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Promise of four and a half years

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Atsumu was sixteen when he got a boyfriend.

He clapped himself on the back the day he got his first kiss with him also. He got to enjoy so many things at that tender age, it made him lighter. He held hands, cuddled, kissed some more, went on dates, shared clothes with the boy. Curls black and short, a wonder to run his fingers through. Pretty strands in between his fingers.

His name was Sakusa kyoomi. Renowned glare and disinfectant guy, can't miss him.

Ugly jersey and ugly sweats and all that, with a glare enough to wither flowers. Yes, that boy, that Atsumu fawned over like the teenager he was back then. He feels like laughing a bit at his past self. He may have liked that boy, but he fell in love with the man he became much later. And man, did that take some years, where teaching and learning came, more often than not, in harsh bursts.

They held hands when they hit their six months together. Held hands once a full year hit too. And another. And another. And many more.

But, what Atsumu can remember clearly, is Kyoomi in every stage. The boy, shy and a bit on the anti-social spectrum, growing out, smiling more, learning to love and appreciate Atsumu’s stupidity and youth even when they hit their early twenties. And Atsumu learned something beyond dealing with his boyfriend’s early morning moods. Even if that may be a feat on it’s own as it is.
--
“Hey Omi Omi.” Atsumu hums to his boyfriend, legs crossed on the bed, phone closed off in his hand as he watches his boyfriend pour concentration and soul and strength into his sketchbook. The blond purses his lips, and leans over, his curiosity getting the better of him, to gently bump his forehead against the crown of Kyoomi’s head.

Finally, his Kyoomi looks up.

He looks young, Atsumu thinks.

And he looks beautiful, handsome. The same black hair, same curls, same depth to his endless eyes. And a young Atsumu, no older than nineteen, feels his stomach twist. Something warm pools into his legs, and his muscles twitch. After years, Kyoomi can make him feel so much. His heart feels the boy’s stare more than sees it.

Eyes as black as obsidians, prettier even, flutter their lashes at him, a ghost of a smile forming.

“Hm?”

Atsumu smiles, bashful, stupid, young. He chuckles to himself for a bit, and avoids eye contact. The design he finds when he looks down at Kyoomi’s sketchbook is upside down, but he knows what that exactly is.

His half lidded eyes stared right back at him, but bored, sharp edges, a bit thicker in the line than his real ones. His portrait, half sketch, half finished, looks right at him. Not judging, but maybe unimpressed.

“You looked like this a few seconds ago…” Kyoomi explains, chuckling at Atsumu’s spur of shyness before he pushes gently against Atsumu’s head, knocking him away. His free hand goes to twist and twirl the lace his hoodie has on it’s collar, infinite black gaze returning back to their work. Atsumu hums softly, a bit breathless. Three years together, and yet he still reacts like this…

“Uh...yeah. “

Kyoomi, amused, glances up and ignores the warmth coloring his cheeks.

“What is it, Tsumu?”

Even through the intimacy and little touches that affected Atsumu like such, he purses his lips and pushes his chest out a bit. This is not Kyoomi’s first drawing. This is not Kyoomi’s first sketchbook either. So, he rasps out his wish before he finds a stupid reason to stop himself.

“Will you give me a tattoo?”

Kyoomi looked up this time, his curls hiding a bit of his eyes. Atsumu only stares at him, entranced a bit. Kyoomi is such a white and black person, not only figuratively. He's pale, and with the stark contrast his eyes, hair and millions of moles hiding beneath his clothes, he's the definition of ink on paper.

He's a drawing in and of itself. And Atsumu can only stare at him, admire him.

But, Kyoomi only shrugged.

"No. Not now." Then, Kyoomi seems to think about his answer some more. He looks up from his work, then smiles at his pouting boyfriend.

"When my shop is open."
--
Hmm. It must have been quite the years that passed since then. Atsumu thought so at least. He learned how to bleach his hair with a proper color, how to take care of it and style it the way his boyfriend really liked. He remembers Kyoomi saying he loved it when he kissed him breathlessly, the first time he made his hair like that, anyway. It must have been a good thing.

