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The kiss is, for lack of a better word, sloppy.
And wet.
It’s very, very wet.
Huh.
It’s not the kiss Hinata expects to get. He’d offered half as a joke, half because no matter what he said, Atsumu still looked like a puppy kicked twice over and left out in the rain without dinner, and Hinata just really wanted to cheer him up. Of course Atsumu isn’t as terrible as that guy that dumped him said—he was absolutely just saying it out of spite and malice! Because he was dumping Atsumu! How does Hinata know—well, no, Hinata wouldn’t know, so why doesn’t Atsumu-san come closer, then, so Hinata can tell him how good a kisser he is?
So he’d closed his eyes. Puckered his lips.
Waited with bated breath.
Popped an eye open and asked a fidgeting Atsumu what he was waiting for—no he wasn’t joking, it’ll be good for Atsumu’s peace of mind, right? Then they can finish the last of their drinks, crash on the couch, and tomorrow Atsumu could go about getting over his ex.
Shut his eyes again when Atsumu took a deep breath, steeling himself, and leaned closer—
And thought, huh, okay, I see, when Atsumu planted a big, wet one right on his lips, tongue and all, with a surprising level of suction that—
“Wow, Atsumu-san,” Hinata says, gasping for air and blinking wide eyes up at Atsumu. “Do you always start with your tongue like that?”
The sex is, for lack of a better word, disastrous.
On a list of things that go wrong, Atsumu’s overenthusiastic but ultimately artless kissing becomes the least of Hinata’s concerns.
He’d thought it was the alcohol, their shared drunken state blurring what would have been sharper, more precise movements. So he’d suggested a different, more sober night to assure Atsumu all claims about his lack of sexual prowess were grossly slanderous.
And despite the breadth of his experience with Atsumu being limited to one extremely soggy makeout session (and, if he were being honest, a handful of pretty unrealistic, wildly-off-the-mark dreams from high school), Hinata was still fully confident he, as a neutral, objective party with a vested interest in cheering up a friend and a teammate, would be able to assuage Atsumu’s worries.
That was one cut lip, two chafing nipples, a flagging cock, and a headboard-induced concussion ago.
“It’s okay, I’m okay, I promise,” Hinata tells Atsumu now, holding up the ice pack to his forehead. “It’s probably harder to—uh—to do anything when you have it in the back of your head that you’re going to be evaluated, or something. This isn’t really a scientific method, you know?”
“No, I—it’s okay, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu sighs, draping the blanket around Hinata’s shoulders before he pulls his knees up and hugs them closer to himself. “Ya don’t gotta sugarcoat it.”
“I’m not,” Hinata insists.
“I just—” The sigh Atsumu lets out is kind of heartbreaking. Hinata hadn’t thought he was that serious about his boyfriend. They were, what, two months into dating? But he’s clearly beat up about it, hiding his face in his knees as he mumbles, “I just didn’t know. I didn’t think I was—I mean. I thought he was having a good time, too. But—”
Oh. Oh, no.
“You weren’t selfish,” Hinata says, reaching out to squeeze Atsumu’s wrist. That much is true. He’d been—misguided, sure, and probably over-enthusiastic. Clumsy, at times. But he’d tried. He’d asked if Hinata was okay, had done things he maybe thought Hinata wanted. He had that instinct on the court too, that giving nature, even though the finesse and skill didn’t quite follow him to bed. “It’s just technique, that’s all. Anyone can learn that.”
“Shouyou-kun—”
“You know—I can show you?”
It’s not like Atsumu wouldn’t do the same if he were in Hinata’s shoes, is how Hinata reasons this out.
“You set for me for as long as I ask you to, don’t you?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. “You usually do. And if I wanted to get better at something, like that time I was working on my serves, you stayed late to help out, didn’t you?”
Atsumu’s usually handsome face, looking sadder these days due to post-breakup melancholy, scrunches up in thought. Hinata’s reasoning is sound, he’s not sure why he’s trying to think his way out of this one. Embarrassment, maybe, but Hinata’s not making fun of him. “We’re teammates,” is what he lands on. “It helps the team if I help you.”
