I love you,” Atsumu says, burying his face in his neck.
He smells like warmth here, like skin.
His pulse thrums under Atsumu’s lips, and Atsumu, an addict, sighs into it. Kiyoomi is such a high.
He sweeps Atsumu to the clouds.
“I love you too.” Kiyoomi still sounds knocked off kilter, and there’s a painful sweetness in that too. “What’s this about?”
Atsumu ponders how he can phrase such an overpowering emotion. “I don’t know. There’s this feeling in my chest sometimes, like it’s going to cave in.”
Kiyoomi falls silent.
Atsumu buries a hand in his curls, drawing him closer. “And it makes me wish… I dunno. It makes me feel like nothing short of crawling inside your skin will be enough.”
He can hear the hitch in Kiyoomi’s breath.
“And I say I love you,” Atsumu whispers. “Even though I wish there were other words to say. Bigger words.”
The sniffle is back. “I think I know what you mean,” Kiyoomi’s voice wobble. “Stop making me cry.”
“Oh baby,” Atsumu croons again, chest overflowing with fondness.
Kiyoomi hugs him tighter, until it strangles the air from Atsumu’s lungs.
Atsumu sucks in lungfuls. Again and again and again. Until he can feel Kiyoomi everywhere; on his skin, in his lungs, clinging to every surface inch of Atsumu.
He wishes so much there were bigger words, as profound as the ache in his chest.
iv. taste
“I can’t hold enough of you in my hands.” — Frank Kafka
“Hey, Omi?” Atsumu murmurs into the crook of his shoulder.
“Hm?”
“I have wanted this for so long.” Atsumu’s breath catches as Kiyoomi’s hand slides under his shirt. He matches him, palms dragging over Kiyoomi’s bare sides. “Your skin is so soft.”
Kiyoomi makes a noise. He shivers when Atsumu’s lips kiss along his shoulder. “I… I don’t know how to do this… I’ve… I’ve never wanted anyone this way before.”
Atsumu's hands are hungry. His heart is hungrier. He wants to claim every inch of Kiyoomi. He fears he’ll die if he doesn't.
“It’s okay,” Atsumu nuzzles him as he helps Kiyoomi lay back. “We’ll go slowly…. I’ve been saving my touches for you.”
His boyfriend reels him into a ferocious kiss, tongue and teeth biting into his lips. It strikes Atsumu, the way Kiyoomi’s mouth worships him as it tries to kiss everything within reach.
His skin burns, Atsumu feels like he's made of fire, like he's burning, as Kiyoomi’s hands roam eagerly, and touch experimentally, everywhere.
Atsumu is kneaded and clutched; fingers dig in his back, and in his asscheeks, and in his shoulders. They sink so low that he loses his breath as they wrap around him, as Kiyoomi fists his cock and strokes.
Kiyoomi is not a vocal man, but the way his breathing rises and morphs into desperate moans makes Atsumu’s body taut like a string.
This is it— this is it —
He worms his fingers between Kiyoomi’s cheeks and slides them inside where Kiyoomi is hotter than the sun.
“Fuck,” Atsumu trembles, overcome.
He's shaking, as though he's the virgin between them.
Kiyoomi writhes a little, gasping, as Atsumu fingers him open. Those sinfully long fingers twist in the sheets as his breaths gasp out of him.
Atsumu is fucking mesmerised. “Look at you—shit—just look at you. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
The arch of Kiyoomi’s body is a painting that comes to life. Atsumu drinks in the beautiful shadows, the way light catches over the ridges of muscles.
Kiyoomi stops him then, face flushed the most vivid red. “Close,” he whimpers, his pretty cockhead leaking precum. “So close—come on—please—”
Atsumu hushes him even when the roar of blood in his ears is too loud. He owes Kiyoomi sweetness. He vows to impress love into every crevice in his body, to worship every inch of him.
Despite the way his body is thrumming, he slows down, cradling Kiyoomi’s face as he gentles their kisses. “Hey,” he slots their mouths warmly together. “Relax. I’ve got ya, Omi.”
Kiyoomi trembles as Atsumu slowly pushes into him.
Atsumu has never felt something so exquisite. He loses all the air in his lungs at the tight clench of Kiyoomi’s body. It’s overwhelming.
He can’t imagine what it feels like for Kiyoomi, who makes a noise Atsumu has never heard, and claws his fingers down Atsumu’s back. He's murmuring incoherently about full , and big , and oh God, Atsumu.
