Chapter Text
They say doomsday comes only once: at the end of the thread that earth is weaving. The planets will take their last turn around the sun and a curtain fall will sweep away at final curtsies before there's one less member of the planetary system they call the milky way.
To Atsumu Miya, that's all bullshit.
Now, he's not a scientist but he's walked enough left lines to diverge into the right ones, played both his wrong and swell cards , had the sweet vanilla Hyogo air rough him around the edges and buff his chest out a bit. He figures his ways of getting by with two left feet and a couple lucky gold teeth has adapted his ESP to sniff out swindles like it's pork cutlet fat drifting in the wind.
And thus, the indicatory acid reflux attacking Atsumu' Miya's chest overrides any other meteorite predicted to hit them in this or any decade where his memory is still alive.
Doomsday isn't a denouement, it's that strange part in the middle of an anthology that concerns itself with nothing of you yet indirectly presents a warped reflection of yourself and makes you want to cry. Suddenly the autobiography of a dead pastry chef is jerking a part inside of Atsumu previously untouched by any man. (You can say that weeping at the description of the first taste of a cupcake after being on feeding tubes for five months is unmanly, but quite frankly, Atsumu is immune to refracting any sort of accusation. ) Because frankly, Doomsday has nothing to do with him- only it feels like it has everything against him, like an inadvertent 'whoopsie daisy' sucker punch to his vital organs.
Doomsday comes around too many times a year when two Division 1 teams (and sometimes one Division 2) perfectly align in one city or the other; like little stars reconvening into their astrology, the Karasuno crows, perhaps only slightly better than the Geminis.
Every time the Schweiden Adlers or Sendai Frogs happen to be in the same city (which is discomfitingly often, especially the Addlers who follow them around during tours), Hinata has mastered the ways of snaking his way through team rivalries to reunite his old teammates-- Kageyama Tobio and Tsukishima Kei. He'll bait them into meeting for lunch at a yatai, then drinks at a bar or Izakaya until two of the three party's members are drunk enough to drag the third into a club.
Doomsday takes the span of a night, typically a Saturday, where the next day will usually be taken up by a gym session spent like a Freudian style therapy session under the bench press, because Hinata is either conflicted on getting back together with Kageyama or not is panicking about having drunk dialed four exes.
You can imagine how many times during non-competitive seasons Atsumu scrolls through the J sports news app with crossed fingers, praying that the Schweiden Addlers have fucked off to some altitude training camp all the way in Africa just to spend one Sunday in peace.
Sometimes the Jackals will land at some small nowhere -- a hug of crumbling turrets counted as skyscrapers, enough in body to be called a city with a population that explains why they haven't really bothered with the bin policy. Atsumu might cry a little, no cocktail bar does drag the long evenings the day after the after parties, but at least they're walking down sandpaper streets, soles wearing smooth, faces burnished from anything clearer than pale blurs. They're the motherfucking Black Jackals, point-blank, and the newspapers here are still set to the 2012 division so Atsumu can kiss a guy or girl or both after cheap sake and not see his bad angle in the press his manager will shove into his face the next day.
However, it's inevitable to lunge from the influence of Doomsday, because A, that's the pull of gravity you're trying to fight, and B, when your life is a patchwork of hopping around cities and prefectures you'll end up crossing streams with your fellow rival nomads somehow (depending on who you are, streams can be substituted with dicks). There's no escaping this intersection. Tokyo, Kyoto, the center of the world, or even foggy sky, muddy faced nowhere, the Karasuno horoscope wills another hoorah. Like does anyone seriously need anymore reunions after almost half a decade -- ew it's been half a decade, fuck, this will surely enrapture the incredibly superior Miya into a temporary inferior state of existential crisis.
It's no use. The magnetic force between Hinata and his highschool sweetheart is astronomically terrifying. Even his goddamned highschool bully -- though in fairness Tsukishima is always roped into their shenanigans unwillingly. Atsumu has to wonder how many times dead stars come back to life before fucking out of their stratospheres already.