“We’re friends too, though,” Hinata says. “And I want to help, because you’ve helped me a lot! Besides, do you really want to just mope forever? When we lose a game, don’t we go over game tape to figure out what we can do next?”
Atsumu almost falls off the couch. “I-I-I don’t have game tapes!”
Hinata laughs. “I didn’t mean that literally!” Though, there was an idea. Maybe for later. If they needed it. “Just—why don’t you come over here?”
Atsumu doesn’t.
“Are you still worried about last time?”
“I injured you last time.”
“I’ve had worse,” Hinata says, crawling over so he was closer, instead, just a hair’s breadth away. “Why don’t we start with something that’s less likely to maim and mangle anyone? Okay?”
“Are you sure?”
“As long as you don’t bite,” Hinata promises, grinning when Atsumu lets out a self-conscious groan. But the tension in his shoulders eases and he flashes back a tentative smile, so Hinata takes the opportunity to cross the remaining distance between them and settle himself on Atsumu’s lap.
“Okay,” Atsumu whispers, his cheeks flush. “No biting, got it.”
“How about I lead,” Hinata murmurs, leaning close so Atsumu’s gaze drops to his lips. He pauses, the tips of their noses barely touching. “And you follow?”
Atsumu gulps. That sounds like a yes.
“It’s okay to start slow,” Hinata tells him, feeling the softness of Atsumu’s breath against his lips. “Think of it like a dance, right? A give and take. You don’t dive right into the chorus.”
“Ya always—ya always talk this much before you kiss anyone, too?” Atsumu asks. His tongue darts out like he’s about to lick his lips, but as if remembering himself, he purses them instead.
“Only when I want them to know why I’m doing what I’m doing,” Hinata says. “Close your eyes, Atsumu-san, okay? Do you trust me?”
Atsumu answers by squeezing his eyes tight and quickly nodding, but the tension’s visible on his face again. Even his jaw looks clenched.
It won’t do at all.
Hinata reaches out to cup his cheek, rubbing his thumb just beneath his eye to help him relax. He watches the creases smoothen out on Atsumu’s face, his lips parting softly as he leans into the warmth of Hinata’s palm.
He really is quite handsome, Hinata thinks, before he leans in.
“He seems less down today,” Sakusa says like he’s observing the weather. He’s stretching next to Hinata, who’s gulping down his electrolyte water, as they wait for their turn on the drills.
Hinata follows his gaze to the court, where Atsumu’s practicing with Bokuto and Meian. His form never wavered, not even right after he’d gotten dumped, but Hinata can see what Sakusa means. Atsumu’s just more of his usual self today, loud and vibrant and wild for volleyball. He slams down the ball just inside the line and he beams, sticking his tongue out before he high fives Bokuto.
He likes doing that, Hinata realizes. With his tongue. Like a puppy, in more ways than one. But they’d found a pace that wasn’t overwhelmingly all tongue the other night, and once Atsumu figured out there was more than one move besides the flat-tongued lap—
Atsumu turns, just then, and catches Hinata’s gaze. There must be something on his face because Atsumu goes red and nearly gets smacked in the head with the ball. He digs it in time, though, apologizing when Meian yells at him for losing focus.
Hinata looks away and downs the rest of his drink. “Yeah,” he tells Sakusa. “I guess he does.”
“I wanna see how you do handjobs,” Hinata says, settling himself between Atsumu’s legs, his back to Atsumu’s chest. Hand loosely circled around Atsumu’s wrist, he guides Atsumu down to his cock. “How do you like to touch yourself?”
He can feel Atsumu’s breath catching behind him. “Um,” he says, sliding his hand beneath the waistband of Hinata’s boxers. “Just—just like this?”
“Are you usually already hard when you do that?” Hinata asks, leaning back more comfortably against Atsumu. “You just grab it and go?”
