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Their daughter’s first word is “Daddy”.
It’s closer to “Dada”, honestly, but the intention is clear. She says it right after Atsumu hands her the little lavender baby blanket that he and Kiyoomi had so painstakingly chosen the day that they were panicking in the store together about their imminent fatherhood. Kiyoomi remembers the jumble of emotions well: they had been excited and nervous and more than ready and woefully underprepared all at once.
That had been almost a year ago, now. Atsumu lays her on her back in the crib, and she babbles, “Dada?” with those wide, innocent eyes peering up at the two of them.
Atsumu positively beams, cooing, “Yeah, sweetie, that’s us! We’re yer dads, yes we are.” He keeps murmuring nonsense at her, watching intently and running a soothing finger over her small cheekbone until she drifts off to sleep, and then he and Kiyoomi tiptoe out of the room, leaving the door cracked behind them.
“Her first word already,” Kiyoomi murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I know,” Atsumu whispers. He closes their own bedroom door quietly behind them and brushes their shoulders together as he passes by Kiyoomi on his way to set the baby monitor on the nightstand. “It’s kinda crazy to think about. She’s growin’ up so fast, Omi.”
“Mmm,” Kiyoomi mumbles sleepily. They walk to each other and meet in the middle of the room. He leans his head forward to rest on Atsumu’s chest. “Yeah, if she keeps growing this fast, we might have two adults in this house, soon.” He can never resist the opportunity to tease his husband. Atsumu blows a retaliatory raspberry against the side of his neck, and Kiyoomi makes a noise halfway between amusement and disgust, stepping away. That tickled.
“You think yer so funny,” Atsumu mutters, rolling his eyes, but the curve of his lips is decidedly fond, as is the kiss he presses to Kiyoomi’s forehead.
They go through the remaining steps in their nightly routine, washing their faces and brushing their teeth. Atsumu spits out the toothpaste, rinses his mouth with water, and muses, “We don’t even hafta argue about who her first word was fer. It was fer both of us! Y’know, ‘cause we’re both her dads.”
“Yes, I know we’re both her dads,” Kiyoomi says. He hides his smile by taking his turn to spit into the sink, gently hip bumping Atsumu out of the way.
“Straight couples are really missing out on that front, I think. There didn’t hafta be any competition between us over it. Everybody’s happy.”
Once Kiyoomi rinses out his own mouth, he follows his husband back into the bedroom. Atsumu is stripping off his shirt and sweatpants, content as always to sleep in just his boxers, and he’s more right than he knows; Kiyoomi is quietly, incandescently happy, here in this house, living this life, having just heard his perfect daughter say her first word, now watching the way the low glow of the lamp highlights the divot of his husband’s collarbones and the lines of his abdomen. Atsumu looks up and catches him staring, and even after all these years Kiyoomi flushes a little under his knowing gaze.
“Bedtime,” he says, moving to turn off the light even though he’s not quite as tired anymore.
“Bedtime, or bedtime?” Atsumu asks, and his grin is wicked as he strips off the last of his clothing and tosses it in the general direction of the laundry bin.
It misses, like always.
“‘Tsumu,” Kiyoomi chides gently, gesturing towards it, but he’s quickly distracted by Atsumu’s lips on his and the feeling of warm, greedy fingers underneath the hem of his shirt, tracing lightly over his hip bones, his stomach, the elastic band of his boxers.
“What?” Atsumu asks innocently, making quick work of Kiyoomi’s shirt and pants and kneeling in front of him. “I think excellent fathers deserve excellent rewards for their excellent parentin’. Don’t ya agree?”
With Atsumu’s mouth about two inches from his dick, Kiyoomi is inclined to agree to most anything. Still, he can’t resist one last jab before he resigns himself to the imminent incoherence he’s likely to experience while at the mercy of Atsumu’s sinfully good, practiced mouth.
“Excellent rewards, huh? Someone thinks highly of themselves.”
Atsumu grins up at him. “I have it on good authority that my mouth is top quality. Almost as talented as my hands.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Cocky tonight, aren’t we?”
Atsumu snickers, pulling him out of his boxers and tracing his finger around the head of Kiyoomi’s dick. “Pun intended?”
“I hate you,” Kiyoomi groans, but he’s laughing too, despite himself.
“Sure ya do,” Atsumu says. “Besides, it’s not cocky if it’s true. But if ya need more proof…”
Kiyoomi finds himself struck with a wave of sudden affection for his husband. His handsome, wonderful, kind husband, who is the probably the worst joke teller in the world, but also the best father he’s ever known, the best partner he’s ever had. He has to kiss Atsumu, right now, blowjob be damned. He can’t help himself. His desire is a palpable thing; he can taste it in his throat, can feel it like a sledgehammer to his chest or a lightning strike to his larynx. He loves Atsumu all the time, but sometimes a freight train of affection just hits him all over again.
Kiyoomi crouches down to press their lips together. It gets sloppy quickly when Atsumu slips some tongue past the seam of his lips, and Kiyoomi kisses him for longer than he means to, lost in it. Atsumu is the one who finally breaks away.
“What was that fer?” he asks, laughing.
Kiyoomi cups his jaw, runs his thumb across Atsumu’s lips. “I just love you, is all.”
“Omi,” Atsumu says, breathless. Even after all these years, he’s blushing a little at the words. “Shit, I love ya too, Omi. Still do. Always will.”
They kiss again, short and tender. Kiyoomi nips at Atsumu’s bottom lip and whispers, “Now, about that proof you promised…”