He hadn’t been expecting the whole team to show up. Or at the very least, a large portion of the team.
So, there he sat, on his impromptu date with Tobio, except they were far from alone. Atsumu bemoaned his shit luck and even shittier friends as he sat squashed between a flailing Bokuto and an equally as energetic Shoyou. They were cheering, loudly, on Hoshiumi, who was currently engaged in a rather intense arm-wrestling match with Tobio across the table.
They’d long since eaten their food, and were on their second rounds of drinks when Hoshiumi loudly announced his brilliant idea of an arm-wrestling match. It’d hadn’t been completely unprompted. Somehow Tobio had this inborn, natural talent of riling people up for a challenge without ever actually challenging anyone. He had proudly proclaimed that, out of the five of them he was certain he would win in an arm-wrestling match, to which Hoshiumi had bristled defiantly.
And, so it came to be that Atsumu sat suffocated between the two most insufferable teammates of the Japanese National team, watching in growing horror how Tobio won match after match against a furiously stubborn Hoshiumi who didn’t know when to accept defeat.
He could see Tobio’s shirt-sleeves stretch wide across his shoulders and biceps, could see his arms strain with barely-existent effort. Not a drop of sweat anywhere, not a shade rosier than normal; he sat completely unaffected, at this point mostly just messing around with Hoshiumi. Of course, he didn’t show it. Outwardly he kept a perfectly clean poker face, but Atumu saw the glimmer behind those cold, blue eyes. He knew how competitive Tobio was, but he also knew how annoyingly proud he was in everything he did. Tobio wasn’t one to shy away from any challenge, nor was he prone to underestimate his opponents, but every once in a blue moon even he knew to tease, and Gods was it doing things to Atsumu.
“C’mon, Hoshi! You’re getting owned!” Bokuto shouted, flailing his arms and elbows dangerously close to Atsumu’s face as he did.
“My turn! My turn!” interrupted Shoyou. He was shouting now, clearly fired up by the competition and the prospect of one-upping Tobio in something.
To be clear, Shoyou had said he would stay out of their… date… situation, but once the other’s were oh so helpfully informed by the ever-generous and ever-social Tobio, Shoyou tagged along. ‘Mostly to annoy you,’ he’d told Atsumu, ‘And to be there for moral support when you embarrass yourself, of course!’ he’d grinned.
Shoyou took a seat opposite Tobio, where a disgruntled Hoshiumi had previously sat. Atsumu watched him mull over his loss, probably going through a serious crisis, but he tore his eyes away, back on the wrestling-match, when he heard Shoyou say, “I’ll beat your ass, just you wait, prettyboy!”
They were staring intently at each other, waiting for Bokuto’s signal while he adjusted their arms and hands to where odds of winning would be fair and square.
Atsumu couldn’t tear his eyes away from them; from the electricity that sparked between them anytime they came close to one another. They were each other’s polar opposites. Like a negative and a positive colliding to create a spark so bright and so strong Atsumu could feel it crawling up his legs. He wanted that. A closeness, a connection like that. Someone to share loss and victory with. Someone who’d love him tortuously, without regard for his fame or fortune or hell, his feelings.
“Ready… set… go!”
Immediately, muscles bulged in sudden strain, and Atsumu thought, for a moment, that Shoyou had it. That he would take home the first victory of the night, but the shift was as instantaneous as it was deadly. In a second the tides turned, and Atsumu watched in amusement Shoyou’s features go from ecstatic and arrogant to panicked.
“Ch..ea..ter..” he grumbled between clenched teeth. Tobio chuckled, and slammed his arm against the table with a final grunt. Atsumu tried to ignore the way his legs shook as viciously as the table upon impact.
“Again!” Shoyou demanded, fist already poised and ready on the table between them.
A whole two hours passed like that, with Atsumu growing hotter and hotter under his clothes. By the end of the night Shoyou had managed to land a few wins against the champion that had become Tobio, but when Hoshiumi had argued that it was as such only because Tobio had gotten tired, Shoyou and him entered a heated debate that lasted a whole forty minutes and got everyone else involved.
Atsumu, however, wasn’t paying that much attention. Since his talk with Shoyou, and his rather horrible drunk-text to Tobio, he couldn’t get the intrusive images out of his head whenever he looked at it. Images of his dick post practice, the few times he’d had the opportunity to glimpse it in the locker rooms, and what it could really do, according to Shoyou.
His hands, big and strong and perfectly manicured, holding onto his opponent for dear life, straining so much Atsumu worried he’d break someone’s hand. But he didn’t. The night passed without injury, because Tobio would never willingly hurt anyone. Atsumu knew that. He knew Tobio was a gentle doof. That those same, aggressive, large hands liked petting stray cats on the road and giving head scratches to injured, crying teammates as twisted ankles got bound and treated. He knew all this, and yet he wanted him to hurt him. Wanted those hard, roughened hands everywhere, in every way.
“’Tsumu?” He was abruptly brought out of his daydream by Bokuto’s hand on his shoulder. “We’re heading home, you guys staying?” he said, and looked between him and Tobio, who was still sitting on the other side of the table, his hands caressing a glass of whiskey. The condensation ran down and onto his fingers. Atsumu licked his lips to detach them from each other.
“I think we’ll stay for a while,” Tobio interrupted, perfectly poker-faced as always. A pressure against his foot brought him to full attention. Tobio was telling him to comply.
He scratched his head, “Uh, yeah, that’s right. We, uhm, thought we would discuss some strategies… for the upcoming game.” He said, laughing nervously at Bokuto’s unconvinced, squinted stare.
Luckily for Atsumu, Bokuto wasn’t the brightest in the bunch. That, or he didn’t care whether they came with or not, “Alright! Just make sure you get home safe!”
They waved the group goodbye, and once the head of orange couldn’t be seen from their spot by the window anymore Atsumu turned, shakily, in his seat, to be met by a pair of blue eyes suddenly much closer than they were before. Tobio had gotten up and taken the seat closest to Atsumu where Bokuto had previously been sitting.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“W-what do you mean?”
“The message. Last night. It was weird. Were you drunk?” he asked, then looked down at his hands still clutching the now empty glass, “Was I not supposed to invite the others?” he wondered, quietly, and Atsumu wanted to kiss away the furrow between his brows.
He placed a tentative hand atop Tobio’s, and unlatched his fingers from the glass. “Tobio-kun, are you going soft on me?” he asked, teasingly, and cheered internally when the worried expression turned sour instead. Yes. That, was comfortable. That, he could handle.
“Jerk,” he mumbled, glaring daggers, and tore his hand away from Atsumu’s.
Atsumu was about to apologize, profusely, for overstepping some invisible boundary, panic already brewing in his gut, but Tobio turned, then, and said: “Are you coming, or what?”
He stopped. What?
“What?” Tobio echoed his thoughts, “I thought you asked if I was up for dinner and a movie night at your place? Wasn’t that the original plan?”
Atsumu couldn’t believe his ears. Was he doing what he thought he was doing? Was he flirting with Atsumu, or was it all Tobio’s innocence speaking? Did he know Atsumu had ulterior motives? Did he care? Would he be hurt, if he found out?
All these questions kept turning in his head on an endless carousel of distress when a warm, calloused hand grabbed a hold of his wrist and pulled him out of his seat.
“Stop thinking,” he whispered, eyes downcast, and turned so that Atsumu couldn’t see the burn in his cheeks.
He grinned, childishly giddy all of a sudden, as he watched the back of Tobio’s neck turn a lovely shade of red.
Empty bottles clouding your mind.
I know you get lonely sometimes.
Say the word and I’ll make the drive.