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The worst part of this job, aside from all of it, was the sheer agony of the last ten minutes before the end of the shift.
Ten minutes. Just ten more minutes and he’d be able to take a breath without the scent of burning fat immediately filling his lungs. Ten more minutes and he'd no longer have to deal with his co-workers yapping or customers complaining about the ice cream machine being broken - again - or that fucking baby that has not stopped crying for the past twenty minutes at the table to his left.
“Number 37… Family meal deal!” Atsumu calls out. No movement from the gentry of this refined establishment that is the food court McDonald's. Atsumu sighs as his coworker nudges him with another order. “Number 39… Oreo McFlurry…”
Eight and a half more minutes.
"Excuse me… I asked for no pickles? This burger... has pickles."
Atsumu's head lolls over to face the woman, who looks like she's about to cry.
This is why he fucking hates working front-of-house. He could give the best damn service but there's always someone else's mess that Atsumu inevitably has to clean up. He smiles at the woman, internally fuming.
"Sorry ma'am, I'll be just a moment." He turns towards the kitchen. "Which illiterate dipshit didn't read the note 'bout pickles on Number 28!"
He hates this job but he does it, and he does it to a consistently perfect standard so his managers can't complain about his performance, even with his so-called "attitude problem". He can clock out every day knowing that it's not his fault this place sucks. He’s done his part, it’s on everyone else to pick up the slack.
The high pitched squeal of schoolgirls grates against Atsumu’s ears and he looks up from the register towards the source. From across the court, he can’t make out the details but he doesn’t need to. He already knows that annoyingly smug brunet from Burger King is on front-of-house duty today again. Saw him clock in this morning. Atsumu has never spoken to him but he often passes the guy on his way to the bathroom, or spots him when they're both on registers like today. He knows his name too - Oikawa Tooru. The Grand King of the food court. Atsumu is going to laugh so hard at whoever came up with that one.
It's not the attention Burger King's darling Oikawa gets, with his little posse of fangirls that come round at exactly four-thirty every day, that annoys him. God, Atsumu can't stand it when some girl decides to get all cutesy and coy in the middle ordering her twenty-four nugget pack with a side of diet coke. He's here to get paid, not laid.
He has options outside of the McDonald's offerings anyway, he has no reason nor need to lower his standards.
No, it's the way Oikawa seems to thrive on it. He's always all smiles and laughs, drawing in customers with effortless charisma. Nobody should be that cheery working at a shithouse burger chain in the worst food court this side of Japan. Nobody should be that unflappable. At least be a little put-off. God. He glares as if Oikawa will be able to see it.
Five more minutes. Atsumu taps his fingers against the counter, rings up orders, checks the time, calls out numbers, steals fries from an abandoned order, immediately regrets it because they’re cold and gross, checks the time again.
The clock strikes five pm and he’s immediately scrawling his name on the make-shift sign out sheet - because of course, the regular system is down again. He pulls his jacket on, racing out the staff-only door, with the urgency and relief of a newly escaped prisoner, into the parking lot. He stops for a moment to let a wave of cool evening air hit his face and he lets out a satisfied sigh. He inhales a breath that isn't clogged by the fumes of soggy fries submerged in oil, and on the exhale he turns the corner towards the bike racks.
That’s when Atsumu sees him, the Grand Burger King himself, leaning against a wall, a piece of milk bread held delicately between his teeth as his hands are preoccupied with rapid texting motions. He's around Atsumu's height, give or take a few centimetres, with a build that carries that atrocious black-with-barf-stripes uniform way better than it has any right to.
It's not like Atsumu is in a hurry, he could hang around just a little bit longer. Take advantage of this opportunity. He isn't sure what kind of opportunity is being presented here exactly, but he's going to jump at it anyway.
With the stealth and swiftness of a fox, he sneaks his way over to the wall.
“Hey there."
Oikawa Tooru jolts, phone flying from his grip, teeth clenching down, the sudden motion dislodging the bread from his jaw and sending it tumbling. With the skill to rival well-practised juggler at a theme park circus, however, his reflexes are sharp and he catches both the sweet bread and the phone before they have a chance to hit the ground. "The hell…!"
His gaze shoots up at Atsumu, scowling. Atsumu returns with a smirk.
"Can I help you?" Oikawa says in a sweet tone that could pass for genuine to an untrained ear. But Atsumu - part-time burger-flipper, full-time shit-stirrer - can tell it really means 'could you kindly fuck off, I'm on break'.