But still. Some time went past. Four years to be exact.

And now, as a member of the MSBY Black Jackals, a considered professional volleyball player with a career still ahead of him, he stays tall, smug even, cocky smile and even cockier tilt to his hip as he looks up, at his boyfriend's tattoo shop.

His first ever tattoo shop, at that.

He's kind of sad he missed it's opening a few weeks back, but he's here now, isn't he?

Four years don't seem like a long time when you write them down, but oh so many things could happen in such a span of time. A year is enough to change someone, and with four times that amount, minor events could be considered miracles. Atsumu fought his way up still to become the best setter in Japan, and he has yet to succeed with someone like Kageyama butting heads with him for it. He left highschool with a promise to become a professional, of learning to live by himself, his twin stuck to his hip no more. He moved, changed, and studied all of his life for his ambitions, and even after all of this time, it didn't feel like enough.

But he was lucky. Lucky that Kyoomi was there with him, through it all. To hold his hand, call him when he was away for games, and come meet him when he came back for him with arms as spread as the last time he'd seen him, waiting for his whiny Atsumu to come and wrap him up in his arms right back. Atsumu always dived into him, eyes half lidded, smile soft, careful, dopey and lovely. Apparently, lovely enough for his Omi Omi to kiss it when they reached the safety of their shared apartment.

And they still do it. Kyoomi still meets him when he comes back from games, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other scrolling through some socials, waiting patiently for Atsumu to bombard him with millions of kisses and calls of his name. Just like the first time Atsumu went on away games. Waiting patiently for his boyfriend, like he always promised. And Atsumu always shows his appreciation for him being there every time, letting his team say their last goodbyes and promises of next practice and let him go to his home, Kyoomi, like it has been for quite some time.

This time, it's his turn.

And how could he miss his boyfriend's years of study in fine arts, of millions of works thrown away, kept or evaluated and patience doing it all and learning come to fruition.

Atsumu stood in front of the small studio, seemingly welcoming to the passer by's, despite this being a tattoo shop slapped in the middle of Japan. See-through glass displayed a bit of what was to be expected when you entered, and Atsumu was already whipped. He smiled at the black couches aligned to the left he could see, new leather no wonder, shining with a matte touch when the light hit it, while the floor to ceiling color was as black and white as possible.

His Omi didn't like color too much. He said he preferred the simplicity and direct contradiction of the two non colors. Atsumu only shrugged and nodded along to him back then, holding Kyoomi close in his lap with his arms wrapped around him. It must have been late, Atsumu us not so sure. On that cheap bed they got the first time, in their bedroom of their small apartment. Well, it was under Atsumu's name, but Kyoomi didn't let his boyfriend keep paying for his stay when it came to food and bills.

Kyoomi was stubborn that way.

Atsumu was silent for a long time when Kyoomi drew or designed something, always opting to watch his hand smooth lines so perfect over the piece of paper, chin propped on Omi's shoulder. There were no imperfections in the way he traced lines, Atsumu noticed. He always used expensive ink too, with a gold stylo.

Atsumu shrugs on his jacket and adjusts it higher on his shoulders, looking through the glass at the paintings and tattoo designs aligned on the wall.

A few more minutes, tops...

Honey golden eyes followed lines he knew of, seen some time ago, seen years ago, then followed others he hasn't seen ever. Circles, triangles, geometric or linear designs. And then the more fluid and prettier ones, all of them flowers. Then symbols, then many more.

Then...

Then the portraits he had in the furthest place Atsumu could see from where he was standing on the street. People passed him, all of them head down, busy, hurried, quiet. He was a tall individual between them all, but he wasn't bothered. Not in height only, his build was far larger than average anyway.

His palms started to warm up.

He brought his hands up and cracked his knuckles out of instinct, squeezing his hands together when the bones popped. Kept them there for a second, then pulled them back in his jacket.

He wondered what time it was. He didn't want to interrupt Kyoomi with such a surprise from him, since he wasn't expected to be in the city until two days later.