Doomsday arrives this time around in Sendai, which sucks slightly, because were it in Tokyo or Owaka he'd have a place to fuck around a bit in, friends and family that he can leech off. And it's off-season so he'd have plenty of bottomless wings and beers to indulge in when he fails to hitch into someone's pants. Sendai is a vortex. To him, it's a ghost town, but to anyone Miyagi born it's some haven, like the underside of a wet log -- seemingly dead but flip it over and oh God, put it back down. Thus, the main instigator of Doomsday, Hinata Shoyo will raise hell with his fellow flock members. Ex-flock members, Atsumu likes to remind him with a rather pointed tone, though Hinata would probably whip out a skipping rope and play hop scotch on dead man's land if an all out war between them ever came to be. So Atsumu has given up trying to drive a bitter rivalry between him and the godforsaken Schweiden Addlers (though he wouldn't actively put an end to it were any murderous thoughts beginning to arise).
What's sadder about Sendai is that while Hinata (the only one who would ever likely be free and up to follow his lead) is somewhere making out with bad decisions, the rest of the Black Jackals have semi-comprehensible lives to get back to when they're not spending a good 70% of it in a gym or stadium.
Single, noncommittal outside of his coach's demand and with what he likes to think is an effortless charm, Atsumu Miya should have no hard luck in making something out of nothing--from a shanty izakaya in the far urban corners to a quaint and uninhabited hotel lobby. But he does. Or at least today he does. He's in the hotel room he's staying in for half the week with his phone dangling over a head he's got lolling off the side of the bed. He's scrolling Twitter, looking for something but he's not sure what.
His captain, Meian Shugo has retweeted some scores from last night's hockey game between the Ice Bucks and Prince Rabbits. There's some caption reading: good game, proud of all the players, while Thomas and Barnes have gone to town in the comments, starting a fully wrought war under their private account pseudonyms, something about misplaced penalties and hockey shit Atsumu doesn't have half the mind for.
He sees Bokutos tweeted ten times in the past hour, commentating on every little detail that causes his serotonin levels to spike during his movie date with Akaashi. They're watching Toy Story 4 to cleanse the trauma the ace endured from Endgame. This is not good. They still have thirty minutes left and Atsumu is considering temporarily blocking him until the last wave of emotional venting is done.
Sakusa's feed is as vacant as always. Unsurprisingly so. He hasn't touched it for a good two months and when it has it's quite obviously the work of the media manager who's slowly whittling into hysteria at Kiyoomi's magnitude of disobliging passive aggression. The outside hitter deletes every tweet he finds exhaustive. For example, Kiyoomi keeps taking down the tweet about the Pepsi cola advert they featured in on the pretense of false advertising. Because Kiyoomi would never advocate for Pepsi. He personally, hates it. That's not the point, their manager says, crippling over like Kiyoomi is physically depleting him of his quintessence, hair in fists, almost bawling. They're your sponsors, you lick their ass then lick your own in the privacy of your own home.
Atsumu knows telling Kiyoomi to lick an ass is perhaps some form of blasphemy. Atsumu wouldn't be surprised if Omi has a WHO shrine where he's currently casting vexes on their manager. He wouldn't be surprised if their manager is filing for some sort of compensation for employee abuse.
Atsumu also knows that their manager should take their losses and leave Pepsi for La Croix, because anything fizzy that doesn't hold to the malevolent blandness of sparkling water is the second bane of Kiyoomi's existence. The first being Atsumu himself. Case in point, Atsumu knows Kiyoomi doesn't tweet, period -- yet he still checks his page every half an hour for reasons beyond himself.
Not beyond himself actually; he knows exactly why his legs feel so heavy draping off the other end of his concrete-like divan.
It was this Fall when they were in Tokyo, Suna, Aran and him were undulating in the stench of overcooked hotpots, because yes those two fuckers actually bothered to visit for once. He remembers wiping away the beer he drenched himself in when trying to put out the tiny fire on his tongue, to reveal the perpetuator of his ringing phone (this was when he decided personalized ringtones would be better). It was none other than Kiyoomi Sakusa asking him to bring a brace immediately.
Atsumu showers and sanitizes until his fingers crack-- because this is Kiyoomi we're talking about-- and turns up ten minutes later to his apartment brace in hand, knowing full well no brace was ever necessitated and never will be because for fuck's sake, this is Kiyoomi , Kiyoomi who bathes in hand sanitizer and bleach, probably butters his eggs with them too.
