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Fine. Fine! Atsumu’ll be the first one to admit it: his first date with Hinata Shouyou doesn’t go so well.
The second date never happened. Except that it did, and it was the worst experience of Atsumu’s life, and yes, he is including the time that he scratched his balls after taste testing a ghost pepper onigiri recipe for Osamu. Anyway, the point is, Atsumu and Shouyou agree to never mention the second date ever again.
The third date is so bad that Atsumu spends the train ride home gnawing on his fingernails and texting Sakusa screenshots of one-way flights to Mongolia. Maybe he also cries a little.
So you could say that it's off to a rocky start. You could say that perhaps this is not the most auspicious start to a relationship. You could say, Yes, Atsumu, it is creepy to have 647 pictures of Shouyou in your camera roll already when he's not even your boyfriend yet, and also, he will never agree to be your boyfriend at the rate you're going.
All things considered, Atsumu certainly hadn’t expected Shouyou to agree to a fourth one. He’d promptly dropped his fresh-out-of-the-vending-machine Pocari Sweat when Shouyou’d looked up at him from his seat on the bench, shyly scuffed his sneakers against the asphalt and said, I’d really love to, Atsumu-san. Really.
Atsumu can’t fuck this one up.
Sakusa Kiyoomi won’t mercy kill him, or help him look up the state of the pro volleyball scene in Mongolia (and Atsumu’s asked—he’s begged!) But he’s the most boring person Atsumu’s ever met in his life and also (gag) his best friend (barf), so naturally Atsumu goes to him for unfuckupable date ideas.
“I’m just saying.” Sakusa takes a long pull from his straw and takes so fucking long to chew on his boba that Atsumu’s ready to reach over the table and squeeze them out of his puffed cheeks. “You can’t possibly fuck up a date at the beach. It’s unfuckupable. Even for you.”
—
Atsumu fucks it up.
—
He’d found the perfect spot to set up their tent: a white spit of sand sheltered beneath a dramatic rocky outcrop that juts out of the shallows at the far end of the beach, arcing into a natural overhang that is currently the only thing shielding them from—rain. Torrential, relentless, freezing rain.
Okay, in Atsumu’s defense, he doesn’t know anyone who actually watches the weather channel except for Sakusa and Ushijima, who probably watch it for, like, whatever their version of fun is. And also in Atsumu’s defense, Sakusa had said probably in the text Atsumu’d blatantly ignored this morning.
Shnookums [9:47 AM]
It’s probably going to rain today. Might want to reschedule with Hinata.
Atsumu’s scowling at the smug blue glow of his phone screen when Shouyou clears his throat and scoots a little closer on the picnic blanket to nudge his elbow into Atsumu’s side. “Atsumu-san. It’s okay, really.”
It’s not okay. It’s actually the farthest thing from okay, and Atsumu looks up from his phone to tell Shouyou as much, but the words stick dry and cottony to his tongue when he’s met with the sight of Shouyou’s face limned red-gold in the sputtering light of the campfire. It plays across the white expanse of his earnest smile, catches and gleams amber around the edges of his eyes.
For a moment, it’s easy to let the background fade to static; to forget that the sky is dark and hung heavy with angry black clouds instead of washed in the picture-perfect pink sunset Atsumu’d imagined as the backdrop for this day. It’s just Shouyou, glowing golden and lovely against the firelight, and Atsumu’s a fly trapped in the sticky honey-sweet smile Shouyou’s offering him.
For a moment, it’s all perfect—until a fat raindrop splashes onto the curve of Shouyou’s cheek, rolls slowly down the side of his face. Mocking them. Atsumu’s heart gives another painful lurch.
“I didn’t know it was gonna rain,” Atsumu says to Shouyou’s chin, because he can’t trust himself to hold back whatever would come tumbling out of his mouth if he tried to look anywhere else. He’s certainly not going to try eye contact after a glimpse at whatever ridiculous game the firelight is playing in the depths of Shouyou’s eyes. He can’t risk looking again at the loose collar of—God help him—his old Inarizaki sweatshirt where it’s gaping open around a slice of Shouyou’s golden collarbone.
Atsumu swallows around something shaped suspiciously like I Am In Love With You lodged high in his throat and wrenches his head away to frown at the cheerfully crackling flames instead.