Atsumu has done this before.
Atsumu has, and yet, it feels like the first time, the way his body feels joined with Kiyoomi’s this way.
He doesn’t realise the noise his own mouth is making until Kiyoomi swallows them with his mouth.
Strong legs cross around his hips, and Atsumu is so deep , buried at the very end of Kiyoomi, and he can’t breathe at all.
He wants, so badly, for this man to be the end of him.
Atsumu surrenders to the instinctive surge and roll of their bodies, the way Kiyoomi seems to, and is amazed at the way they flow like water. It feels like home, to sink into Kiyoomi like this.
He was never one to believe in destiny or fate, yet he could’ve sworn they were always meant to find each other this way.
Tangling his hand in Kiyoomi’s hair, he bows their foreheads together as they exchange gasping breaths. “See?” he tells Kiyoomi, whose eyes almost roll back with Atsumu’s next thrust. “Your body knows, like mine does. Look how we fit together Omi, we were always meant to do this.”
Kiyoomi throws his head back and comes so hard he yells.
The sudden tightening around Atsumu knocks the air out of him, and abruptly, he's coming too.
His vision whites out for a few blissful seconds, and when it clears, it’s to the sight of Kiyoomi’s stunned expression. “I— I didn’t— sorry, it happened so suddenly.”
Atsumu laughs, and kisses him. “It’s okay,” he kisses him again. “Was it like you imagined?”
“Better,” Kiyoomi decides, shifting his hips experimentally. “… I think I’m gonna be sore tomorrow.”
It makes Atsumu coo and kiss his cheeks. “I’ll take care of you, baby,” he promises sweetly, getting off Kiyoomi to grab a hand towel.
Gently, he cleans him up, pressing kisses over his tummy. Kiyoomi’s face has gone slack; he looks relaxed and blissed out. Atsumu drinks the sight of him ravenously, wanting to make him look like this always.
He presses his fingers lightly over Kiyoomi, shaping around his waist, over his thighs, and finally around his face. “I love you,” he professes, and Kiyoomi’s eyes crack open to regard him.
Kiyoomi smiles serenely, touching Atsumu’s face with his fingertips. “You know I love you too,” he whispers.
He knows. Because his hands are on Kiyoomi’s skin, and his touch is embedded into Kiyoomi’s body, and his mouth is slicked with Atsumu’s kiss.
He's everywhere, over and inside Kiyoomi. Atsumu has branded him. “I wish I could hold all of you in my hands.”
Kiyoomi circles his arms around Atsumu’s shoulders and pulls him against his chest. “This is enough,” Kiyoomi promises, stroking Atsumu’s hair. “You’re enough. I don’t want anything else.”
v. sight
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.
— Pablo Neruda
Sakura blossoms flit in the wind to flutter down the backyard of Atsumu’s childhood home.
The wooden swing his late father strung up with rope on the sakura tree in their backyard oscillates with the small weight of Bokuto’s children, and rings with the same laughter he and Osamu once shared as little kids.
It’s not a big yard, with its modest white fence that their mother strung with flowers and fairy lights in preparation for the wedding.
Atsumu had watched the place transform in real-time as his dearest friends lugged tables and chairs for the guests. Yachi designed a wedding arch with their names on it, and Atsumu feels like he might vibrate out of his bones as the hours draw closer to the most important moment in his life thus far.
“Are you freaking out yet?” Osamu asks as he comes to a stop beside him.
He's wearing a navy suit that complements Suna’s deep burgundy one, and Atsumu can’t believe that soon, he too will wear a wedding ring.
“No,” Atsumu says. “Yes. Maybe,” he amends.
Suna laughs behind them. “Choose one.”
“You don’t understand,” Atsumu says, trying not to run his hands through his hair which was styled meticulously for the occasion. “It’s not anxiety. It’s a good sort of adrenaline rush. I kinda wanna sprint around just to release it somehow.”
“Ma will kill ya if you mess up your suit,” Osamu warns as Suna laughs again.
Atsumu can survive a few more hours, right?
Right.
He sucks in a deep breath, smoothing out the creases in his white suit jacket.
He's ready. God, he'd never been more ready for anything in his life.
It isn’t a big wedding, it’s hardly even a public announcement. The guests are made up of his and Kiyoomi’s friends, which happen to be Division 1 and 2’s volleyball league.
