Work Text:
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Bokkun
Tsum tsum im so sorry i didn’t realize it was the wrong chat!
ill treat you and sakusa to a meal just name the place!! owl be waiting!!🦉
oh!! and congratulations!!
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Maybe Kiyoomi has dreamed about waking up to golden eyes before, sunbeams streaming through the window and turning the sleepy, brown eyes across from him a warm honey color.
In all of those idle fantasies, the sun didn’t initiate a blinding headache. Kiyoomi would be pleasantly warm in the embrace of the person next to him, not sweaty, sticky, and with a stray elbow (or a knee?) digging into his kidneys. And instead of an affectionate gaze, the vivid, yellow orbs that greet him when he finally musters the will to open his eyes are terrifying on a primal level, as half-asleep as he is.
Even when his brain registers the eyes are part of a fake owl statue—the kind used to scare away other birds—his body is already moving on instinct. He jerks back from the edge of the bed and collides with the person behind him, eliciting a strangled yelp.
“Ow, fuck, my nose! What the—Omi-kun?”
“Miya?”
Kiyoomi pushes himself upright and turns to look at the interloper, who looks about as put together as Kiyoomi feels.
Atsumu’s hair is a wild tousle of locks that look crusty with unwashed sweat and gel. He’s wearing a shirt that says, bafflingly, ‘ Crab cakes? More like ab cakes’, with the cartoon illustration of a crab lifting weights. Most notable of all is his face, scrunched in pain with one eye squinting at Kiyoomi, both hands cradling his nose and the large bandage taped across its bridge.
“What the hell happened to your nose?”
“Some lanky asshole just rammed his shoulder blade into it, that's what.”
“No, I mean, er,” Kiyoomi reaches out to—what, touch him? Atsumu? Tenderly? They both pause at the motion, and Kiyoomi quickly turns his hand into a pointing finger.
“You have a bandage on it,” he states dumbly.
“Oh god, is it bleeding? Is it broken? It feels like it’s broken.” Atsumu’s hands are a sudden flurry, waving frantically by his face, and therefore in Kiyoomi’s face, as close as they are.
“It’s not bleeding. Stop flailing.” Kiyoomi grabs Atsumu’s wrists and Atsumu freezes completely, staring up at Kiyoomi with a red face and tearful eyes in a way that gives Kiyoomi a paralyzing moment of déjà vu.
Stay with me, Omi?
Blond hair kissed with bright fluorescents. A familiar silhouette backlit by dim lamplight. A constant, comfortable companion at his side through winding city streets.
Kiyoomi shakes the murky images from his head and lets go of Atsumu.
“Just let me take a look,” he says, the shock of being awake starting to drain away with the task at hand and reminding Kiyoomi that he has a killer headache.
Atsumu, surprisingly, remains quiet and nods, eyes darting in every direction but avoiding Kiyoomi’s gaze. Not that Kiyoomi blames him—this is probably the closest they’ve ever been to each other in the two years and change they’ve been teammates, and it should feel more awkward. Kiyoomi isn’t sure why it doesn’t—it feels familiar, even, pulling at the strings of a maybe-memory that he isn’t ready to explore further without the aid of caffeine, and certainly not with Atsumu’s eyes boring holes into his forehead as he leans in to inspect the damage.
The bandage is a small piece of gauze secured with medical tape that’s been trimmed neatly at each end. It’s the kind of work Kiyoomi would do himself, and he internally nods in approval as he gently lifts the free side of the bandage to peek at the injury below.
It’s red, and a little swollen, though that could be from their collision. There is a small gash with telltale dried flakes of blood at the edges, but the wound looks otherwise dry and well-tended.
“Is it going to scar?” Atsumu says quietly, and Kiyoomi glances up to find Atsumu staring right at him. “What will we do if I become even more ruggedly handsome?”
Kiyoomi sighs, and pulls back. “You’ll be fine. Just make sure to ice it later and change the bandage daily until it closes.”
“Yes, Nurse Omi,” Atsumu sing-songs back, and Kiyoomi resists the urge to flick him in retaliation. He’s injured, after all.
Crisis averted, Kiyoomi turns to properly observe his surroundings beyond the horrifying owl statue. It’s not a hotel, as he initially thought, but rather what looks like a modest apartment. The furnishings look selected for comfort more than style, but the eclectic nature somehow works. There’s a familiar MSBY-branded jersey and duffel bag strewn by what Kiyoomi assumes is the closet, and he frowns at the recognition.
