#gwachauthor

“Hello,” Itachi says, holding out a hand. His face is unreadable.

Naruto greets him with a fervent shake of the offered hand, trying not to fall forwards when Itachi reciprocates. “It’s nice to talk to you! In, uh, a non-awkward context,” he offers, smiling crookedly. “Sasuke told me you don’t mind Taco Bell! You should let me treat you some time — I’m glad you can appreciate good food.”

“Fucking disgusting,” A voice that is obviously Sasuke’s barks from the kitchen, spilling over with vitriol. “You’re disgusting, and that place is even worse. It’s not real Mexican food!”

“Language, little brother,” Itachi calls back, completely enveloped in the role of a stern older sibling figure. He turns to Naruto again, giving a sage nod. “Yes. I enjoy their, ah, Crunchwrap Supreme, I believe it’s called.”

Another distant groan of pure agony rings from Sasuke. “You grew up eating freshly cooked soba and hand caught mackerel, Itachi! Where did it go wrong?” The sounds of a wooden spatula hitting the edges of a frying pan multiply in volume and frustration as Sasuke smolders with fury deeper inside of the traditional Japanese house.

One occasionally useful peculiarity of Kiyoomi's is that he's ambidextrous.

It doesn't sound like a big deal, and it's not for the most part—but it's helped him in more ways than he'd ever originally imagined. Both of his hands are always active, always ready to move or write or spike without the clunkiness one typically would expect. It's a learned strength, not an innate one, built up carefully over time with training and conscious practice, so Kiyoomi appreciates it all the more.

It's especially useful in situations like this one, he's learned.

"You're more desperate than usual," Kiyoomi points out matter-of-factly, studying the body writhing under him one might a mind-numbing textbook. He starts his left hand's thumb at Atsumu's collarbones, smearing a droplet of sweat that beads at the bone there in mild fascination—something he'd normally find unbecoming.

On Atsumu, it is stunning.

Atsumu thrashes, his hips pressed into the sheets only with the power of spite and trembles with the threat to bow off the bed every time Kiyoomi tightens his other hand's grip on his dick or runs a thumb over the slit—which is often, because Kiyoomi is a fucking devil in every respect.

"Fuckin' touch me properly already, then," Atsumu gasps out, chunks of gelled blonde matting as his head rolls to the side, eyes squeezed shut. "Stop psychoanalyzin' me like ya know me."

This garners the reaction Atsumu was likely rooting for—a twitch of his fingers, a furrow of the brow. Kiyoomi doesn't like being underestimated, nor does he like being lied to.

"I do know you," Kiyoomi reminds him almost plainly, the hand that started at his collarbones now trailing over his bicep, over his forearm, then along Atsumu's own hand. They splay to follow the grooves of Atsumu's joints, where Kiyoomi lets his gloved fingertips rub along the calloused skin there, littered with odd bumps and scratches from years of high-level volleyball. His more occupied hand gives a particularly rough stroke. "I know your strengths."

Atsumu whines, desperately trying to push more into Kiyoomi's hand. "Fuck, fuckfuckfuck, Omi." Clicking his tongue, Kiyoomi prompts him to stay still with another bite, ravishing the indents only when he's satisfied.

"Your weaknesses, too." Kiyoomi says, still mouthing at his neck. "I know them better than you do, Miya. And you know mine."

"What did I say about callin' me that in bed?" snaps Atsumu, his voice extinguishing halfway through. Kiyoomi feels his vocal chords vibrate, and relishes the thrum.

"Exhibit one," Kiyoomi jokes flatly, and promptly dips to nip at the flesh under Atsumu's ear, which leaves him keening. "And that was exhibit two."