The guy still arches a brow at the entrance and has the audacity to circle him with a scanning gaze like a human infrared thermometer. Atsumu is sure this is just his shameless method of checking out his ass. So Atsumu stands obediantly still, even raises his arms to assist the inspection and crimps his eyes over the mask he's wearing because, hey, they don't call Atsumu Miya a glove for nothing -- no one calls him that, but he will fit himself around your needs either way. He even wears white, the colour of Kiyoomi's favourite pharmaceutical packaging company, goddammit!
It seems to do the trick because next second he's grabbing Atsumu by the collar, dragging himself inside and slamming him against the adjacent wall.
"You smell horrifically."
"I showered."
"If this is what I end up with after a shower don't even think of touching me during practice."
A thumb against his cheek and Kiyoomi is scowling with all the hints of disgust that Atsumu knows will spiral them into mutually annoyed-fueled sex. Which is always the best, mind you.
"Aw, Omi-kun, you don't know how much that stings." Atsumu likes tracing his stomach with fingertips cold from sterilized substances. Kiyoomi squirms and almost makes a noise with the combined sight of Atsumu's hospital-blue face mask. Its like seeing a God falter. "Maybe I'll just need you teachin' me the ropes to the proper hygiene etiquette, so we can come to compromises."
Kiyoomi likes compromises. He likes thinking he has the upper hand, and Atsumus never been one to shy away from having attractive men and women alike step on his back. Free cervical spine manipulation, eh?
He's a performer second to an athlete. So yeah, they fucked in the shower. A lot. Too much. Their fingers began pruning, and that's always given Atsumu the heebie-jeebies thanks to little kid shit Osamu always saying it's the state they take before peeling to shorten the span of his hour long bubble baths. Before it's disconcerting enough to kill the mood, and right on climax, Omi-kun kicks him out, heel to ass, and Atsumu is forced to resign himself, perched on a towel over the toilet seat and watch through mildly vexxed questions and a slight grimace (from looking back over their doctor roleplay now in post-horny delirium state) as the man that had his dick in him seconds ago disinfects the entire stall. Anyone who says Kiyoomi Sakusa is not dramatic does not know Kiyoomi Sakusa.
"He's a thespian, a theater bitch, I tell you. He's living in some lousy Mr. Clean advert, and we're all just the little stains he keeps terminating left and right." Atsumu sighs in the aftermath of ranting to his friends the day after over a milkshake.
"No one asked about your sex life," Aran monotones from the opposite side of the booth, stirring his cold coffee absently while Suna slumps next to him, head-down, scrolling through his phone. "But now I have a picture of you fucking Mr. Clean and I don't think I want my pancakes anymore."
"I'll have them, 'the fuck?" Suna frowns, not looking up but it still slightly prunes Atsumu to think that's the first thing that's interested him in the twenty minutes they've been there.
He shakes his head, ignoring him. "Well ya know what, Aran, sometimes it fucking feels like I am."
"Don't say that."
"I'm sayin' it cus ya should try to understand what it feels like for me. It's like I'm a Petri dish that's got the cow shit that started the smallpox epidemic all over again."
Aran rests his forehead on a knuckle, "Atsumu, man, please."
Suna merely snickers and Atsumu begins to question the necessity of needing any friendly networks anymore.
"You talk like this is the first time Sakusa's seen you naked." Suna says, eyes still glued to his screen, "Not that he's wrong. Any sane person would get germophobia from having their mouths anywhere near your dick."
"He didn't even suck my dick!"
"That sucks dude."
"Oh my God I can't take you two anywhere." Aran hisses over the rim of his coffee mug before setting his disappointment back on Atsumu. "If being his booty call is so dehumanizing for you, why ya always gotta be in such a hurry to get up his ass? Last night you stepped on the food I spent five hours preparing because going around it was gonna cost you an extra second."
Atsumu springs out his seat at that, face aghast over their table "What do you mean why? Have you seen that man?" The mere image of Sakusa conjures itself in his brain, as clear and expressive as a renaissance painting and the display causes Atsumu to bite his lip, clenching a fist to it while his other palm raps repetitively on the table surface, overwhelmed. "Man's a Greek God, a God."
"Man, shut the fuck up," Aran wrenches Atsumu's wrist and shoves him back into his seat before eyeing around, over his shoulders to the surrounding customers with an expression of horrified apology. "So damn loud."
