Thread by @xingexoy

#SakuAtsuWeek2023 @sktsweek || day 6 - intimacy || sick omi

Kiyoomi’s life revolves around control. It’s how it is, how it should be, and how he works. If things are out of his range of motion, then he adapts, moves on, and forgets.

But no matter how many times Kiyoomi could ever prepare himself with face masks and wet wipes and fingers rubbing along warm water with hand soap, it is inevitable that he’ll eventually get sick.

“Omi, baby,” Atsumu says. “Come on, ya gotta eat somethin’.”

No, he can’t. Every swallow leaves his throat obliterated, as if someone had sucker punched his esophagus and he was still reeling endlessly. It’s maddening and Kiyoomi is quickly approaching the precipice of his sanity.

“Don’t want to,” he grumbles.

The mere response feels like death.

“I know, darlin’, but you barely ate at all today.”

Kiyoomi groans but he’s quick to stop, the vibration tearing across his throat. He can feel sweat drip down his neck and he mourns the yesterday when he felt normal.

Maybe he was just being dramatic, but oh well.

“If ya eat at least five bites then I won’t bother ya about it.”

Kiyoomi knits his brows. “No you won’t.”

“No I won’t,” Atsumu immediately relents with a grin.

Kiyoomi scoffs. “Fine.”

Atsumu makes a victorious noise and he’s quick to bring the bed desk, setting it down on Kiyoomi’s lap as he sits himself on a stool next to the bed. He grabs the bowl of okayu from a nearby table and hisses at the heat, quickly plopping it down on the wood as the umeboshi shifts

along the thick bed of rice.

Kiyoomi hates to admit it, but with his lone nostril that's open, it smells wonderful. He takes a bite, then two, three, and he’s surpassed five and the bowl is nothing more than small portions of porridge spread throughout the porcelain bowl.

The heat from the meal has Kiyoomi’s throat calming down and a grogginess comes washing over him.

“You cleaned this good,” Atsumu hums, peering down the nearly desolate bowl.

“God, shut up.”

Atsumu simply smiles and places the bowl away, seating himself on the same stool right

next to bed. Kiyoomi sits under the sheets by himself.

It’s simple.

One person on one end, the other on another end.

It’s routine.

Kiyoomi keeps his distance and Atsumu upholds his request.

It’s controlled.

Kiyoomi doesn’t prefer much touch, and he’s fine with that.

Atsumu seems fine with that, too.

Kiyoomi is no stranger to this arrangement of theirs. After practice or whenever there’s time, Atsumu drops by Kiyoomi’s apartment, they hang out with their new show, talk shit, and Atsumu goes home.

Each moment of space and distance is normal and nothing out of the sort despite the romantic status of their relationship. There’s an occasional hug, a kiss if Kiyoomi’s really feeling it, but it never passes that, never anything consistent or often, either.

Atsumu seems fine with it and Kiyoomi is never bothered by it.

At least, that's what he thought.

Atsumu is laughing right now. Kiyoomi can barely register a ‘bonk’ in the background amidst Atsumu’s own voice.

“‘Samu would do somethin’ like that,”

Atsumu says, letting out a fit of giggles. Kiyoomi can’t seem to turn his attention to the TV when there’s something much prettier he can look at it.

The thought registers in his head and Kiyoomi makes a strangled noise.

Atsumu turns to him and he can only hope he doesn’t prod any further.

“You okay, Omi?”

Shit.

“Yer kinda red.”

Fuckkkkkkk. Abort mission.

“I just had to cough,” Kiyoomi tries to say, hoping that his cheeks aren’t as red as he thinks they are.

Atsumu quickly stands from where he’s at the stool and Kiyoomi curses himself for the skittering itch of emptiness from his side. He comes back with a glass of water and Kiyoomi quickly downs the liquid.

“Wow, ya really did need that,” Atsumu snorts.

The water barely helps quell any of the heat under his skin. Any remnant of control Kiyoomi has slips away like sand in between his fingers and all he can do is bury himself deeper into the sheets.