Then, Atsumu saw something. He saw, through the depth of the shop, himself in black and white onto the wall. It was him, that much he could figure out, a very impressionistic version of himself at least, in dripped ink in one of the frames. He was next to someone else, but Atsumu only smiled like a stupid and in love teenager when he saw himself up there. He saw the little scribble of Kyoomi's signature over a part of his neck, his portrait big enough to fit the entire paper. It looked big from where Atsumu was, but he couldn't wait to marvel at it from up close. He knows art can be an experience, but he thinks it's a whole life when he looks at Kyoomi's.

Even after years, Atsumu thought he'd settle down with all of this excitement about his boyfriend. Turns out, he just finds smaller ways to gush about him.

How careful Omi Omi can be when he files down Atsumu's hands. Butting heads with him in the mornings about who gets the first coffee. Wrapping his boyfriend up in a blanket during the night, immediately waking up, no matter how much he mumbles and whines about it, to bundle his Tsumu up. It's the gentle teasing about how Atsumu is still so stupid after all these years, yet helps him correct every little mistake he does. It's the meaning behind Omi rolling up the sleeves as Atsumu washes the dishes. And so much more, Atsumu could write and talk about these little things forever.

He doesn't know when Kyoomi did that drawing of him, now that he thinks about it; he can't see the face clearly from here. He can see the ink dripped down the page, days ago, ages ago. It looks the same throughout the years. But he knows it's him. Thin and thick stripes here and there, musing his hair in the portrait even more, and he feels a bit nostalgic. Kyoomi must have done it so quickly.... his strokes are always like the wind. They don't require any dramatic movements really, but the flow of his wrist, how his arm draws every practiced or instinctual line across his chosen canvas, instead of his hand, is enticing.

--

"Ya could be a volleyball player with such control, Omi."

Kyoomi rolled his eyes at the voice Atsumu murmured in their apartment. It was another day, a separate moment from the other. Another evening. Atsumu was making up some quick dinner in their small kitchen, when they were still new to this, when their schedules barely matched, and bags rested under their eyes more often than one would find preferable.

"Maybe in another life, Tsumu."

--

'Another life indeed....' Atsumu voiced over the memory, back to present day, back to the pavement beneath his old worn sneakers.

He looked down at them, at the dirt caking the front and sides, the foam that's supposed to be white and pristine now dirty with age and millions of streets crossed. Atsumu clicks his tongue and runs a hand through his hair.

Oh, Kyoomi will not like that they aren't washed.

Atsumu pouts his bottom lip and sighs, his phone taken out for a one quick glance at the time on the screen.

Five more minutes tops. He quietly pockets the phone back.

This is not a surprise party. Atsumu isn't coming from overseas. He wasn't far away from his Omi this time either, maybe a five hour drive away. But surprises were something Atsumu liked to do, and knew he was good at. Kyoomi liked them small too, not too startling, not so out of the blue.

The very random flower once a month Atsumu promised him when they have been living together for a year. The slightly more expensive chocolate Atsumu left on the counter in the kitchen for his Omi, with a cheesy pick up line written on top and a smiley face to go along with it. The new ink he knew Kyoomi needed, because he finished his last bottle last night, pouring his heart out over designs and homework at the same time. It was the small that Kyoomi liked.

--

The small indication that Atsumu, as stupidly and idiotic as he might seem when he hogs Kyoomi's attention, he's a romantic at heart.

Through the smile, through the laugh, through the warm and cozy and homey way Kyoomi muttered against his lips after kissing him: "You're so cheesy, Atsumu."

"Only for ya, babe." Atsumu would respond back, as cheeky and as in love as always.

"Don't call me that." And yet, Kyoomi blushed because of it, everytime.

--

Atsumu smiled to himself, looking up at the sky with his lips only stretching to show off his teeth. Wow, happiness had a really funny way to morph his heart into different little flowers. Atsumu wouldn't call it magical, he didn't believe in such idiocities. At first it must have been excitement and unfiltered love, but now, it has simmered down, a lovely campfire to warm your hands at.