It’s a particularly cruel game of clusterfuck dominoes that delivered him here, pressed thigh-hip-arm-shoulder close to Shouyou curled into Atsumu’s too-big sweatshirt: the tent, bowing under the weight of the rainwater rivering off of the top of the rocks, had half-collapsed only minutes after Atsumu’d set it up. Had, of course, soaked Shouyou’s carefully packed duffel bag and all of its contents. And his sleeping bag. Fuck.
“M’sorry,” Atsumu grumbles to whatever gods are watching. Because, at this point, the joke is cosmic. It has to be.
Shouyou just snickers and lurches sideways again to jostle their shoulders together. “I’m not. I am hungry, though.”
Okay. Yes. Food. Atsumu can handle this. (Can he?)
Atsumu fishes around for the rain-splattered Onigiri Miya takeout box—tamps down the swell of rage remembering Osamu charging him five thousand yen for six fuckin’ onigiri, sneering oh, if I have to feed your boyfriend for you, Tsumu, you’re gonna fuckin’ pay for it—feels like maybe it might have been worth it when Shouyou makes a bright sound of delight and immediately dives for two tuna mayo.
“I’m glad you asked me out again,” Shouyou says around an enormous mouthful. Atsumu’s staring at a grain of rice that glues itself to the corner of his mouth, more tantalizing than it has any right to be. Worth it. “Dates with you are always so fun, Atsumu-san.”
Atsumu nearly drops his own onigiri into the wet sand at his feet; can feel the bewilderment scrawling itself across his face, twisting into some sort of unsavory expression that makes Shouyou laugh, quick and bright, before he adds, “Especially the second date. I can’t believe that you got us permanently banned from—“
“Hey, now,” Atsumu interrupts, and he’s really trying to keep the pout glued to his face, but it keeps slipping into a grin. “Thought we weren’t gonna talk about that. Ever. Ever ever.”
It earns him another sharp, mischievous smile, another scoot closer until there’s no room left between them. Pressed together like this, Atsumu’s sure that Shouyou can feel the way his heart’s hammering in time with the rain against the top of their pathetic little tent.
The cold wind howls into their little alcove and rakes its nails through Atsumu’s rain-damp hair, but—there's sweat pricking along his hairline, his spine, his palms. The heat of the campfire’s warm on his already-burning face and Shouyou, glued to his side, is warmer still. Atsumu's gone for him, he's so gone for him that he can feel it physically, aching deep in his gut and scorching the tips of his ears.
He wants to say something like, Hey, Shouyou, sorry for taking you on yet another shitty date, just say the word and I will walk straight into the ocean. Swan-dive off of the rocks straight into the water. Sleep on the wet sand outside of the tent like a dog, whatever you want. He wants to whip out his phone and text Sakusa, Oi, WebMD-san, is it possible to die from yearning too hard? Also, how's the pricing looking today for that one-way flight to Mongolia? He wants to say—there's a lot Atsumu wants to say.
Shouyou, charmingly oblivious, just sucks a grain of rice off of the pad of his finger and replies, “This is my favorite date so far, I think.”
And, well, Atsumu doesn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretches long and easy between them; the only sounds are the slap of rain and waves against the slick stone below and above them, the sound of Atsumu’s blood roaring in his ears. Well, maybe Shouyou doesn’t hear that part, but—he’s tucking a smile into the crook of his folded arm as he watches the roiling, frothing black mass of waves like maybe he can. And there’s a promise there, sewn into the easy curve of his lips: I’m not going anywhere, Atsumu-san. Glittering eyes that cut through the rain-blurry dark like a beacon when Shouyou turns back to look up at him. Even if you fuck up all of our dates.
It’s making the back of Atsumu’s throat itch, so he rummages in the plastic bag at his feet for the two cans of Asahi he’d packed In Case of Emergency or Overwhelming and Complicated Emotions Arise. Atsumu cracks one and downs half of it in one go.
Shouyou laughs and it splits a sunbeam straight through the clouds, straight through to the center of Atsumu’s pitiful lovelorn heart. He leans close. His fingers linger a beat too long when he takes the can from Atsumu’s clammy fingers.
—
“Atsumu-san,” and, oh, no, what is that voice? Syrupy, lilting, paired with an insistent press of chilly fingers against the thumping pulse at the inside of Atsumu’s wrist. “I’m so drunk. Soooo drunk.”