“I—how do I—”
“What did I tell you about kissing?” Hinata turns to look at Atsumu, finding his face much closer than he expected. He tips his face up, meeting Atsumu’s lips before he even realizes that’s what he’s doing, and this time Atsumu’s strokes slow down to match the pace of their kissing. He hums, hoping Atsumu reads the approval in there, and places his palm over Atsumu’s hand, guiding his fingers where Hinata wants them.
“Better?” Atsumu asks when they pull away to catch their breath, his thumb brushing over the tip of Hinata’s cock a little too roughly.
“M’not in a hurry, Atsumu-san,” Hinata reminds him, slowing his movements down even more. “You can take your time.”
“Okay.”
“And,” he adds, taking Atsumu’s other hand and dragging it up beneath his shirt, “that’s not the only place you can touch.”
Atsumu nods. “Right,” he whispers, palm splayed flat against Hinata’s stomach, shaking a little, before he slides it up his chest.
He’s got setter’s hands, Hinata thinks idly: a mix of delicate and rough, sturdy, a delicious heat on him as he takes instruction from Hinata on how fast to go, how hard, which angle Hinata likes and yes—just like that—
“Is that good?” Atsumu asks, his breath hot on Hinata’s neck. “You like it?”
“Now you can—more—” Hinata pants, dragging Atsumu’s hand down to his hip, a plea to hold him down, he’s trying really hard not to buck up into Atsumu’s fist, fuck it deeper, get it tighter around him—
Atsumu slides his hands right past Hinata’s hip, making no effort to pin him in place. Instead he spreads Hinata’s legs even wider, reaching further to press thick fingers against Hinata’s hole—circling just the ring of muscle there, going no further.
It’s a move that catches Hinata off-guard, the sudden sensation what pushes him over the brink. He spills hot on his stomach with a strangled cry that turns into breathless moans, Atsumu only letting up when he relaxes, loose-limbed, against him.
“That surprised me,” he admits, looking back at Atsumu with wide eyes. “In a good way.”
Atsumu flushes with the pride of a student told he’d done a good job. “You did ask,” he mumbles.
“I did?”
“About how I like to touch myself.”
Atsumu’s a setter, so he’s always been good at taking care of his hands. Hinata’s roomed with him on the road before—he’s seen Atsumu’s routine of trimming his nails neat and taping his fingers conscientiously, the pads of his fingers solid and tough from use.
It’s better for ball control, he’d told Hinata once. Better support.
His grip on his water bottle looks strong from where Hinata’s standing, at any rate. Long, thick digits wrapped around the neck of the bottle with ease as he tips his head up and guzzles the water down with deep gulps, drops of water commingling with sweat as they drip a path down his throat.
Hinata swallows dry. Grabs his own bottle and douses his face with cold water.
“Alright there?” Bokuto asks with an amused smile.
“Yeah,” Hinata tells him. “Just needed to cool down.”
“Shouyou-kun?” Atsumu murmurs, his mouth wet against Hinata’s shoulder. “You okay?”
His answer comes as a breathless giggle. “What do you think?” He leans back, pulling Atsumu’s arms to wrap around his waist, ignoring the sticky mess on his skin, on the sheets. There are other things that need his attention right now, anyway. “You’re hard.”
“Uh—” Atsumu scrambles back, like pressing himself any closer to the wall would do anything more than stop his boner from poking Hinata in the back. “Sorry, I—”
“What for? I’d be insulted if you weren’t!” Hinata tells him with a laugh. He squirms in Atsumu’s lap, turning around to see just how red Atsumu’s face is (very) and how flustered he’s gotten (extremely). He grins. “How do you want me to take care of you, Atsumu-san?”
“Um. I. However you wanna—”
Hinata slides down between Atsumu’s legs, careful not to touch. He rests his chin on his palm and looks up. Deliberately wets his lips.
Watches Atsumu swallow hard. “—uth,” he mumbles.
“What was that, Atsumu-san?” he asks, cocking his head. “I didn’t quite hear it.”
“Your—your mouth?” he says. “Could you—”
Hinata grins. “Of course, Atsumu-san,” he says, wrapping his hand around the base of Atsumu’s cock. He keeps his gaze on him even as he lowers his head to swipe a taste off him with the tip of his tongue. “But you have to pay attention, okay? I’m only gonna show you once.”