Oikawa flew in from Argentina to be one of his groomsmen alongside Osamu and Suna. He's currently hauling in bottles of wine with Iwaizumi, all while sending Atsumu jaunty little waves.
It loosens the palpitations in his chest a little.
When his mother exits the house to welcome the guests, Atsumu knows it’s time.
He feels dizzy.
As if by telepathic twin powers, Osamu reaches out to grip his arm. “Breathe. Yer not gonna trip are ya? That’s Kiyoomi’s job when he walks down the aisle.”
Atsumu sends him a dirty look. “Omi won’t trip.”
It doesn’t matter anyway.
Atsumu will catch him no matter what.
He's ushered to stand under the awning of flowers while Motoya prepares to initiate their wedding ceremony.
The guests sit, Akaashi dragging his kids off the swing to seat them between himself and Bokuto. He does most of the shushing because Bokuto is too busy wiping tears from his eyes even though the ceremony has barely begun yet.
“Tsum-Tsum is getting married,” he keeps telling Akaashi, looking both proud and moved. “He’s joining our married men club today.”
Akaashi simply passes him a handkerchief. “I’m sure he's equally excited. Blow your nose, Kou, it’s about to start.”
The noise begins to grow a little fuzzy. Atsumu feels overwhelmed.
“We’re all here today to witness two idiots get married,” Motoya announces in a deadpan manner.
The guests fall silent, stunned, before they burst into giggles.
Motoya grins. “Now that I have your attention, I’d like to welcome you all to the union of Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu. Let us begin.”
The music starts, and Atsumu’s heartbeat hits a crescendo. He's heard of men who were so overcome with emotion they cried, Atsumu just hadn’t expected to be one of them.
But as Kiyoomi comes into view, wearing a white suit to match Atsumu, and with his hand tucked in his older brother’s elbow, Atsumu loses his breath.
He feels like he's seeing Kiyoomi for the first time, like a blind man discovering the light.
Kiyoomi takes slow, careful steps, as though he's really afraid of tripping, and then his dark eyes seek out Atsumu with a shy smile.
Atsumu is tethered, struck to his core as the lights glint in Kiyoomi’s eyes like stars. The breeze teases through artfully tousled curls, and blows Kiyoomi’s familiar scent his way.
It smells like home. A home within a home as they stand amidst the place that holds all of Atsumu’s childhood memories.
Here he learned to love. And here, he welcomes it again with open arms.
His family grows by one today.
Grows by a million, because Kiyoomi is the stars, infinite in his beauty and Atsumu’s love for him is impossible to quantify.
He realises he's crying when he feels something wet cling to his eyelashes.
And ah. There it is.
The crashing waves of what he feels, there it is.
Kiyoomi arrives by his side and Atsumu’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and his chest aches, and the world is going blurry with the tears in his eyes.
Hisoka-nii-san passes Kiyoomi’s hand to Atsumu, who pulls Kiyoomi one final step toward him.
“Hi,” he chokes out.
Kiyoomi squeezes his hand with a timid smile. “Hi.”
“Please be seated,” Motoya tells the guests with a smile. He clears his throat, glancing at Kiyoomi and Atsumu with open affection. “We’re gathered here today to witness the loveliest of unions. If you told me ten years ago that I’d be officiating Kiyoomi’s wedding, I would’ve laughed myself silly, and yet here we are.”
The attendees chuckle.
“I’m proud to say I was one of the lucky few who witnessed their love evolve in real-time. And it’s been quite the journey. I knew Atsumu was a keeper from the moment I met him, because he looks at Kiyoomi like he holds the sun and the stars, and that’s never changed. And I knew Kiyoomi found the one because I’d never seen him smile so genuinely, and the way he talks about Atsumu makes me believe in true love.”
Kiyoomi is beginning to tear up too. Atsumu is so caught up looking at him, and admiring him, and loving him, that he barely hears the rest of Motoya’s speech.
There’s nothing else, no one else, that can capture his attention.
He thinks about looking at Kiyoomi for the rest of his life and his eyes nearly overflow.
Kiyoomi reaches out tentatively to wipe his thumb beneath Atsumu’s eye, his smile wobbly and adoring.
Atsumu can’t help but cradle it to his cheek, pressing a warm kiss to his palm and ignoring the cooing from their families and friends.
“Seeing as the grooms can’t seem to wait a second longer,” Motoya jests, knocking Atsumu out of his reverie. “I invite them to make their vows to love, honour, and cherish each other."