"Eh, your food's kinda shit anyway, Miya did us a favour." Suna hums, finally putting his phone down to throw a simper between the two of them.
Aran ignores him, having retreated to leaning his temple on a knuckle, angling his face away from the outside of the booth to evade further shame and in conjunction shoot Atsumu a glare. "Well stop complaining then. Bitch. You know what you're up for an' you're obviously not too mad about it. Now can we go one meal, one without bringing up how sad your dick is all the time."
Atsumu slumps into his seat, arms crossed with a bottom lip stuck out to the window beside them. He refuses to say he is pouting, but still believes complaining about getting with a guy far out of his league is a valid dispute to raise at any time of the day.
Because Kiyoomi is a God, in complex and looks. The sort of elegance that begins to look extraterrestrial. That doesn't discount that he's an ass. Atsumu's taken a fire dancing class before and even that didn't compare to a single night spent in Kiyoomi's bed.
It's usually in the aftermath when the fuzz dissipates from Atsumu's brain and everything firm -- his muscles, joints, dicks, tongues--turn sloppier than his sobered head would want. Reality blooms like a rose, thorn-first, and he realises the additional string that's being strung through this knotted jungle that is his stability and rationale among his teammate. Regret (only a little becauseit sneaks up on you in scant doses at a time) seeps in the way a coffee stales -- where bitter tastes and bad breath overcome the caffeine hitch.
Its the aftermath, when Kiyoomi's holding his clothes with a literal dinosaur clamp at the threshold, telling him to change and leave. Atsumu snatches them with a dirty look, yet in that minuscule exchange, time standstill, and without having blurred vision from Kiyoomi Sakusa being deep inside him, he can see the way those incredible sets of eyelashes fall delicately over his cheek. The way the two freckles above perpetually raised brows could be a constellation in themselves, and the image of the scattered ones falling down his back makes him reel. The way even after hasty sex and multiple faces thrusted against tiled walls, his hair curls perfectly limp over his eyes and Atsumu wants to tug, brush and play with him all over again.
It's funny how every curled lip and chary side eye that follows him out the door only makes Atsumu trip over himself, tumbling into deeper sentiments for his asshole of a bedmate. It's as if every push feels like a pull. And it should make sense, right? The higher you throw a ball, the faster it comes spiralling back.
It's leaving Kiyoomi's apartment where he sort of wishes Hinata had been the one tossing the ball. Every night spent in Kiyoomi's bed feels like the peak of a rollercoaster, seeming like a good idea until he sees the horizon and realises:
fuck, fuck, go back, go back now
this was a bad idea. Whereas waking next to a beaming Hinata feels like the end of a rollercoaster, where it jolts at the final stretch and your heart is tearing out your chest, playing footsies with adrenaline while your face hurts from grinning, wondering why you thought it would be scary in the first place.
I should do this more often. You think. Because sex with Hinata actually ends with waking up in a bed, surprised at how much heat a body can radiate, next to a smile -- rather than walking through cold streets at night with an aching ass, wishing you'd brought a second layer instead of a brace.
See, he'd never admit it aloud but Atsumu has always been a little scared of having sex with Hinata. Though in a way, that's what draws him in all the more.
It's mostly because he knows it's going to happen before Hinata even realizes there's any remotely tangible tension brushing the air. It's when their thighs and hands touch one too many times at an after party and Hinata's eyes alway ricochet back to meet his, when giggles begin breaking off the latter half of his sentences, because these nights never dare to occur with sober minds. And Atsumu feels like a wolf drooling after a bunny when he finds himself staring at the back of his teammate's too tight jeans rather than his eyes like his ma always told him to.
At the beginning of their time together in MSBY Black Jackals, Miya Atsumu sort of expected these nights to have left him dirty; grime stuck on skin dirty. It felt taboo because it's a teammate, and damn, perhaps he shouldnt be fucking up dynamics he'll need to rely on during league games. It's taboo simply because its Hinata Shouyou, 166 cm and 130lbs of pure sugarcane and sunbeams. It's taboo because every night it occurs it so happens to be subsequent to a heartbreak. But at the end of the day, that's all it is. Rebound sex. The skin-on-skin and phantom nails trailing spines evaporate the following day. Nothing ever sticks, nothing ever lingers, nothing ever deepens the way it does with Kiyoomi. It's like karaoke and bouncing on a bed, rising and falling and laughing until exhaustion stills you into a calm. And he likes that. The clear-cut finality. It's little Shou with his big wonky grin and oddly enticing inebriated seductions.