“Don’t eat all of it at once,” Osamu warns Atsumu when he sets down an extra large serving of special fatty tuna rice balls in front of him. “We’re in civilized company today.”
“It’s only me, Osamu-san,” Hinata says with a laugh, as Atsumu protests with, “Y’ain’t the boss of me, I’m older than ya!”
“Only as a technicality,” Osamu mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes and giving Hinata a wry grin. “You’ll have to excuse him, I know we say we’re twins, but we actually just found him in the dumpster—”
“’Samu!” Atsumu scowls, sticking his tongue out at his brother. “Shut up and go tend to your other customers.”
Osamu tsks. “Choke on it for all I care then,” he says before he moves down to the next customer in line.
“You guys really get along,” Hinata says, watching Atsumu take the rice ball with both hands—it’s big enough to almost need all ten fingers just to hold, and Hinata’s not entirely sure Osamu didn’t do that intentionally—and then take an impressively large bite of it.
Atsumu’s face scrunches up, appalled—combined with the food in his cheeks he looks like a very distressed, but still very cute, squirrel. He shakes his head vehemently, chewing fast and swallowing only to say, “Are ya kidding me? He’s such a dick to me. The absolute worst!”
Hinata laughs, because the ‘absolute worst’ wouldn’t be feeding Atsumu for free during his busiest time at his very popular restaurant, and Atsumu clearly hadn’t tried to get as far away from his brother when he had the chance to, what with all the teams knocking down his door when he went pro. Volleyball Weekly wrote extensively about that, Hinata remembers.
Atsumu frowns, but just takes another bite of his rice ball, lips almost wrapping all the way around the remainder of it before he sinks his teeth in. He’s more careful when he chews now, darting his tongue out to flick at a grain of rice that gets stuck at the corner of his lip.
Hinata turns to his own food—also fatty tuna, in more regularly sized servings—his own bites mere nibbles compared to Atsumu’s ravenous eating. His ravenous mouth, really, which had just as eagerly taken as much of Hinata in as he could manage—
“God, look at you, you’re disgusting,” Osamu says cheerfully, returning to check in on them. “And you wonder why you got dumped.”
“At least someone wanted to date me,” Atsumu points out before Hinata could react in his defense. He doesn’t deflate this time, Hinata notices, only glaring back at Osamu, who smirks in response.
“Oh, good, I was wondering when you’d start getting over that loser,” he says, setting down a drink for Atsumu. “Ya really need to chew like a person, fuck’s sake.”
“Fine, since ya asked so nicely,” Atsumu says. He opens his mouth extra wide and defiantly stuffs his face with the last of his rice ball before flipping his middle fingers up at Osamu.
Atsumu’s lips are kiss-swollen and glossy with spit when he pulls away, parting with a hint of tongue peeking out as he catches his breath. He’s flushed from the tips of his ears to the broad expanse of his chest, nipples hard nubs against the brush of Hinata’s fingers.
“Atsumu-san,” Hinata murmurs, drinking in the sight and not sure where to begin feasting. “Can you—can you show me how you touch yourself?”
“Y’mean like—” Atsumu starts to reach for his cock, but Hinata places hand to chest and pushes him down so he’s flat on his back, blinking up at him.
Hinata keeps his gaze steady. Slides his palms past Atsumu’s thighs to stop just below his knees. Pushes them up so that Atsumu’s exposed to him, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a visible gulp. “I mean,” he says, each word uttered with deliberate care, “I want to see how many fingers you usually take.”
“Ah,” Atsumu says, but he stays half-hard, and if anything, the flush deepens. “Guess’m gonna need—”
“Here, right?” Hinata asks, reaching over to Atsumu’s night stand to take out a bottle of lube. He opens it up to pour a dollop onto Atsumu’s palm, spreading it with his fingers to warm it up as well.
“I’ve not—I mean—not in front of anyone—”
“Never?”
