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It’s been exactly forty-two days since he last saw Atsumu.
At first, Kiyoomi thought a long-distance relationship might actually be his preference. Without Atsumu in his daily life, Kiyoomi has an independence that suits him. It’s easy to make time for phone calls and he’s always preferred to sleep alone and uninterrupted.
He makes it through precisely three visits, spaced out evenly across fourth months before realizing that he’s never been more wrong about anything in his life.
Fuck long-distance.
Kiyoomi takes two steps through the door to Atsumu’s apartment before his overnight bag drops at his feet and Atsumu has him pressed into the wall, his mouth hot and hungry on Kiyoomi’s neck.
“I don’t even get a hello?” Kiyoomi tries to say, but he’s not sure he fully gets the words out. He’s already arching into Atsumu’s hands, desperate for the feel of rough palms on his skin and Atsumu’s lips on his own.
Atsumu kisses a sensitive path up his neck, nipping at his jaw, before pulling back with a sly grin. “That was a hello.”
It’s that smug twist of his lips that drives Kiyoomi insane. He fists Atsumu’s hoodie and pulls him back in, finally connecting their mouths.
Long-distance is actually shit. Only getting this every month and a half is torture. Every time they meet up, it’s like this. Frantic and fast and so full of overwhelming passion that Kiyoomi doesn’t know how his body can contain it all. The first fifteen minutes of any visit is just getting off and releasing the tension enough so that they can actually enjoy being together.
He slips a hand into the waistband of Atsumu’s joggers. He’s not wearing underwear, of course, and Kiyoomi wraps his hand around Atsumu’s warm length. Just because he can. Because it makes Atsumu groan into their kiss. Because it feels amazing to know that with just the right pace, he can make Atsumu’s knees weak.
It’s a little hard to concentrate on the movement of his hand while they’re still kissing. He kisses back in a haze, Atsumu’s tongue sliding over his and his broad hand gripping hard onto Kiyoomi’s hip. He’s barely aware of what he’s doing.
“Fuck, Omi,” Atsumu breaks off their kiss to pant. His hips push forward into Kiyoomi’s grip, like he’s desperate for more. “I’ve been waiting for you. I haven’t jerked off in a week.”
Oh.
Kiyoomi’s brain takes a second to come back to him, but those words give him pause. It’s a lot for Atsumu, he knows. To wait that long. The idea that he’s been waiting, just for this exact moment, forcing himself to hold back until it was Kiyoomi’s hand on him… it makes an unexpected spark twist in his gut.
He slows his hand down, despite Atsumu’s desperation and the way he humps into Kiyoomi’s hand. “That’s a long time for you,” Kiyoomi observes, then shoves Atsumu’s pants down to his knees just so he can look at him. He could already feel the way Atsumu is leaking precome, but the flushed head of his erection peeking out of Kiyoomi’s fist is a perfect sight.
Atsumu groans at Kiyoomi’s slowed pace. He tucks his face into Kiyoomi’s neck, and the sight of Atsumu’s cock disappears. “Just kept thinking about how it would be better if I waited until it was you.”
Kiyoomi is usually the one falling apart under Atsumu’s talented hands and mouth. It’s just easier to let Atsumu control the pace, to go along with the flow and enjoy the way his overactive brain finally quiets down and accepts touch and intimacy and being close.
But this? Suddenly there’s something inside of him that Kiyoomi hadn’t known was there.
Before he realizes what he’s doing, their positions are reversed and it’s Atsumu pushed against the wall. Kiyoomi wants to watch Atsumu fall apart, but only after he’s taken his time.
He speeds up at first, and Atsumu’s head falls back against the wall. Teeth dug into his lower lip and eyes shut. He keeps going until he knows Atsumu is close. Until he’s chanting Kiyoomi’s name and he’s chasing the friction of Kiyoomi’s hand with each pass up and down.
And then he stops. He laughs a little at the way Atsumu curses at him, then makes Atsumu strip off his hoodie, before he starts again with a slower pace.
He’s never wanted to drag things out. Never even wondered how long Atsumu could last through this kind of sweet torture.
Now he is.
Now he’s wondering if this is a new addiction.
“Fuck, you’re killing me, Omi.”
“If you waited a whole week, I’m sure you can wait a little longer.”
Atsumu’s eyes flutter back open, a delirious haze layered over his normal shrewdness. “Payback is a bitch, y’know.”
Kiyoomi tightens his fist, smirking back at Atsumu. Arousal gives him a bravado that he’s not sure he can really deliver on. “I can take it.”
Atsumu makes it through another seven minutes of torture, of being worked up to the edge and then back down again. He begs for Kiyoomi’s mouth at first, then tries to break Kiyoomi’s willpower by offering to fuck him in the shower, on his desk, hell—right here in the hallway, anywhere he wants.
“This is what I want,” Kiyoomi says, his eyes focused on Atsumu as he falls apart completely. “We have all weekend for the rest.”
When Atsumu finally comes, he whimpers. He shudders hard under Kiyoomi’s grip and makes a mess of Kiyoomi’s hand and his own stomach. Kiyoomi is so full of satisfaction that it’s almost like he’s orgasmed, too.
Atsumu reaches for Kiyoomi, pulling him close for an open-mouthed kiss that’s more harsh breathing than kissing. “Your turn.”
As it turns out, Kiyoomi can’t take it, either.
But he doesn’t regret it.