Atsumu chooses to ignore the request to fuck off. Instead, he leans back against the wall, sidling up next to Oikawa, just close enough that the latter squirms slightly. But he doesn't move away. He just squints as if Atsumu were an annoying bug that he's waiting for the right moment to squash.
For the first time, Atsumu gets a real good look at Burger King's most eligible bachelor up close. Soft yet striking features, hair expertly styled to appear effortless even under a uniform cap, nearly flawless complexion, warm brown eyes looking straight at him through long lashes. For a moment Atsumu is a hair-twirling, gum-popping teenage girl who has suddenly forgotten what she's ordering when she's called to the register.
And in that moment Atsumu has also been staring just long enough that it's entered uncomfortable territory. He blinks. Oikawa folds his arms, cocks his head, knits his brow, searching for a new angle to swat at this fly.
Or so Atsumu thinks, before Oikawa's shoulders relax, and his expression shifts to a sly smile.
"Oh, you're the McDonald's golden boy! I've seen you around," he says cheerfully, "You have quite the reputation."
Really, Atsumu couldn't care less about his so-called reputation . He is fully aware that his co-workers think he's an asshole. He sees how customers can never quite tell if they're being mocked when he serves them. His managers only begrudgingly put up with him because he's more than competent at his job. None of that matters, it's not going to affect him or his work. But a small part of him is itching to know what Oikawa knows. What Oikawa thinks.
"That so?"
"Mhm. I hear you're a real charmer, Miya Atsumu." His voice drips with sarcasm.
"Well ain't that somethin', coming from Prince Charming 'imself," Atsumu replies in much the same manner, "Oikawa Tooru."
Oikawa hums. "Y'know, you really could stand to act nicer with people. You'd probably get a lot more sales."
Atsumu scoffs. "Who cares 'bout nice. If I do my job right, which I do, it shouldn't matter."
"Well, your awful personality definitely reflects the awful quality of the product you sell so I guess it works."
“And yours acts like it’s so much better but it’s the same shit underneath, ain’t it?”
For a beat they're both silent, before erupting into laughter. Because they're both shitty people, selling shitty food to other shitty people. But Atsumu gets the impression that like himself, Oikawa deserves more than this, has ambitions that go far beyond making manager at Mystery Meat Incorporated.
"How long are ya on break?"
Oikawa checks his phone. "I have another five minutes."
Five minutes.
"What d'ya do outside of this shit?" Atsumu asks as he picks at the grime under his nails.
"University. International Business. You?"
"Headin’ to college in spring. Sports Management."
Oikawa nods, not-so-subtly giving him a look over. Atsumu takes the opportunity to flaunt, flexing his arm enough to be teasing through the thin fabric of his jacket. "I also play volleyball with the college team. I'm a setter."
Oikawa's eyes travel back up to meet Atsumu's, his mouth turned to a half-smile. "What a coincidence. I also play setter."
They fall back into a weirdly comfortable silence. Oikawa’s back to texting, and Atsumu picks at his nails again. He thinks about how he wouldn’t mind, no, he wants to keep talking to Oikawa. Swap work horror stories, ramble about volleyball, anything really.
Until the sharp beeping of a phone alarm breaks the tranquillity. Atsumu looks over to Oikawa, who looks like he wants to die. Atsumu snickers.
"Ah, that's my cue…" Oikawa pushes off the wall, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. Atsumu almost feels a little bad, giving him a faux-solemn nod and a pat on the back in solidarity.
Oikawa slips the plastic bag containing the rest of the milk bread loaf off his wrist and holds it out to Atsumu.
"You can take this," he says with a shrug, "I won't finish it, and it'll just get thrown out or stolen if I leave it in the break room."
Atsumu is surprised but accepts the offer. He's starting to get hungry anyway, and free food is free food.
The way Oikawa lets his fingers hang on just a little longer than necessary during the handover does not go unnoticed by Atsumu. As he lowers his arm, his knuckles go white from how tight his grip on the bag is.
Atsumu's hunger might be a bit more than what half a loaf of milk bread can satisfy.
Sure, Atsumu would never order from McDonald's - he has other, better options. He never ruled out Burger King as one of them. He even kinda craved it, sometimes, when it was always in his line of sight during the shifts where he's stuck on registers. Especially now, when it's right in front of him, so close he can almost taste it. He licks his lips.
"So, when's yer shift end?" He asks, almost sheepishly.
"Eight. Why?" He takes the curiosity in Oikawa’s voice and the glint in his eyes as a good sign.
"Come to dinner with me."
Oikawa pauses.
"Sure," he replies, "as long as it's anywhere but here."