Atsumu covers his face with his arm. “Usually we’ve just, uh, gone straight for the—”
“It’s a different angle, when you’re doing it yourself compared to doing it to someone else,” Hinata says, resisting the urge to reach out and see how red Atsumu’s gotten, just how cute being flustered makes him. “But you said you liked touching yourself this way, and I wanna see what you like. Can you show me, Atsumu-san?”
“Fuck, when you ask like that—” Atsumu whines, but he bites at his bottom lip, snaking his hand further to press against him.
Hinata watches the first digit sink in, a slow slide that stretches the muscle around it only a little. Atsumu’s careful with his movements, whether from self-consciousness or habit it’s hard to tell. He holds his breath as a second finger joins the first and Atsumu lets out a sigh, hips shifting higher as he attempts to go deeper, his fingers only managing two knuckles in.
“Shouyou-kun…?” Atsumu asks.
Hinata hasn’t said anything in a while, and Atsumu’s still got his eyes hidden behind his free arm. “M’here,” he whispers. “M’watching. You look really good like this, did you know that?”
Another hard swallow. “Oh. I—”
“You should stretch yourself, Atsumu-san,” Hinata says, his palms moving up to keep Atsumu’s legs spread wide, pushing his knees up to his chest to help him reach better. To help Hinata see better. “Do you usually get to a third?”
Atsumu groans, the move allowing him to reach a deeper part of him, his fingers now as far in as they can go. “N-no,” he manages. “I just—just two.”
“Then, can I help?” Hinata asks, leaning over Atsumu as he rubs against the outside of his hole with his fingers.
Atsumu stills for a moment, his thighs trembling against Hinata. Then he nods—or at least Hinata thinks he does.
“Atsumu-san,” he murmurs. “I didn’t see that. Can you take your arm down and let me know?”
“You can—you can help,” Atsumu says, lowering his arm a little. His eyes are wide, liquid honey in this light, pupils dilating when Hinata presses his finger right next to Atsumu’s.
“It’s easier from this angle, isn’t it?” Hinata’s careful too, simply following the pace of Atsumu’s fingers as he slides in. “You can go deeper from here. Do you want to see?”
Atsumu nods, and this time Hinata can see the anticipation and desire flaring in his gaze. His fingers slip out, Hinata’s replacing them seamlessly, and he lowers his gaze to watch Hinata move inside him, biting back a moan when Hinata crooks his fingers, pressing inside him with a firm touch.
“You can change the pace here, too,” Hinata tells him. “Not too slow it’ll feel boring, but you can make it so that it builds up to something, you see?”
Atsumu whines. “Shouyou-kun,” he says, and it sounds like a plea.
“Yes, Atsumu-san?”
“Show me, then.”
“Miya-san, I’m so sorry, but can we do that again?”
Atsumu groans good-naturedly, putting the cap back on his bottle and setting it down. “I swear, sometimes ya guys are harder than practice,” he says, no real bite to his complaint as he jogs back to the court, where the photographer and his two assistants have rearranged their lighting.
“You’ll be up next, Hinata-san,” the Jackals’ publicity coordinator says beside him. “Thank you again for your time.”
“We’re always happy to help, Misaki-san!” he says, glancing back to where Atsumu’s listening to the photographer’s instructions about the shot he wants to take. “Even Atsumu-san, whatever he says.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.” Misaki laughs. “Do you know, it’s a little surprising, but I thought Miya-san would be more interested in doing things like this. He seems to like the spotlight.”
“Only when it’s about his skills as a player, I think,” Hinata says, watching Atsumu take to the air to deliver a picture-perfect spike serve—the graceful swing of his arm, the powerful flex of his thigh, the raw strength in his palm.
Hinata’s seen all of them at work on the court, knowing how strong a player Atsumu is, but now he’s also seen the way Atsumu drapes his arm over his face out of embarrassment. Now he knows how hard Atsumu’s thighs can clench around his waist and how warm his palm is when Hinata holds it down.
He turns to Misaki and smiles. “I was a little surprised myself, to be honest. But I think that’s what makes him so amazing.”
