Atsumu considered himself a gentleman. Really. Honestly, he did. Fully.
What he was learning to understand was that, despite his best efforts, most people would disagree with him on that. He wasn’t a creep—he knew that. He knew when to back off, when a flirt wasn’t working, and he knew not to gawk at beauties like a creep. Not that it happened often. No, for all his eccentricity he wasn’t particularly interested in relationships beyond those needed for his carrier.
He was a simple, respectable man.
Until he met Tobio. Scratch that, until he met older Tobio. Not that freshman Tobio hadn’t been disastrously gorgeous, it was just that this older version quite literally made him weak in the knees. Older, taller, sharper Tobio with legs to cling to and a torso to claw to shreds. It often made him wonder, during his rather unwanted prodding and pushing of the famed setter, how easy it would be for Tobio to just grab a hold of him and keep him wherever he needed him. Not that Atsumu would ever object to anything Tobio would need of him (as much as he preferred to deny and passionately but falsely disprove that idea), but the notion that Tobio could keep him there, even against his will was, perhaps, a little less than pure fantasy fuel.
But Atsumu was a gentleman, contrary to popular belief, and he’d be a fool to act as outwardly thirsty for Japan’s starting setter as a certain Argentinian brunette chose to. Every time they met Atsumu was left wondering whether Oikawa had always been like that with Tobio. So openly needy, breathless at the lightest touch or the slightest look.
That wasn’t Atsumu. He wasn’t that transparent—
“You’re painfully obvious, you know.”
Shoyou went on, nibbling on the plastic straw of his cup, “I mean, you’re not, like, Oikawa obvious—“
“But you are painfully weak for Kageyama, and it shows,” he finished, slurping loudly on his mostly empty cup. His right hand dipped another fry in the now disgusting mush of cheese and dip that was once his ketchup.
Atsumu grimaced. “I’m not obvious.”
“Ah, so you agree?” Shoyou asked, sparing him a pointed glare over his plate of heart-attack in wrapping, “You agree that you have a thing for Kageyama?”
He could feel his face heating up at Shoyou’s knowing grin. The man in question continued his work of stuffing himself to breaking point with all toxins available to man. Atsumu wasn’t sure why he insisted they eat in a place as horrendously disgusting as its food, but Shoyou insisted the fast-food chain was their best option for a late night post-drinking snack.
Atsumu sighed and pushed himself back in his chair until his weight was supported only by its hindlegs. He stared pointedly at a splat of grease and lettuce dried into the ceiling. It had left a large grease-mark and he momentarily feared it would fall off and into his mouth.
“Ok, so maybe I do, kinda, find him attractive—“
Shoyou scoffed, “Kinda? ‘Tsumu, it hurts to look at. You act like a kid around him. Next thing you know you’ll be tugging on his ponytail.” He took a bite out of his burger so big Atsumu worried for Shoyou’s jaw.
“Beshidesh,” he mumbled, mouth stuffed, and Atsumu scolded him for talking with his mouth full.
Shoyou made a dramatic display of swallowing the whole bite, then cast Atsumu the most impressive glare he’d seen on the walking sunshine. The perks of spending too much time with Tobio, he thought.
“Besides,” he repeated, over-emphasizing every syllable, “You’re not the only one who fell for his ugly mug.”
“Who, Oikawa?” he guessed.
“No, me.” he said, and picked up another fry as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on Atsumu. Although, in hindsight, perhaps it was as clear as day. The two of them were practically attached to the hip, despite their many claims of not tolerating the other.
“Hold on, what now? You have a thing for Tobio?” he asked, bewildered.
“Had. Past tense.” He corrected, slamming a hand on the table between them—color high in his cheeks. He averted his eyes. “Okay, maybe I still think he’s kinda, sometimes, a little hot, but that’s besides the point.”
He took a napkin from their shared, way-too-big pile and started wiping each finger meticulously. “But I had my fill. We used to be in mutual agreement. Once.”
Atsumu blanched. “Mutual agreement.” He repeated. Shoyou nodded casually.
“You mean, like… friends with benefits?” he added, for clarification, expecting Shoyou to aggressively deny such an absurd claim. To his utter astonishment, however, the ginger nodded.
“You and Tobio used to fuck?! Shoyou?!”
A woman and what Atsumu only guessed was her husband sent them a nasty look from across the diner.
Shoyou motioned for him to calm down, “Relax! It was a long time ago and not at all anything serious. I doubt we even understood it ourselves. Tobio and my relationship to him has always just come so naturally. We didn’t exactly talk about it; it sort of just happened.”
Atsumu noted the use of Tobio’s given name, but ignored it. He feared this was, despite his claims, a touchy topic.
“But that’s all over and done with,” Shoyou added, slurping on his coke while he thought, “I’m a taken man now. Can’t go around swooning for big, dark-haired beauties anymore.” The last bit he said with a wide, bright grin, and any worries Atsumu might have had about confessing his mortifying, painful yearning for their starting setter vanished.
“I definitely have a thing for Tobio-kun,” he said, voice barely audible over the beeping from the kitchen. Shoyou heard him just fine though.
“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding, “I had no idea. How’s that going for ya?” he asked, sarcasm like honey on his words.
“Not good.” He admitted, ignoring his best friend’s alarmingly unphased reaction. Was he really that painfully obvious and if so, how much had Tobio noticed?
“Really hot. I know.” Shoyou filled in, staring at something above Atsumu’s head as he dove into his memories. “With a really, really nice dick.” He added, then, and Atsumu felt the temperature in the room rise another 30 degrees.
“Honestly, I think he was the biggest I’ve ever had,” he continued, unaware of the turmoil happening in Atsumu’s brain, “And, God, those hands. Hands, ‘Tsumu!” he was practically shouting now, leaning across the table so far he was almost face to face with Atsumu. “I would kill to have those hands around my throat again!”
Atsumu spluttered, loudly, and pushed at Shoyou’s face with his hands, sticking his tongue out in disgust at the sauce it left on his fingers. He took a napkin from their shared pile.
“Jesus, Shoyou! Have some decency!”
“Not my fault you’re a huge virgin, Miya-san,” he mocked, slurping on the remainder of his drink. Mostly to annoy Atsumu, which begrudgingly worked.
“I’m not a virgin.”
“Oh, really?” Shoyou asked, the pitch of his voice rising just that tiny bit to where Atsumu thought ‘Ah, a challenge is brewing. This will be ugly.’
“Prove it, then,” he said, “Text him. Right now. Ask him out and, when you do meet up, you better end the night with Netflix and a dicking or else you owe me 50 bucks.” he said, pointedly placing Atsumu’s phone square and neat in front of him on the greasy table.
Atsumu stared at the thing, wishing it would suddenly grow legs and run away from them. Perhaps then he’d have an excuse out of this thing.
“And if I do it? What do I get?” he asked.
Shoyou didn’t hesitate: “The dicking of a lifetime.”