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Hinata should have gotten a drawer five sleepovers ago.
Not in a—like a platonic friend drawer, the one you set aside for your best friend and teammate who happens to stay over more nights anyway, because he hangs out at yours making sure you're eating more than protein shakes and your brother's onigiri, shooting the shit until it's too late to go back to his own apartment and you've got the futon rolled out next to your bed anyway, but it's unplanned so he's got no clothes to change into the next day.
That kind of drawer.
But a voice that sounds a lot like Osamu snickers in the back of Atsumu's head, saying things like drawers like that don't exist and friends like that aren't platonic, so he quells any kind of thoughts related to drawers and banishes them under lock and key, because, because, because—
A smaller voice, sounding like a whinier, tinnier version of him, slips in this intrusive thought:
It's not like Hinata doesn't already have a toothbrush at Atsumu's anyway.
(And his own set of towels.)
((And the futon.))
"Atsumu-san?" Hinata asks, frowning at him. He'd emerged from Atsumu's room wearing one of Atsumu's sweatshirts, loose around his shoulders and hanging low around his hips, the fabric soft and a little frayed from multiple washes, the writing so faded he couldn't possibly have known it used to say INARIZAKI HIGH VOLLEYBALL CLUB on it.
"Yeah!" Atsumu says, which isn't an answer to the question Hinata's asking. He watches Hinata roll the overlarge sleeves up his forearms, until just above his elbows, then forcibly tears his gaze back to the kitchen counter. Holds up the pot he'd just finished brewing. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please!" Hinata moves around him to the fridge, poking around to grab the orange juice he'd bullied Atsumu into stocking there for mornings just like this. He pours them both a glass each. "Breakfast?"
Atsumu's well-meaning father had bought the sweatshirt from the volleyball club's fundraising efforts one year, but didn't read the sizing chart close enough to pick something that would've fit anyone in the Miya household. It was too small for him, too big for the boys, but at least eventually Atsumu or Osamu would grow into it.
By chance—and also because Osamu didn't particularly want it—it had fallen into Atsumu's side of the closet, where he'd squirreled it into Hirakata the day he moved out, and worn it for cold days and lonely days and days when he wanted something thick and comfortable and familiar, and now it drapes itself over Hinata's shoulders, who is wearing it like a, like a, like a—
Like a friend shirt, the voice pipes up, entirely too smug. A platonic friend shirt.
For the record: Hinata sleeps over all the time, for various reasonable, friendly, reasonable reasons.
At first it was because he'd just joined the team and realized sometimes they had to get to the practice facilities early in the morning so that they can all pile into the bus and travel to the arena they'd be playing at that weekend—the life of a professional volleyball player being full of similarly glamorous details like this. Most players drive or carpool with those who do, and once it had been discovered that Hinata had been, instead of those options, biking over, Atsumu and Bokuto had both insisted on picking him up instead.
Bokuto lived on the other side of the city, though, and Atsumu's apartment was closer, and Atsumu really did insist on making sure all his spikers were in top form on game days, so what the fuck, Shouyou-kun, of course you can carpool with me.
Then it turned into but Atsumu-san, you live closer to the pick-up point, why would you drive back and forth that escalated into so stay over and then we can go together the next day, and that's a reasonable enough thing to do, isn't it, Hinata with his overnight bag crashing at Atsumu's the night before, settling into his futon next to Atsumu's bed and thanking him profusely every time for being so kind as to drive them over.
It really is no big deal, Atsumu insists, and on one of those nights he even lets it slip that he likes having company anyway. He'll be damned if he admits this to Osamu ever, but the independence he'd earned at eighteen when he could fuck off on his own and live by himself was only half as cool as advertised, and years later he still hadn't gotten used to a quiet apartment that responded to none of the noises or messes he made, nor the pervasiveness of absence that he could never shake away.
Hinata gets it, and more importantly, he doesn't laugh at Atsumu for it either. He'd lived through something similar, Atsumu thinks, only it's thousands of kilometers away which is even crazier, but he gets the gist of it.
He gets it.
So sometimes when the team has to travel the next day, Hinata stays over, and then later on when neither of them are up to anything Atsumu asks if he wants to hang out, and one night Hinata says he's gonna make them both a drink he learned about in Brazil, and because neither of them have had anything stronger than a beer in the last couple of months it knocks them both out harder than either expected.
Atsumu barely makes it back to his bed, Hinata surrenders himself to the couch, and when they wake up the next day it's only because Hinata's phone pierces the peace with a blaring reminder.
"Oh shit," he says, the curse sounding crisp out of his mouth so early in the morning. "I'm supposed to meet Bokuto-san in fifteen minutes!"
And Atsumu laughs then, because Hinata, who is wearing a crusty shirt stained with spilled Brazilian rum and last night's pizza, does not have enough time to meet Bokuto in fifteen minutes. "Go take a shower first," he tells him without thinking. "And grab something from my closet to change into. I'll tell Bokuto to pick you up here."
"Thank you Atsumu-san!" Hinata yells before he dashes into the bathroom, coming out thirteen minutes later in a black shirt with a white fox mask on it, an old souvenir that Atsumu usually changes into after practice.