“Nervous?”
“Only if ya keep askin’ me like that,” Atsumu says.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Hinata tells him, grinning. “Remember what I showed you? You’ve done great so far.”
But Atsumu still looks a little worried, so Hinata winds his fingers through his hair and pulls him down for a kiss, long and slow, deep the way he likes it. Atsumu follows his lead, at first, but Hinata lets him increase the pace, the kiss growing heated as Atsumu’s touch becomes more fervent, desire and need outstripping whatever performance jitters he had earlier that evening.
And he really hadn’t needed to be so nervous—Atsumu now is leaps and bounds ahead in skill and finesse from where he was when they started. He’s a fast learner and an eager student, taking direction well enough to let it hone the instincts that had always been there, anyway.
There’s a certainty and confidence to his touch, neither clumsy nor second-guessed, when he maps the ridges and curves of Hinata’s body with the heat of his palms. There’s a deliberation in the brush of his lips seeking the most sensitive parts of Hinata’s body, intent behind the delicate graze of teeth, the hot flick of tongue. He winds Hinata up like he’s setting up a play, closing slender fingers around him and lowering his head so the velvet of his lips is a whisper of a promise against the tip of his cock, amber eyes locked on his gaze through thick lashes.
The slide of Atsumu’s mouth around him, when it finally, blessedly happens, is hot and wet and tight in all the best ways, and even the brush of his hair against the inside of Hinata’s thighs sends blood rushing through his veins, heart skittering wild against his chest.
“Up, up, come up, come here,” Hinata babbles, grabbing onto Atsumu’s hair and tugging him up, pulling him away or he’d—
Atsumu’s mouth is sweet on him, his body a welcome weight. Hinata winds his arms around his strong, broad shoulders, hikes his knees up on either side of his waist. The kiss they share is open-mouthed, languid, sweet—a moment to catch their breaths. To revel in the press of their bodies together, the reverent roll of hips against hips, muscles flexing beneath their touch.
Hinata’s desperate for the first slide of Atsumu’s finger when it happens, his entire body primed, ready, waiting. Atsumu holds him down and takes his time, teasing Hinata with featherlight touches that turn feverish only long enough to make Hinata want, to bring him to the brink before pulling him back.
“Not yet, yeah?” he says, his voice low in Hinata’s ear, the promise in his words sending a shiver down his spine.
Hinata’s unraveling, one fraying thread after another, and it’s Atsumu—only Atsumu—who pulls at every last string until he’s totally, completely, wholly undone.
Hinata comes to in hazes of images, snapshots of sensations: the blurry shape of Atsumu’s face, haloed in the bedside lamp, looming over him. The cool, soothing feeling of damp cloth on his skin. The weight of a blanket drawn up over him.
The warmth of a body pulling him close.
Careful, gentle fingers threading through sweat-soaked hair.
“Shouyou-kun…?”
“Mmm?”
Atsumu murmurs something low in his ear, a soothing rumble more than anything, as Hinata drifts to sleep.
It sounded nice, whatever it was.
The post-game celebration is rowdier than usual, which is what apparently happens on the rare occasion the team gets to play in their home city. All twenty-some of them, starters and bench warmers and second stringers and coaching staff included, crowd into their favorite bar, clusters of grown men squeezing into separate booths as food and drinks are served by an indulgent staff.
Hinata’s squished between a wall and Atsumu for this one, Atsumu’s arm loosely draped over his shoulder—to make space, he’d said—as Barnes recounts, with exaggerated movements that are too enthusiastic for the space they occupy, the play that won them the second set. Hinata laughs with the rest of the table when Barnes nearly knocks down his glass as a result of slamming his hand down in imitation of that set-winning spike, pulling his and Atsumu’s glasses out of the way just in case.
“Thanks, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu tells him, flashing him a wide grin, the flush of a hard-earned victory bathing him in golden light. “Knew ya got my back.”