But not magic.

It took him four years to reach the highest level in his life. And it still feels like it's not enough. Not enough of the sport he plays, not enough time spent with Kyoomi, not enough money, not enough and again not enough.

He catches a silhouette coming up to the glass door, and his smile turns far more softer, lulling, a single perfect stroke of Kyoomi's stylo upward in between the tip of his nose and chin.

Kyoomi drew it there. His smile. He must have. Atsumu felt the sudden brush of the man's thumb across his lips.

It must have been the wind.

Jet black curls turn from a blur to stark contrast against the white interior design, behind the glass. Two moles rest above a thick brow, and one simple black shirt frames the man, it's sleeves rolled up fair and white milky skin. And to go with the fit, a pair of black jeans, with old and worn out white sneakers to match. Muscles flex with every movement, and a few moles appear every now and then when the person turns the open sign to a closed one.

And then, black pools as the abyss, swallowing every bit of light in it's paths, catch Atsumu.

Atsumu has never been to space. He doesn't know what a black hole looks like, and doesn't know how it feels like to be sucked in, and never to be let go of. In infinite matter, where the air is no more, where no solid ground to rest can be found. Eternally to tumble your way through infinite black.

Atsumu might not have been up there, but he sure does feel like he did. Maybe he even ventured through a black hole before and he simply just doesn't remember. Because in the face of such a black and white person, and it's black eyes and pretty lashes fluttering, blinking at his figure standing out in the crowd, Atsumu doesn't panic.

Instead, a surge of happiness bubbles in his throat.

That's his Kyoomi, right there.

Why is he so enamored when he sees him? Atsumu smiles that stupid smile Kyoomi keeps poking fun at him about for years, but he doesn't care as he makes his way through the people. Anything to feel his man touch him now now now.

He surges forward, step by step. Kyoomi blinks owlishly at him, a surgical mask in place to hide the smile growing on his lips. Atsumu knows it's there. He has known his man for long enough to know so. And that face only becomes more and more beautiful as he makes the space between them smaller and smaller.

A street crossed, a few people passed by, and lastly, one door between them.

"Atsumu." Kyoomi welcomes him inside, his characteristic mask now under his chin, nudged by a long finger. He pulled it off swiftly, to let the ghost of a smile capture his beauty. Stepped aside as the click of the doorknob sounded softly between them, a cupid to announce the meeting of two lovers.

Atsumu, not one to waste a single second, puts a loose arm around Kyoomi's waist, and smiles right back, because how could he not." Hello to you too, handsome."

The door clicks shut behind them.

"You're not supposed to be in town for another two days..." Kyoomi looks in awe, breathless as he squeezes himself into Atsumu. Sides to sides, hip to hip. Lovely. That doesn't stop him from feeling up his boyfriend, the expectant chuckle coming from his just music to Atsumu's ears.

A palm down the slope of that slim back, to the black fit jeans that make his ass look fantastic, then, to the side of his Omi's hip, where his thumb rests into a single belt loop, his palm warming up the expanse of his thigh. All planes of skin already touched and mapped for years on end, and Atsumu still marvels over everything that Kyoomi is.

"Well, am here in the flesh, ain't I?" Atsumu presses his hip to Kyoomi too.

Kyoomi huffs with a slight shake of his head, high cheekbones catching a bit of color as Atsumu presses up against him. Atsumu got the sexy but idiotic smile on, that's why. And Atsumu doesn't fault Kyoomi for getting bashful either. It's a really stupid smile, he knows.

He keeps to himself though. Kyoomi can talk his ear off if he really wants to about anything if so his little heart wishes so.

"You sure are, you sensational asshole. Scared me when I saw you out there, just standing. What are you, a stalker?" Kyoomi teases with a smile, voice cut loose at the end because Atsumu leaned forward to stop his lips from moving.

Ah, a kiss.