"Sure, have fun with Bokkun," Atsumu manages, waving him off with as much casual cheer he can muster with a hangover, watching Hinata disappear out the door with the sinking sensation that something fundamental in his world view has just shifted and been irrevocably changed.
He's not sure what it is until Hinata returns the shirt a few days later, laundered and smelling like Hinata's detergent, and Atsumu finds he doesn't ever want to wash the scent away.
After that, spontaneous sleepovers happen more often. It seems to have broken some kind of comfort-level barrier between them, leapfrogging teammates who conveniently live close to each other with ease and moving right into friends who hang out after practice and lose track of time and stay up too late and sleep over.
It's so easy. Hinata insists on making breakfast for Atsumu in return, but even if he doesn't, it's fine. Atsumu bought a spare futon just for having guests over, anyway. There's a second set of towels available in the bathroom. An extra toothbrush that gets its own plastic tumbler in the sink. Clean clothes in the closet.
Atsumu's always had a complicated relationship with sharing, but his throat goes especially dry whenever Hinata picks up a shirt that happens to be a favorite, and something in his brain misfires, crossing wires and conflating the shirt that is his with the person wearing it, who isn't.
"Are you sure you don't mind," Hinata asks, always without fail.
"Keep it if you want," he tells him, remembering the many times he's gone out with the team in the hoodie carrying his high school motto. Bokuto would recognize it in a heartbeat. Inunaki would. Sakusa would. They all would. "Wear it as much as you'd like."
One time, Hinata picks out a dark blue jacket.
"Not that—that one stinks," Atsumu says immediately, yanking Hinata back toward his closet and selecting a zipped up jacket in black and lime. It clashes horribly with Hinata's hair. He thrusts it at Hinata anyway. "Here. This'd be better on you."
"Uh, okay?" Hinata says, but it's Atsumu's clothes, so he changes them out as requested. "Thanks!"
(Later, Atsumu shows up at Osamu's with a box full of Osamu's clothes, shirts and jackets and pants Atsumu borrowed a long time ago and forgot to return.
Like he said, he's got a complicated relationship with sharing.)
"—'Tsumu-san?" The question surfaces like an echo, until Atsumu realizes that's because Hinata's been repeating it, a frown creasing his features as he blinks up at Atsumu, waving a hand to his face.
"Sorry," Atsumu says, "guess the coffee hasn't kicked in yet. What was that?"
Hinata huffs out a laugh, something soft and tender in the hazel of his eyes. "I asked if you wanted some breakfast."
"Yes," he says at once, his mouth stretching into a sheepish smile. He pulls himself up to sit by the kitchen island, chin resting on the heel of his hand because god, it is too early for anything, let alone Hinata in his sweatshirt. "Breakfast sounds good. Chef's pick."
"Alright then," Hinata says, pushing Atsumu's glass of orange juice toward him before he digs around the fridge for eggs, opens up the cupboard for pans, and gets to work. The sleeves of Atsumu's shirt have slid back down past his wrists, so long they're covering half the length of his fingers, too wide for his arms, which are toned but not bulky, so he rolls them back up, humming a wordless tune as he fires up the stove.
There's a dangerous comfort to the familiarity of this: Hinata in his kitchen, wearing his clothes, making him breakfast.
Atsumu closes his eyes.
He takes a sip of his coffee, lets the hot liquid slide down his throat in hopes it would pull him out of daydreams and back into reality. When he opens them again, it's to Hinata beaming at him as he places a plate of eggs and sausages and toast before him.
"Eat up, Atsumu-san!"
"Thank you for the food."
Hinata pulls up the seat opposite him, about to dig in when the sleeve of Atsumu's blasted sweatshirt slides down again. "Oops," he says, rolling it up one more time.
"We really should get you a drawer," Atsumu murmurs, eyes widening when Hinata blinks up at him.
"A drawer?" he echoes
"For your things!" Atsumu's quick to correct. "Like a friend drawer! Just—ah, you know, since you're—A friend drawer, that's all! That's—I'm gonna shut up now," Atsumu groans, hiding his face in his palms, feeling the heat on his cheeks spreading throughout his body.
"Oh, um—That's okay! It's very generous of Atsumu-san! It is! I uh—"
When Atsumu peeks between his fingers he finds Hinata's at least as red as his hair. That his hands are cupped around his mug of coffee, and he's fidgeting a little. A lot. "Yeah?"
"I don't mind," he starts, but the rest of it is mumbled into his drink, incomprehensible to Atsumu, whose turn it is to blink.
"Don't mind what?" Atsumu presses.
He doesn't think it's possible, but Hinata flushes even harder. He shuts his eyes tight. Grips his mug even tighter. "Idon'tmindborrowingyourclothesactually," he mumbles, and this time Atsumu hears it all. Barely. "It'sokaywithmeifit'sokaywithyoubutifyou—"
"It's okay with me too!" Atsumu smiles, hopeless, but is that really what it is if the smile Hinata gives him in return is this pleased?
"It is? Are you sure?"
"Yeah of course, Shouyou-kun," he says. "Don't worry. The drawer can wait."