Which is exactly why Doomsday sucks. Because hes stuck with a twitter feed and group chat spamming Hinata at his traditional Karasuno reunion.
It's not like Atsumu can phase the occurrence out of existence without switching off his phone (which when he's stuck solo in a hotel room is not an option) because the documentation of events occurs instaneously and directly navigates itself to every notification possible.
A selfie over their ramen, Kageyamas expression a freeze-frame of confusion that could be mistaken for the beginnings of a sneeze or a hissy fit because that boy lives in his own world where technology seems to not have been invented. Tsukishima almost never looks at the camera, almost always is his gaze cast down to a phone or his food or hes simply staring into space, quite evidently questioning all decisions to have ended where he currently is.
Then comes the Iyazaki photos where Hinata has asked some passerby to take their photos. Hell be in the middle with that beam that could light a thousand galaxies, his arms slinking around either companions shoulders, slumping them both down from his surprising grip and comical height difference. Kageyama, once again paused in an irritated half-confused sneeze, and Tsukishimas head will be turned to the side away from his abductor to finish downing whats likely his third beer to keep the night rolling to its end at a quick pace.
This is where Bokuto will start adding his own assortment of photos, completely unrelated, commonly a domestic setting with Akaashi doing the most arbitrary tasks, like stirring his tea or putting on a night gown, getting off a settee or simply walking to the other side of the room. There'll be the compulsory, awfully blurry close up of his side profile in the midst of sipping on a drink with the captions, always in caps lock, telling Hinata to have a good night, and AKAASHI SAYS HELLO TOO, WE DONT HAVE AS MUCH ENERGY TO GO OUT, HAVING STAY AT HOME DATES, BUT HAVE LOTS OF FUN
One could deduce jealousy from these texts and spamming of Akaashi on the MSBY group chat, but this is an amateur extraction. Bokuto genuinely believes that Akaashi transpires as much joy to any other as the man does to himself and so sending these pictures is clearly Bokuto-coded as: here's my love, see it and let it soak into you. Which, admittedly Atsumu does end up smiling, even if he does delete all the picture from his camera roll save the extremely awkward angled one's he'll use on Akaashi's birthday and their anniversary.
From then on texts will come through announcing anything Hinata feels is significant to notify the rest on, becoming more and more unintelligible as they arrive. Bokuto will respond, caps lock and enthusiastic, which only feeds fuel to the hell fire. Selfies where beer bottles are overflowing the stall, and Hinata's eyes have drooped despite the ever-effervescent smile that gets more lopsided by the hour. Kageyama will start arguing with a stranger, this is evident in both the photos where he's squinting with significant spite over his shoulder and the voice memos where his barking is patent over the slurring strings of sentences Hinata attempts. Tsukishima is smiling by this point, whether it be at the fight happening beside or because their bartender has begun telling them about one too many affairs he's had (also audible through the voice memos and videos) because Tsukishima Kei soaks in hellish table-flipping chaos rather than blurry Akaashi photo spams.
It's around midnight where the party migrates from the wildlife of urban streets and into the club caverns where it's too damn dark to see without relying on the epileptic lights dancing off the least pleasant angles. It's the part where Thomas removes himself from the group chat and Atsumu knows he should follow suit. Because this is when Atsumu knows he should peel away from his phone, maybe go to sleep, though insomnia's never been one to lean into mercy.
Hinata starts mistaking Twitter for the group chat and his public instagram story for his private snapchat one which Meian has to point out. Hinata always laughs bout it the next day and their media manager is torn between becoming infuriated, threatening to ban Hinata from managing his own accounts, and luxuriate in the press it produces. The Schweiden Addlers and Black Jackals' star crossed lovers have garnered themselves quite the fanbase, and Hinata's tweets do nothing but amass more fancams and conspiracies about his will they won't they with Kageyama Tobio. They've become notorious enough that the match commentators will occasionally give their fair share on the matter, obliging Meian to mute their watch-through's of previous games to focus on the play rather than how Kageyama is smitten after receiving his consort's block.