He kissed back barely, nudging Atsumu's nose with his for a second before he kissed him back, just slightly. "What a tease...." Atsumu mumbles, but smiling brightly as he leans away. Oh well, he could finish his welcome home kiss later, in his boyfriend's tattoo shop too.

Fuck that just sounds so good to think about.

"You know I'm only business in the back." Kyoomi pats Atsumu's hip lovingly, smile turning wider as Atsumu bursts out laughing.

"Ohoo, only business, all right. Can agree with that." As if to prove his point, Atsumu rubs a palm over the small of Kyoomi's back, only to drag it down to one ass cheek and squeeze a bit. His hand doesn't get slapped away this time, and instead, he's met with fierceness and eyes as black as he can only dream of.

"Let's go to the back, so I can interrogate you properly."

And Atsumu is far too happy to not let himself be pushed to the back of the shop by a hand to his back, big and stretching over his spine, over his shoulder blades. He can feel the warmth seeping through his jacket, the skin making contact with the material, rubbing over it, soothingly. To alleviate something, or for Kyoomi to keep to himself when he's still in the public eye, Atsumu would never know, but God he was not complaining because Kyoomi pushing him around is still such a sexy concept.

Atsumu doesn't dwell on that thought either. He only huffs a laugh and leans into him, hand still squeezing Kyoomi's ass like nobody could look through the glass of his boyfriend's studio shop. Kyoomi might reprimand him later for it, but he'll take that like a champ.

"Is this some funny way for you to say I'm home, Atsumu?"

When they finally reach the back, where a room stretches from one end of the wall to the other, Atsumu knows he can do as much as he likes. This is where Kyoomi tattoos all of his clients, that much he can tell, and privacy is as much as the three chairs settled down here can offer. Nobody is here. Nobody but them. The windows are smaller, and higher up on the walls. So, he does what he knows best.

He ignores Kyoomi's question and goes to shut him up again, long and sweet, just like his every kiss.

And good grief Kyoomi responds right back, leaning in, pushing right back against Atsumu's insistent pursuit. Finally Kyoomi kisses back just as strongly, maybe just as greedy. They missed each other so dearly, if feels like their lips could keep contact forever.

Atsumu's not opposed to that.

"And if I say it is?" Atsumu whispers, sounding more funny than enticing and mysterious. Kyoomi plays along anyway.

"Then welcome home. This was a nice surprise."

They chuckle in between kisses at the hushed responses, their lips meeting in the middle always. "Came ta see my boyfriend's tattoo shop, is that illegal?"

"Mhmm. When you come unannounced."

"Dully noted."

"Smartass." Kyoomi pushes Atsumu's face away from him with a smile and a little laugh, his hand pushing down on Atsumu's mouth to stop him.

But Atsumu only whines and kisses down on the fingers, hands greedy as they feel Kyoomi up and down, rubbing soothing circles into his skin, dragging his thumbs in between the loops of his tight fit jeans. Always a blessing, Kyoomi in a tight fit. God, Atsumu could feel him up all day long and then some more.

Atsumu ventured his hands lower, squeezing and groping appreciatively at the muscles beneath his fingers. And the denim jeans were just perfectly rounding Kyoomi's legs, his thighs and calves standing out. A crime not to see all of this glorious display.

Was his Omi always this good looking?

"For you only." Kyoomi chuckles, amused while Atsumu blinks open his eyes, a quickly spreading heat filling his face to the tips of his ears.

"Ah, shit, ya heard that?" Well, Atsumu feels like the teenager he was, all hormonal and stupid again. And back then it was for this man too, a younger Kyoomi, skinnier, but still taller. Still his Omi.

"Loud and clear, Miya." Kyoomi pats Atsumu's ass too now, all cheeky smiles and everything.

It took him four years.

Nah, that's not correct.

Kyoomi went to college after finishing high school. Atsumu remembers clearly, they were in a half a year relationship the day Kyoomi told him. Atsumu was angry, upset, sad, but he knew Kyoomi's decision was set in stone. Atsumu learned to read Kyoomi better and better with each day they texted, messaged, talked, video chatted- so when his Omi threw him the glare before Atsumu could even think of saying the unthinkable, Atsumu stilled.