Kiyoomi’s mind is a jumbled mess of lines and shapes he can’t make any sense of.

He wonders if it’s the haze of sickness washing over him or the medicine finally doing its job in making him want to conk out.

He could sleep; it's a reasonable and viable option. His head kind of hurts and his throat is killing him.

The sweat on his body is slowly cooling into a sticky residue and the soup from earlier is making his eyelids droop. So in short, it makes completely, perfectly perfect sense why he should go to sleep.

Thing is, he doesn’t want to. He’s not sure why.

Well.

The TV is playing in front of them and Kiyoomi notices it’s a show they’ve been watching, one where the plot isn’t all that good but they were interested nonetheless. Atsumu is replaying an episode, possibly the one he had fallen asleep to a few days ago.

He’s giggling at something funny. It’s not uncommon for Atsumu to laugh at whatever they’re watching, but Kiyoomi wants him to look this way.

Atsumu’s hair is dry from the shower and doesn't have any of his usual styling products on it.

It sticks out randomly, evidence of him rushing to the kitchen to make okayu, and the occasional frizz is illuminated by the lights above. Kiyoomi wants to run a hand through them.

The fluorescent lights are too bright but seeing the faintest speckle of freckles littering

the planes of Atsumu’s cheek and the bridge of his nose does something to Kiyoomi. It’s not the itch of a cough or the blockage of phlegm. It’s more like what happens every time Atsumu is near him.

Warm, encompassing, bright.

Kiyoomi wonders what would happen if his routine fell off track for a day, if it changed to the point it’s no longer routine. Would he get a new one? Would it no longer exist?

Kiyoomi is so used to the distance between shoulders and thighs on the couch.

He’s familiar with waves of goodbyes and promises of tomorrow with nothing more than a smile and crinkled eyes. It’s routine when Atsumu drops by, hangs out, and company becomes two in Kiyoomi’s single apartment with every lingering glance.

Maybe it’s due to him being sick and hyper aware of all the little sensations crawling up his skin, but Kiyoomi feels that Atsumu is farther. The distance between the bed and the stool seems so vast

and Kiyoomi wonders what tipped him off the edge of wanting to know more of the man he’s chosen to love.

He wants to take Atsumu’s hand and find out if it's warmer than his. He wants to feel a heat next to his body that’s not his own.

He wants to see what exactly he’s been unable to do without being under the guise of sickness.

He needs it.

He needs—

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu lets out a chuckle and turns. “Yeah, Omi?”

Kiyoomi puts his hand away and allows the sand to spill.

“I need you,” Kiyoomi whispers.

Atsumu stills. An impressive flush rises to his cheeks and ears as he blinks slowly, as if he had to put thought to such a simple action.

“Omi?”

Kiyoomi could take it back, blame it on his hazy, tired mind, and slip off to sleep. Really, he could.

But seeing Atsumu’s eyes trained on his, eyes bright like he’s curious to know more. Kiyoomi swears he sees them twinkle and the thought has his heart lurching (In a good way? He’s not sure).

Kiyoomi can’t seem to control what he says next—

“Can you sit next to me?” Kiyoomi asks, gesturing towards the empty space on the bed. “Right here. With me.”

—and maybe that’s okay.

In a daze, Atsumu nods.

It’s slow and careful and hesitant, like Kiyoomi would take it back at any moment.

He doesn’t. Instead, Atsumu slips in the covers, rigid, and glancing sideways to meet his gaze.

“You sure?” Atsumu whispers.

Then, because he's made it this far, Kiyoomi nods. “I’m sure.”

The show plays but Kiyoomi has an inkling of a feeling none of them are paying attention. Not when Atsumu’s lips perk up at the sides, trying not to let out a wide grin. Kiyoomi’s not doing too well, either.

His heart rate has picked up and his hands are a bit sweaty, none of which he can really control.

Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu. Noticing the gaze, Atsumu turns to face Kiyoomi and smiles.

Huh, different.

Rubbing his thumb across Atsumu’s palm, Kiyoomi lets out a tiny smile.

★

the plan was touch starved ,,, touch starved!! 🧎‍♀️