Chapter Text
Patience was never Atsumu’s strongest suit.
Not that he would verbally admit to this shortcoming, or any others. Osamu just liked to remind him.
"Wha’s the pointa waitin’ anyways?” Twelve year old Atsumu would whine, nursing the castigated hand his brother had smacked away from a fresh tray of melonpan. His words were long and drawled, their elastic not yet snapped short from self-consciousness. “S’best when they’re hottest.”
Osamu had long since given up on rational explanations. “Greedy Tsumu. Ain’t gotta bone a patience in yer whole body," he would grumble darkly as he set the rack on top of the refrigerator to cool undisturbed.
Despite this, Atsumu was certain that all the forbearance in the world could not save him from feeling frustrated here.
He sighed and lifted his drink to his lips, warming his throat with the alcohol before returning his attention to the pair in front of him.
The fact that the quiet, pretty journalist was interested in his outside hitter was confusing enough. Bokuto was loud, even by Atsumu’s standards, and incapable of stillness. The guy kicked in his sleep. Hard.
Even now, he was bouncing around and waving his hands in the air. Akaashi held the barest hint of a smile on his face, listening intently to whatever crazy story Bokuto was yelling over the squall of the bar. This was only slightly different from Akaashi’s usual impassive expression. But by now, Atsumu knew that smile might as well be a marriage proposal.
It was obvious. It had been obvious for about three months, now.
Far more confusing than the crush itself was the fact that Atsumu was apparently the only one who noticed.
“Sooo,” Atsumu tried one morning during warmups, with Bokuto doing lunges by his side. “Akaashi, huh?”
Bokuto turned to him with those wide eyes, no trace of understanding behind them.
“What about him?”
Atsumu blinked. Straightened. Switched his lunge before selecting his words.
“He’s.. been coming around a lot, no?”
Bokuto beamed so hard his eyes disappeared.
“Yeah! He’s the best. We’ve been best friends for forever. And we’re still in the same city! The UNIVERSE must want us to stay friends!!”
Atsumu frowned, but quickly shifted the expression to preserve his feigned indifference. Two days ago, Akaashi had looked downright wistful at dinner when Bokuto stretched and announced he was headed home.
Did Bokuto not see it? Did... nobody ELSE see it?
Covertly asking Hinata proved just as unhelpful. The ginger poked his head from behind his locker, a hair tie between his teeth. “Akaashi and Bokuto? Yeah, they’re real close. Akaashi hasn’t missed trivia night, like, ever. He’s the only reason their team ever wins, anyways,” Hinata pouted as he pulled his hair into a tiny ponytail at the back of his neck.
A stick of deodorant tumbled out of Atsumu's locker when he opened it. He quickly ducked before it could hit him in the face.
Hinata didn't try to hide his laughter. “Bro, you gotta clean that out at some point.”
Atsumu made a face and shoved the deodorant back inside. His locker was notorious for this, having already earned the nickname ‘the MSBY gachapon.’ Every time it was opened, something new fell out. Bokuto swore he got a whole pack of gum once. Atsumu wasn’t sure how, considering how much he hated gum.
Not that Atsumu was entirely aware of his locker’s contents; it was packed far too densely to know what was inside. He gazed at the outer layer for a moment. Random scraps of paper, at least five empty energy drink bottles, a sock embroidered with bananas, an old container from a lunch that was probably radioactive at this point…
A huff came from behind, so heavy with trademark disgust that Atsumu was already scowling by the time he turned around.
“Can it, asshole,” he seethed.
Sakusa raised a sleek eyebrow. His curls were tucked neatly behind a mask. His bag was hooked neatly over his shoulder. Everything about him was prim, and proud, and completely soaked in pretentiousness.
“I haven’t said anything,” Sakusa pointed out from behind his mask. The idiot at the end was silent but definitely implied.
Atsumu’s scowl deepened.
“Y’didn’t have to. I can hear your judgey thoughts from over here.”
The dark-eyed boy flicked a lazy glance to his locker, muttered something under his breath, and left the locker room.
Atsumu fucking hated that guy.
So his friends were clueless, Sakusa was a prick, and Atsumu was here: far too sober to watch Akaashi’s pining without wanting to vomit.
At least Sakusa didn't come along. He was never present at a non-mandatory outing, anyways. It was just Atsumu, Hinata, and Bokuto tonight.
And Akaashi. Obviously.
“C’mon, do somethin',” he mumbled as he watched Bokuto order them two more drinks. Akaashi’s eyes slid over Bokuto's full frame, pausing on his chest before leaping away when the other boy turned back from his chat with the bartender.
Atsumu groaned. Osamu would chide him for being meddlesome, but how was he supposed to ignore something so glaringly obvious?
His answer stared back up at him from inside his empty glass.
“Shoyo,” he called.
Hinata was close by and far more tipsy. “Tsuuum,” he slurred thickly when he hugged his setter. “Let's do shots.”
This was the perfect diversion. Drunk Atsumu would not have half the perceptive skills Sober Atsumu did.
Atsumu smiled. He ruffled Hinata’s hair.
“Let’s.”
Somewhere within the turbid haze of the night, between the third round of karaoke and the emergency run to the nearby konbini for shrimp chips, at some point before his ungraceful descent onto Hinata's couch, Atsumu had one singular thought that cut through clean:
Akaashi needed his help.
slatternly (adj): exceedingly dirty or messy through habitual neglect.