It's not an observation that needs to be verbalized. Atsumu knows it too, somewhere deep inside of him—Kiyoomi just verbalizes it because he knows it bothers Atsumu as much as it arouses him, that Kiyoomi knows his way around his every part of his body, every nerve, every dip and jut that makes Atsumu Atsumu. It's the natural culmination of all of the times they've fucked around, from spontaneous, meaningless blowjobs all the way to slow, intimate scenes that linger in the air hours after its end, threatening to crumble their carefully crafted facade of just friends that have sex. Relishing this thought, Kiyoomi leans back to admire his work while he continues to stroke. He's surprised Atsumu's held on for so long, really.

Like clockwork, Atsumu moans again, and Kiyoomi recognizes its pitch immediately as one at the precipice of an incoming climax. "No more talking, I—I'm right there, Omi, I—"

"Say it." Kiyoomi tightens his grip, but slows down.

Atsumu chokes, trying to get away, trying to get closer, he doesn't know— "What the fuck are ya—Omi, I'm going to come, just—"

"Say I know you. Tell me you didn't mean it."

"You fuckin' possessive, control-freak bastard—"

"Say it." Kiyoomi stills completely, watching Atsumu with rapt attention. "Say it, Atsumu."

Atsumu whines, fishing his hand out under Kiyoomi's to cover his face, debating between two impossible evils, but Kiyoomi knows Atsumu well. Inside and out, from head to toe, can differentiate the minutiae of how Atsumu likes his pain, how he likes his pleasure.

He has all the evidence to believe he knows Atsumu.

They pass an upscale jewelry advertisement, which prominently features two men laughing and kissing, holding up their fingers to show off what look to be wedding rings, though the shine factor is obviously ramped up to eleven for the sake of marketing. Naruto stops right in front of it, studying it like he’s expecting to be quizzed on the holiday discount rates plastered in the corner of the poster.

“That’s so gay,” Naruto breathes, his eyes twinkling in awe like he’s seen a Christmas miracle. “Uber cool. I forget that, like, gay people exist. You know?”

Slowly, Sasuke looks down at their intertwined hands in disbelief at his boyfriend’s ability to absolutely stump him.

“No,” Sasuke says slowly. “I don’t.”

Ironically, Naruto squeezes his hand in excitement. “But look! They’re right there! And they’re gay!”

“Naruto, we are gay. We are in a homosexual relationship. We are arguably gayer than the advertisement.”

Jabs aside, Sasuke kind of gets it, which might actually be a cause for concern — the more he starts to understand what Naruto is actually trying to say when gibberish comes out of his mouth in an attempt to express it, the more he feels like he needs a quick check-up.

Naruto pouts, huddling closer. “Yeah, but… it’s just awesome. To know that there are other people who are fighting the good fight, I guess? Other people who see love for what it is.”

“And you get this from a Dior ad,” Sasuke teases, like his own heart isn’t warmed by the thought. He has it bad. “I’m sure the CEO and the advertising department are delighted by your analysis.”

Naruto harrumphs, knocking him with his elbow. “You cynical asshole. Don’t lie, you think it’s cute too.”

“Maybe,” Sasuke replies dryly, grabbing Naruto’s arm before it makes contact with him. “I’d rather the real thing, personally.”

Naruto gasps, covering his mouth in faux shock. “You sap! Careful, Sas, you might make me think you actually like me.”

 “Chat asks what we’re baking today, Sas,” Naruto calls. “We decided on brownies, didn’t we?”

“Two batches,” Sasuke chimes in, spreading the ingredients they’d topped up on across the counter and knotting the plastic bag to save for later. “One with almonds in it for me, and the other one with a fucking disgusting overload of caramel and Oreos for you.”

“He doesn’t get it, guys,” Naruto looks at the camera, shaking his head gravely. “Only old people put nuts in their brownies. I’m just enjoying my youth.”

“Enjoy your youth while you take out a mixing bowl. Stop standing around, lazy ass.” ---

“Naruto, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Cracking eggs! We need two of them for the recipe.”

“Obviously,” Sasuke snipes, squinting. “So why are there five eggs on the counter?”

Naruto squints at him. “In case any of them break. Obviously.”