Atsumu’s breath catches. He think he hears Kiyoomi’s do the same.
The moment they’ve both waited for arrives with the sweeping power of a tide.
His knees feel weak as he holds Kiyoomi’s hands between his own. They’re strong hands, warm hands—tender in their love and secure in their protectiveness. Atsumu is always reaching out for him, and Kiyoomi is forever there to hold him.
“Omi-omi,” Atsumu begins thickly. “I’ve agonised over what to say for months, but the truth is I’ve made silent vows to you every step of the way. When we first met, I vowed to know you. When we became friends, I vowed to be a shoulder you can lean on. And when you became mine, I vowed to keep you. I vow each day to love you the way you deserve, because I know in my heart no one deserves it more than you do.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes are twinkling again, like a thousand bright stars. Atsumu can drown. His breaths catch, and his words falter because he's struck, yet again, by the fact that this man is his.
When Motoya subtly clears his throat, Atsumu rediscovers his voice again. “The truth is Omi, those words seem insignificant when it comes to you. There’s so much I feel, so much I want to tell you, when words keep failing me again and again. So I’ll vow to love you even when words flee and pale in comparison to what I feel. I’ll vow to make each day together a memory we’ll cherish when we’re old. And most importantly, I’ll vow to build our home with my own hands, with love, to make it a safe haven and a place of laughter for us and our future family.”
Motoya turns to Kiyoomi, who lets out a shaky laugh. “Oh god, you made me forget what I wanted to say.”
Atsumu can hear tearful laughter from some of their friends.
“I’ll wait,” Atsumu murmurs, cradling his cheek. “I’ll wait forever if that’s what it takes.”
Kiyoomi gazes into his eyes, and Atsumu can read all words he's yet to say, and yet they still punch the air out of him.
His soon-to-be husband releases another trembling breath before cradling Atsumu’s hands between his own. “Atsumu I… I’ve never been very good with words. Not because I don’t love you enough, but because I love you too much, and we both know the insignificance of words when it comes to this.”
Kiyoomi places his palm on Atsumu’s chest, and guides Atsumu’s hand to his own. “But you know what’s here,” he murmurs with a beatific smile. “I vow to love you with every beat of this .”
Atsumu is choking on his own breaths as he feels Kiyoomi’s racing heart beneath his palm.
“I vow to love you even when you’re driving me crazy,” he adds with a smile. All his teeth show, and his lips are pink, and his cheeks are rosy and oh . Atsumu has never been more in love. “I vow to always be there, to love you in all our highs and lows, to help you build our home one precious brick after the other. I promise to love you and our family, and our home with everything I have. I want a forever with you, and I won’t settle for anything less.”
It takes Motoya a few moments to compose himself, dabbing at his wet eyes and clearing his throat over and over. Finally, with a cracking voice, he says, “Miya Atsumu, do you take Sakusa Kiyoomi to be your husband, to love him and honor him in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”
Now it’s Atsumu’s turn to strangle out through his crumbling composure a declaration for all to hear. “I do.”
Motoya passes him his ring, a beautiful silver band engraved with a promise: you before me, always.
With unsteady hands, he slides it on Kiyoomi’s ring finger and relishes in the applause and whistles from the crowd.
Finally, Motoya gestures at Kiyoomi. “Sakusa Kiyoomi, do you take Miya Atsumu to be your husband, to love him and honor him in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?—”
“I do,” Kiyoomi interjects before the last syllable is barely out of Motoya’s mouth.
Motoya chuckles, handing Kiyoomi his ring as well.
It’s a similar silver band, with another engraving, with another promise: me for you, always.
The weight of it sliding over Atsumu’s finger to settle in its rightful place feels like destiny.
“I pronounce you now as husband, and husband. You may kiss the groom,” Motoya declares cheerfully.
Atsumu’s hands find Kiyoomi’s face, and Kiyoomi’s hands find Atsumu’s face, and the world quietens, fades, shrinks to Kiyoomi’s lips, and his taste, and the way he belongs in Atsumu’s arms.
They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and can’t seem to stop, likely won’t stop, if somebody doesn’t stop them.
It goes on forever, and it feels violent in his chest.
“I love you,” Atsumu murmurs between kisses.
The wind blows, the sakura petals dance as they witness their union, and Atsumu’s heart overflows, dancing to their symphony of silent cheers. As it hands itself over to Kiyoomi one more time.
Always, one more time.