And with time, he understood and accepted.

With time, Kyoomi got into college, and Atsumu found his first team to make a contract with. Both of them got some part time jobs, scheduling their work hours and classes/practice so that they could have time to stay in each other's company.

With time, Kyoomi learnt about banking, managing, businesses, all the while studying for his classes in fine arts.

With time, Kyoomi gave Atsumu back every promised penny. Even if Atsumu almost started an argument with him about not wanting the money.

And with time, Atsumu saw his boyfriend turn from the antisocial boy from volleyball camp, ugly shorts and even uglier sweaters Sakusa Kyoomi, turn into a man, matured, handsome, easy going.

Atsumu feels his chest swell. It gets bigger and bigger, his ribs expanding around his heart and longs to keep all of that happiness from spewing out, seeping, exploding. Instead, he smiles stupidly in love, admiration, adoration, and amour and everything in between in his wavering gaze.

"I'm home..." he feels the need to say it.

He settles his hands on Kyoomi's back, feeling the muscles flex under his touch. It's enticing, touching, heart breaking in a sense. Only Atsumu deserves this, it's his man, his everything, when black eyes turn soft, warm, with the same amount of emotion.

"Welcome back." Kyoomi says, letting the palm he pushed Atsumu away with rub over his nose, his lips, his chin. Long fingers slide down, to cup the side of his jaw, the side of his neck. Atsumu wants some more of it.

And when Kyoomi says it, it really feels like he's home.

Atsumu is on unknown territory. His boyfriend's. The empty clean white tiles beneath his sneakers, the machines, the ink bottles, the needles, cleaning supplies, everything is new and so Kyoomi. Kyoomi was a man of luxury, even when financially speaking, they weren't in the best spots sometimes. His curls looked well taken care of, fading undercut hidden beneath soft and slick hair, his previously ugly scowl turning into a softer one, more approachable, more mature, in fact, all of it with time and embarrassing realizations in the mirror at three am.

Kyoomi is so beautiful, really.... as he gets older, the more handsome he gets. And Atsumu cannot get enough.

Kyoomi closes his eyes, and sighs softly. He leans forward to press a kiss to Atsumu's mouth, but it's the corner. Atsumu wants to brush his hair, rake the black strands through his fingers like they're expensive material. They might as well be silk, how smooth and how flawlessly they shine with the neon lights lighting up the now empty shop.

"Atsumu.... tell me." he whispers, and Atsumu stills.

"Tell ya what?" A bit winded, Atsumu asks him back. His lips move about Kyoomi's, touching but not quite, a breath's air away.

"Tell me again."

Ah.

Atsumu knows now. He cannot keep the smile coming up on his face, and he feels laughter bubble out of him.

The taste of warm coffee in the morning, a pair of arms around him, palms sliding up and down his body. Atsumu remembers silent mornings, where only kisses and smiles were shared. He knows what Kyoomi means now.

"Now, can I get my first tattoo?" He hums, low, soft, just like Kyoomi likes.

Kyoomi smiles as well, wider and wider, the question repeated throughout their relationship at nauseam, only to end up with the same answer every time: 'when my shop is open.'

And Atsumu would always pout at the end. Be it at four in the morning, a cup of coffee in his hand, tousled hair and sleepy eyes, and ugly sleepy pout. Be it after Kyoomi ended his classes and Atsumu was picking him up, hands interlocked in his sweater's pockets. Be it at the supermarket, buying food together.

Many things happened. Maybe too many...

Who knows.

All that Kyoomi knows for now, is that his answer to that stupid question, is different today.

In this studio shop, with his instruments, with the art he practiced enough to know by heart, he knows.

"Today, you big child."

And Atsumu smiled brilliantly, and oh so stupid, oh so young. Kyoomi did too, because he was still in love, still in the endless depth of the ocean for this man, and for the coming kiss to his lips that burst like millions of flowers against him.