Hinata holds Atsumu’s drink out, their fingers brushing against each other, brief and fleeting, as Atsumu takes his glass. “Anytime, Atsumu-san.” He’s a few glasses in, his head buzzing with a pleasant tipsiness that makes his head feel a little heavy, so he leans not against the wall, but closer toward Atsumu, chin on palm to keep his head up.
“Alright there?” Atsumu asks, squeezing Hinata’s shoulder.
“Never better,” he replies, watching Atsumu finish off his drink. There’s a little bit of beer foam drawing a mustache on his upper lip when he’s done. It makes Hinata giggle, reaching out to wipe it off with a gentle swipe of his thumb. “Atsumu-san—”
“Hey, isn’t that your ex?” Bokuto asks, low enough only their table can hear.
But it’s loud enough that it drowns out everything else, makes Hinata’s blood run suddenly cold, steals the breath from his lungs.
It’s only a beat of a moment, the space between Bokuto’s question and Atsumu’s gaze flickering over to see. Hinata wants to follow where it goes, wants to see how it looks on Atsumu’s face, but his gaze is fixed on his drink, on his hand, closed around the glass, firm, firm, steady.
It takes only a second, probably, between Bokuto’s question and Atsumu’s response.
The wait still feels like a lifetime.
But in the end, all Atsumu says is, “Huh. Guess it is.”
The walk back to his apartment is only a few minutes, but between the careful way Hinata’s trying to navigate the sidewalk and the quiet presence of Atsumu next to him, the minutes are beginning to feel like they’re stretching into hours.
“Did you really drink a lot more than usual tonight?” Atsumu asks, holding Hinata steady, one hand on his elbow, the other around his shoulders.
Hinata wrinkles his nose. “S’just the same I normally do, I swear. But I don’t think I ate enough,” he says, leaning his weight against Atsumu. “Are you trying to make sure I make it home in one piece?”
Atsumu just smiles. He’d asked Hinata if he could crash for the night when the party began to wind down, but he’s only a little red in the cheeks, his eyes alert and his movements steady. “Something like that.”
“S’real kind of you,” Hinata says. “You’re very kind.”
“Don’t hear that a lot, Shouyou-kun. But thank you.”
“You are. You’re kind and thoughtful and anyone who dumps you for ridiculous reasons is a ridiculous person. Who is dumb. And doesn’t know better. And is dumb.”
Atsumu lets out a huff of laughter. “Well,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I kinda figured he was a jerk after that happened. Couple of you already knew that even before it ended, too.”
“I never liked him!” Hinata agrees.
“Yeah, well, thanks for—thanks for everything.” Atsumu scratches at his cheek. “For letting me mope, and—and helping me out, and stuff.”
And stuff, he says. “What are friends for, right?”
“Hah. Right.”
They fall into a silence that starts to nag at Hinata before long. “You’ve improved loads, did I tell you that?” he asks, just to break the quiet. “Now you can—now you can date whoever you like and not worry about that!”
“Is that so?”
“Just not jerks,” Hinata amends. “You don’t deserve them.”
“Oh, I know, learned my lesson there,” Atsumu says.
“Good.”
Atsumu lets out a long breath, tips his head back to gaze at the sky. “You were really kind too,” he says. “When you helped. You didn’t—I wasn’t nearly as mortified, and I thought—”
“Oh. It’s not—there was nothing to be embarrassed about,” Hinata mumbles. “We all figure it out from somewhere. I just—”
“You’re not a jerk, Shouyou-kun.” Atsumu’s gaze, when Hinata meets it, is warm and soft. The curl of his lips, gentle. “But you know…”
“Yeah?”
“I kinda get the feeling I got very specialized lessons,” he says. The corner of his mouth twitches, the telltale tug of a full smile. “Just on exactly how you like it.”
“W-well, I think the skills are transferable if—”
“Seems like a waste, though, don’t you think?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “After I’ve learned all of this already.”
Hinata huffs, his laugh a little shaky, matching the pounding in his chest. “That’s rich coming from you, Atsumu-san,” he says, mirroring the grin spreading on Atsumu’s face. “You’ve still got a lot to learn, actually.”
“Oh? I guess you’ll just have to show me.”