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This month, your period has it out for you.
You bleed through your pants on your first day, having to go home during lunch to change. Then your painkillers run out, leaving you with the difficult decision of either going out again or slowly dying on your couch.
You’re well aware of your looks. The messy hair, the clothes that have seen better days, plus the stain you can’t seem to get out of your pants. You didn’t want to change out of your fuzzy socks, nor find shoes that would hide them, so now little pink rabbits are on full display.
If someone’s going to ask you about it, you’ll have to politely remind them that you woke up in your own blood this morning, and that you deserve some slack for not going on a murder spree instead.
-
“Oh, you dropped something!” Someone points out behind you. You turn, half-expecting to find someone else as the dropper. But the guy’s looking at you, blond hair, attractive undercut.
Oh shit. It’s Atsumu.
Your next-door neighbour eyes you curiously, probably trying to figure out where he knows your face from, or where the next asylum is to deliver you back there.
“Thanks,” you squeak, rushing to pick up the pack of extra-thick pads from the floor. How you didn’t notice that falling from your basket is beyond you, but your mind is a little preoccupied. “See you,” you turn and rush for the end of the aisle, hoping to lose him. No dice.
“Are you-” Atsumu leans against the shelf filled with diapers and balms against rashes, smiling smugly. “Occupied tonight?”
“Eh, well,” you swallow awkwardly, “I’m probably just going to lie around and bleed. And stuff myself with whatever I can find.”
“I love stuffing myself!” He retorts, blushing when he hears himself. “I mean-”
“It’s nice of you not to bail at my sight,” you tell him, feeling a little better. Who knew Atsumu wasn’t just a good-looking dick, ready to flirt even with the most haggard version he’s seen of you yet. “But I can barely stand. I’ll just grab the rest of my stuff and head home for the night.”
“Oh,” he blinks. “Sure, yes. I don’t want to keep you.”
“See you,” you whisper as you pass him, heading for the till. Maybe you’ll lay low on the chocolate tonight, though. That little flirt felt good.
-
You miss the chocolate as soon as you’re back on your couch, heating pad tucked into your pants, some senseless show on repeat.
But you’re not willing to go out again, not daring to run across Atsumu once more.
There’s a knock on the door. You ignore it.
Another knock. Firmer, this time. You groan. Whoever it is, can’t they ask someone else for sugar, or whatever it is they need?
Another knock. You get up, dragging the cable of your heating pad with you like a leash that’s tying you to the couch.
“Yes?” You ask, swinging open the door.
Atsumu grins back at you, holding a bag of something that smells like it has been fried a few too many times to be called healthy.
“I got food,” he points out the obvious. “I thought you could use it. You said you wanted to stuff yourself, but you didn’t buy anything.”
“Oh-” You hesitate. He peers into the apartment over your shoulder. “No way, you’re watching my favorite show!”
“Oh, don’t put it on so thick,” you tell him pointedly, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “There’s no way you watch 'Love during full moon’.”
“Try me,” Atsumu’s grin is cocky and self-assured. “But don’t ask me anything about season three, I missed most of it because of the tournament, and I’m still trying to catch up.”
You hesitate. Step to the side. “I guess you can watch a few episodes with me.”
-
“Atsumu?”
“Hmm?” He asks from the other end of the couch, his hands kneading circles into the balls of your feet like they’re the world's most intriguing stress toy.
“Why were you at the pharmacy?”
“Oh,” he blushes. You can barely see in the flickering light of the TV, but it’s there, in the widening of his eyes and the nervous way he tucks his head into his shoulders. “Don’t laugh, okay?”
“Promise.”
“So I kinda get-” He stops. “I kinda get stomachaches when I eat fried food.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Samu says I need to look after my liver or something, but there are these pills that help with digestion, and when I need to stuff myself with fried food, I get them.”
“What’s so embarrassing about that? I kinda wanna try these pills now too.”
“Oh, well, that’s not…” He shrugs, still clearly embarrassed. “I haven’t seen you all week,” he admits then. “So I wanted to stuff myself with fried food.”
You sit there, frozen in a thought you don’t quite dare to finish thinking.
“Atsumu… did you… did you miss me?”
His eyes are wide and innocent when they catch yours. “Course. You're the best part of my day.”
You laugh, despite the pain and your bloated stomach, the noise from the TV, and the state of your clothes.
“You could have asked me out, you know,” you tell him. “I would have said yes.”
“I did!” He disagrees. “A lot of times. You always decline.”
“I did not!”
“You did. Just like today.”
“I’m on my period.”
“And we’re still hanging out,” he gestures at you, the couch, the TV. “First date.”
You scoff. “This isn’t our first date. You won’t tell our future children that our first date consisted of gorging on fast food on my couch.”
“Won’t do,” he promises with a wicked grin. “So can I take you out next week to a fancy restaurant and stargazing?”
Your mouth runs dry. You nod.
And when he lets out a celebratory “whoop”, you can't help but laugh.