Work Text:
Kiyoomi thought the living room might be nice if it were yellow.
Naturally, Atsumu set about painting the living room yellow.
He went to the nearest hardware store to pick up pamphlets about interior design and color swatches, was pulled into an exorbitantly long conversation with a employee who looked so old he was nearly melded with the light fixture shelves, and ended up leaving with five cans of samples because who knew there were so many shades of yellow to choose from?
Atsumu brushed a large square of each sample on the wall while Kiyoomi made curry for dinner. Kiyoomi came in with spoonful of sauce for Atsumu to taste test, took one look at the wall, and promptly shook his head. “Too many blue undertones,” he said.
What the fuck did that mean?
Atsumu went back to the hardware store the next morning.
This time, when he painted the swatches on the wall, five completely new ones with (hopefully) varying shade of undertones, Kiyoomi sat on the couch with a book in hand. He was pretending to read but really watching Atsumu paint out of the corner of his lashes and admiring the flexing of his veins along his forearms. Atsumu was half watching a volleyball game on the tv and shouting a mixture of seemingly random obscenities and encouragements at the teams. It was impossible for Kiyoomi to discern which team he was rooting for.
This time, when Atsumu finished and looked to Sakusa with a hopeful, flourishing gesture at the array of yellow squares, Sakusa gave an approving nod.
He pointed at the sample to the far right with his book. “That one.”
Atsumu smiled vividly, and the bright yellow sample squares were dim in comparison. “I’ll pick up a full can tomorrow afternoon.”
“Or,” suggested Kiyoomi, “we could go now and finish by tonight?”
Atsumu lit up even further. The summer sun outside was an embarrassment at this point. “You’ll help?”
“Of course. It was my idea.”
“It’s a date. I’ll grab the keys.”
He bent to kiss Kiyoomi on the cheek, who rolled his eyes but dog-eared the page and reached for his black gloves. The hardware store smelled of grease and steel, the employees milling about either wearing an intense farmers tan, a tangled mullet, or an unsightly mixture of both. Kiyoomi wrinkled his nose, but Atsumu only linked their arms together with a happy hum and guided them to the paint section.
“We’ll take two cans of Champagne Lemon, please,” he said. The employee raised an eyebrow. Kiyoomi studied the unorganized paint swatches behind him with bored contempt. He itched to fix the crooked row of blues that did not follow any mode of coordination whatsoever. The person who designed the lackluster display them must have been severely colorblind.
“Sure thing,” responded the employee, monotonous. “Any primer?”
Kiyoomi didn’t know what that was. Atsumu took the lead in responding, of course. “No need. Color’s white now.”
“It adds a little protection as well. Minimizes scratches and chips in the color.”
“In that case,” said Atsumu, and Kiyoomi could physically feel his tongue sharpening, “no thanks.”
The employee merely shrugged.
Kiyoomi took his time washing his hands when they returned even though he’d worn the gloves the whole time, and by the time he entered the living room, Atsumu had all the supplies arranged across the floor. Two paint cans, two wheel rollers, one brush, one paint tray (filled already), and a line of towels along around the perimeter in case of drips.
Kiyoomi took one look at the array of supplies, the ten sample swatches still exhibited across the wall in neatly arranged squares, and Atsumu calmly rolling up the sleeves of his oversized long-sleeve.
“This was much more work than I had anticipated,” Kiyoomi said.
Atsumu raised an eyebrow. “We haven’t even started painting yet, babe.”
“I know.”
He must have been making a face — his sour lemon, nose-scrunched, wrinkled-forehead face — because Atsumu snorted softly and said, “We can leave it white if that’s what you want.”
Kiyoomi had told him he thought the living room might look nice as yellow. Atsumu didn’t hesitate.
He never did.
Kiyoomi swallowed the space between them in two large steps and pulled Atsumu into a crushing kiss, pressing their lips together hard. When he pulled back, Atsumu looked surprised and breathless.
“I want it yellow,” said Kiyoomi.
Atsumu smirked. “Then let’s get to work, baby.”
Kiyoomi made a rude gesture, but he did, begrudgingly, get to work. And work it was. Kiyoomi’s arms were tired by the end of the first wall and they had yet to move the furniture around for better access to the others. Atsumu must have noticed his movements lagging because he suggested a short drink break.
Atsumu, in contrast, had not broken a sweat. Throughout all of this, he hadn’t seemed to break a stride at all or falter a step in any direction. He’d held steadfast and bright and reliable and made Kiyoomi laugh when he didn’t even feel like smiling.
When they returned from their break, Kiyoomi felt both refreshed and newly determined to make these last three walls the best goddamn paint job in the world. He played Billy Joel from his phone speakers to trick his limbs into wanting to move. The next two walls went by surprisingly quickly, with the soft notes of piano and smooth notes of saxophone dancing in tandem with the dust motes in the air.
Kiyoomi found he was best with the angle brush, running the bristles in the small space between the wall and the ceiling, or the wall and the outlet covers, or the wall and the window panes. Kiyoomi was a viciously meticulous perfectionist, while Atsumu sang and danced happily as he rolled on uneven columns of paint that eventually didn’t matter because it became a single solid color.
There was, at last, one last brush stroke to make and Kiyoomi pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth to concentrate, his curls untamed and pasted lightly to his forehead with sweat. Atsumu snapped unflattering photos while he was too focused to notice. The final notes of Uptown Girl faded out when Kiyoomi finally stepped back and surveyed the room.
The final wall was still drying, both paint cans were strewn about messily, the brushes needed to be washed, and none of the furniture was in the correct place. Still, the sun was on the cusp of leaving and its lingering traces of light filtered through the window in dancing swirls of sienna and rust. The newly painted walls shone a warm, golden honey with the fading sunset, and the color made Kiyoomi think of flickering campfires and blinking fireflies and nights filled with laughter and burnt marshmallows.
“Like it?” asked Atsumu, but surely he could already see the answer on Kiyoomi’s face.
Kiyoomi just nodded.
Atsumu poked him in the ribs. “You’re so weird sometimes.”
“And you’re not?”
“Obviously I am. I never claimed to be otherwise.”
Atsumu and Kiyoomi watched the colors on the wall change as the sun slowly disappeared, as evening gave way to night, and the paint dried completely. They should probably wash the brushes soon before they dried and crusted over.
Kiyoomi wash it about to move and gather them when Atsumu nudged him. He pointed to the corner of an outlet covering.
“You sure you took your time? It looks a little a little splotchy there,” he said.
“Shut the fuck up. No it doesn’t,” Kiyoomi said immediately. He leaned forward covertly to double check. “You missed a spot in the corner over there.”
Atsumu squawked and launched to his feet to inspect his work. Kiyoomi couldn’t help but laugh.
He had been right. The living room looked very nice in yellow.