It's all fun and games when Atsumu can go through the night in a heavy, white bathrobe, drinking tea, having extricated himself from bedlam for once. Though there comes a certain point where the disarray reaches back to him like its end is his beginning, reaching some magnetic core he's unaware of but would explain a lot of his mishaps.
He wants to believe Hinata mistakes him for someone else entirely, though faith is shattered by intrinsic knowledge that the suggestive videos roving over Hinata's lifted shirt and the impending aggressive makeouts with Kageyama in a bathroom somewhere is all somewhat intentional. And they all work together in conjunction, the accidental eye contact as he smiles against Kageyamas lips and the dual tone shift from the group chat when he's sending heart emojis to Akaashi's snapshots and sending videos of himself cheering Mimosas with a toothy grin; it leaves Atsumu's chest rising a little too quickly, his thoughts racing and fumbling over another to rid themselves.
He's not sure how intentional it is. Hinata's been tricky to read ever since he got back from Brazil as Oikawas little padawan. Perhaps it was the loose living and scant clothing, grand carnivals and excessive drinking or Oikawa Toruu's general presence rubbing into Hinata more ways than one, but Hinata's become a paradoxical creature. Like, his behaviour adapted to Brazillian beachside mayhem; his hips take on a pavlov dog's reactionary possession when music starts stirring in. But his mind is perpetually stuck in some purgatory between the naive Little Shou Atsumu caught glimpses of before Brazil and the slight slyness Oikawa surely trained into him. Sometimes he'll grind against a guy only to spring away in blatant horror when they begin getting a little too excited behind the drink they're subsequently holding over their crotch. Or during the clubbing segment of Doomsday night, he'll send borderline sexts to Atsumu and reply with: ???, when Atsumu leaves him aired in the dust.
Miya: why....
Shou: join usssssss (>w<)
Is this an elaborate invite to a very clearly incompatible threesome? What possible point would there be to stand by while Hinata is sucking Kageyama's face off the entire night? If Atsumu was going to show up with a stiffy jammed between his legs he'll at least expect a little catharsis upon arrival. He doubts Tsukishima would think twice before downing a drink over him before he could even place two steps in his direction (yes this has happened before).
Of course, a threesome never made itself a terrible idea inside his mind. Kageyama was the sort of handsome that made you scared to touch him, the same way one may fret their fingerprints will mar an alabaster greek statue; kind of like Kiyoomi but with more rugged features. The man had those striking eyes and height that left your head turning while you tried remembering what cologne advert you've seen him in. But as chiseled and god-awfully stringent his bone-structure IS, Kageyama's sexuality teeters on chaste when he's sober and strictly-Hinata when drunk (sometimes the guy that lives two doors over in his Tokyo apartment but ask about this and you'll receive three blinks before he'll astral project into a different topic entirely). Case in point being that there are no amounts of drinks that would get him to remotely consider rubbing his perfectly manicured fingertips anywhere near Atsumu.
So threesome being a no-go, Atsumu's head only throbs with one man in mind. It was always only one man all along. Kiyoomi, Omi-kun.
And usually this was how it all coiled back into the ugliest wreathe provoked by Doomsday. Atsumu will question it, the threesome that is, because he's like that. Knowing the definitive outcome yet somehow always holding out hope for an alternate ending to will itself into his palms, like a kid on halloween. Waiting for the treat when the sign on the door clearly says trick. It was why he failed maths, excelled in biology (oddly) and why Osamu is running a successful business while he's wondering how much he can tease luck by saving a receive that's so clearly racing over the sidelines.
It's why he always goes back to Kyoomi in the end, knowing he'll trek the night alone somewhere during the middle of it. That disgusted look, that stupidly pretty face pulled in peculiar ways, always spouting more grief between his brows than his buttery voice entails in (even at his most bitter -- always a tiny too soft, a little too sweet). It's always about the way he unbuttons his fucking shirt, and Atsumu continues unbuttoning it that way, continues wearing button-ups at all, just to hear that inflection and sigh.