They’ve crawled inside of the half-collapsed tent, and Shouyou’s splayed himself out across the top of Atsumu’s sleeping bag. Atsumu crouches to pry the can out of the vice grip of Shouyou’s fingers. He screws one eye shut to peer at the can’s contents, then levels an unimpressed look at the laughing, hiccuping heap rolling around all over his sleeping bag. Shouyou, who regularly drinks the rest of the Black Jackals under the table and then goes for a leisurely pre-dawn run, is not drunk. “You had like one sip—”
“Sooo-oooo drunk,” Shouyou’s giggling, and oh fuck, there’s the other hand, curling insistent around Atsumu’s other wrist. Tugging him forward until he’s tipping onto his knees. “And cold. Come here.”
So Atsumu does, because nothing feels better than saying yes to Shouyou. Nothing feels better, except for the way that his body fits against Atsumu’s like it belongs there, the way that Atsumu can almost feel the brush of Shouyou’s lips against his neck when he jams his pointy chin into the crook of Atsumu’s shoulder.
“Hi,” he murmurs straight into Atsumu’s ear. Atsumu shivers at the warm fan of Shouyou’s breath against the burning skin of his neck.
“Hey,” Atsumu whispers.
And—maybe Atsumu’s the drunk one. Maybe the day’s disastrous events finally tipped him over the edge into insanity. Maybe he’s already dreaming, hovering in the hazy space between sleep and awake, lulled there by the rhythmic sounds of the rain tapping against the sagging ceiling of their tent.
But he swears, right before he closes his eyes, that he feels the press of Shouyou’s smiling lips against his cheek.
“Good night, Atsumu-san.”
—
Atsumu opens his eyes to a wide, dusty-lavender stretch of perfect pre-dawn sky above him. A wisp of sea breeze plays over his face, salt and sunshine, lovely and mild as—wait, why can he see the sky?
Still zipped tight into his sleeping bag, Atsumu wriggles until he’s sitting upright. The tent’s collapsed around him into a pile of sticks and damp, salt-crusted fabric. The breeze ruffles through his hair again, and Atsumu’s sure that it carries the far-off sound of Sakusa laughing at his expense. Maybe it’s a seagull, actually.
Atsumu frees himself from the sleeping bag, rolling to his feet to take a quick inventory. Hair: fucked up. Tent: also fucked up. Boner: raging. Shouyou: gone?
When he’s finally stumbled through changing into a still-kinda-damp pair of sweats and untangled his feet from the disastrous remains of the tent twisted around his ankles, the morning mist’s retreating toward the shore. Atsumu squints against the beginnings of sunrise winking off of the calm surface of the sea.
Does he really blame Shouyou for possibly ditching him after a fourth fucking disaster of a date? No. He’d kinda have preferred if Shoyou’d spared an extra second to roll Atsumu’s still-sleeping body into the ocean to put him out of his misery, but—oh. Never mind.
Shouyou’s perched at the very edge of the rocks, backlit against the first hazy-pale fingers of light streaking across the sky. Eyes closed, little hands curled into gyan mudra atop his thighs. He looks peaceful, and the tiny sensible part of Atsumu’s brain says maybe you should just leave him alone for five seconds, you ridiculous clingy bastard, but his legs are already moving toward Shouyou.
Atsumu settles into a half-assed lotus pose on the rocks right next to him, knees bumping, too close, always too close. Atsumu probably smells like beer and anxiety sweat and reckless, bottomless, pitiful pining, but Shouyou doesn’t seem to mind.
“I was thinking,” Shouyou says, still as a statue, peeking sideways at Atsumu from under the sun-tipped fan of his lashes. “About our fifth date.”
“Uh.” Atsumu’s foot slips off of the top of his knee. He’s gyan mudra-ing so hard that his thumbnail leaves a little half-moon in the skin of his index finger. “Yeah. Yeah, Shouyou, whatever you want. Whenever you want.”
The sun finally tips itself over the edge of the horizon, streaking pink-orange-red-incredible across the sky, licking golden light over the placid surface of the sea and catching in the ginger threads of Shouyou’s hair. It’s glorious. It’s exactly how Atsumu pictured it. His throat’s all itchy again.
“How about right now?”