Yet Atsumu's Icarus-esque idealism always has the better of him. He can romanticise the shit out of a backalley sewer, so the rejection that shoots out of every trial-and error comes as pleasant as basking under the sun. Thing is, Atsumu burns more than he tans; and he tells himself its 'kay. Burns always peel away into tan, that's what Osamu says. He'll keep ignoring Arans shaking head, Sunas snorts. The clear-cut image of Kita exhaling painfully somewhere out there. He's still waiting for that tan to come through, and Atsumu is patient. Scratch that -- he's patient when he wants to be. (which Meian insits is for all the wrong things)
And thus the cycle of life, regret and confusion repeats itself on the night of Doomsday. With Atsumu internally screaming at Hinata, why are you so confusing! and to Sakusa, why are you so confusing. and to Bokuto, how are you so happy all the goddamn time. Guess he may need to invest in an Akaashi of his own.
But it's different today, this particular Doomsday. Bokuto's in the theater, his texts are there but laboriously slow and spaced to save him earning any slaps to the back of the hand by an Akaashi who is fervent on theater etiquette. As for Kyoomi, he's not the liable endeavor that these nights have come to bring about. It's hard to ring up and ask to come over and borrow some lotion when he's currently on his third date with a guy he met on bumble short of a month ago. Guess there won't be annoyed-fueled sex tonight. No dinosaur clamps or freckle pairs. That's fine. This whole lonesome night is fine.
Atsumu grits his teeth, refreshes his feed, and tosses his phone onto a pillow, telling himself that with as many TV appearances he's been in he's still one person with an entire world flowing about him. One part to a puzzle, not the puzzle itself, as much as he truly feels as one at times.
What he doesnt expect, as he finally levies himself upwards and begins to shuffle off the bed to find his wallet and head out for a beer, is for the wayward phone left stranded on his pillow to begin to buzz. Erratically; to the rhythm of Careless Whisper. And Atsumu freezes halfway in a squat with a hand for leverage on the foot of his bed. He turns over his shoulder and squints for a moment before deciding he's not musically toned enough to deduce by ear whether it actually is Careless Whisper or he's just fantasizing. So he actually bothers to make his way to the top end where his phone is dancing.
It is Careless Whisper, he realizes, not because of the beat humming through his palm, but because Hinata's name and profile is very evident on his phone screen. Atsumu hates that the smile appears almost as instinct when he presses call. He's still surprised, very much so, but incredibly intrigued. It's not club hour yet, more so it's around the time when Tsukishima starts laughing hard enough at someone's public breakdown to fool you into thinking he's somewhat human and not entirely AI.
"Hey Shou, " He yawns, pressing the phone to his ear, "What's up?"
"Hey babe, " oh? Atsumus brow shoots up as quickly as many varying possibilities he knows should be kept under a heel, "you ever gonna show up, or are you a no-go tonight?"
Hinata's voice is bubbly as usual without even sounding too tipsy and somehow drunk words worn by a sober tone makes Atsumu's stomach do twists.
"Uh...show up?"
"Yeah...to Rokukin, remember, like we talked about?" There was no such prior conversation, but Atsumu can hear the background noise thrumming vicariously and the clearer voices suggesting he's on speaker.
In an instant he's read the entire intent like the flash of a script to photographic memory. It's mostly in the clenched teeth and side-eye he can quite clearly make out from Hinata's sickly sweet tone.
"Ah, shit, yeah, forgot. Got caught up in manager shit n paperwork, " Atsumu can't help his stretching lips as he leans back with a hand on his hip, "ya know how it is, honey."
"It's okay, babe!" Hinata chirps out effortlessly, "Will you catch up with us then?"
"Rokukin, ya said?"
"That's it!"
Atsumu checks his watch, "Be there half past, order me a beer wouldya?"
"I'll have them put ice in it, you weirdo."
"Sweet."
The phone hangs up, and he's shoving it in his back pocket as he fishes for a navy overcoat, shamelessly smug with himself. Well, well, this is a turn of events. He's becoming an internal confederate to Doomsday. This only means Shouyou's gotten himself into something that's hindered his usually impressive emotional stability.
Whether its unwoven seams in the form of one of his many, many short-lived relationships resurfacing, perhaps trouble in Tobio-kun's paradise or something more conniving, Atsumu's chest has gotten a little too heavy thinking about certain men. Playing a facade on a night known for the worst aftermaths is sure to squeeze out some of this weight.
Fucking around never hurt anyone, that's his motto (it alternates between that and only fuck around if you're expecting to end it up your ass). After all, Miya Atsumu is a performer second to an athlete and he'll let the night take him to whichever stage awaits him.