Why is he in Atsumu’s apartment? As far as Kiyoomi remembers…
Loud cheers, a wild crowd, the thrill of a game—it was the championship game yesterday, right. Followed by a celebratory night out with the team that started with dinner, then drinks, then more drinks...Kiyoomi’s face scrunches as his headache pulses from trying to recall the details. He gives up. He’s not a lightweight, per se, but he doesn’t indulge often these days, owing to some incidents that are better off remaining in his rose-tinted university memories. (And Bokuto’s, but as one of the only witnesses still in Kiyoomi’s close acquaintance, Bokuto is too valuable of a teammate—both then and now—to quietly dispose of.)
Still, by all accounts, his drunk persona is a gentleman, if occasionally an odd one by others’ accounts. It makes sense that he would accompany a drunk teammate to ensure they got home safely, especially one that he may or may not have sweet, half-imaginings about. And even if Kiyoomi wouldn’t typically stay over after such an escapade (even at his drunkest, he always managed to traipse home and execute his ten-step skin care routine with perfection ), he must have found a good reason to stay last night. The bandage on Atsumu’s nose does look like his handiwork.
But the persistent stabbing at his temples convinces Kiyoomi to put away those thoughts to ponder later. Instead, he starts to take stock of his immediate self. Shirt? Check. Pants? Check. Hair… probably atrocious. As for his phone—
Kiyoomi whips back to stare at Atsumu. “You owe me a new phone,” he intones, wryly, and Atsumu winces. That particular memory precedes whatever drunken escapades they may have found themselves on last night.
“Ah, right, right. Don’t worry, I told you I would get you one! Heck, we can get you one this morning.” Atsumu waves his hands placatingly. “Speaking of phones, have you seen—”
Ding. Ding. Ding.
As if on cue, the space between them begins to fill with the whirr and chirp of notifications, and Atsumu rustles through the bedspread until he unearths his own device.
They’re not so far apart on Atsumu’s double bed that Kiyoomi can’t see the little numbers in the dots at the corner of the application tiles rise with alarming speed, even if he can’t quite make out all of the message banners rapidly filling the home screen.
“Wild night?” Kiyoomi deadpans.
“You would know…” Atsumu says, distracted. His gaze is glued to his phone, and the look on his face grows more concerned with each notification chime.
“Actually, I don’t,” Kiyoomi replies, and clarifies when Atsumu looks back at him in surprise. “Know, that is. I don’t really remember much of last night after the second round—”
“I can explain!” Atsumu interrupts, voice cracking in a way that has his cheeks flushing again, though Kiyoomi senses a shade of something else in his expression too—regret? Guilt? “You see—”
“Stop.” The expression on Atsumu’s face doesn’t bode well for Kiyoomi’s headache.
“What? You’re the one that asked!”
“If it’s making you look like that then I’m going to need caffeine to process this,” Kiyoomi mutters, standing up and making a bee-line for what he assumes is the bathroom.
By the time he emerges after washing his face and attempting to tame the nest of his hair, Atsumu has changed out of that abominable t-shirt and follows Kiyoomi’s cue, emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later to find Kiyoomi rifling through the kitchen cabinets for mugs and coffee beans.
Kiyoomi is almost half hoping that his search for coffee will prompt their usual exchange of witticisms, like taking liberties at my place after one night, huh Omi-kun? or if you wanted to see inside my drawers, all you had to do was ask . But Atsumu doesn’t take the bait, instead making his way to the fridge and starting to pull out the makings for breakfast.
When Kiyoomi finishes his staredown with the coffeemaker and has two steaming mugs in front of him, Atsumu is plating eggs and toast and motions for Kiyoomi to take a seat at the small floor table in the living area.
They end up on opposite sides of the table, but it feels less like a casual breakfast and more like some kind of interrogation with the furtive look on Atsumu’s face.
“So,” Kiyoomi starts.
“So,” Atsumu answers, “how much do you remember? Or maybe the better question is, how much do you want to remember?”
Kiyoomi thinks back to the glimmers of memory, all centered around blond hair and warm eyes.
“Start from the beginning, please.”
=
scrub 1
are you kidding me??? I have to find out from KOMORI and his stupid smug eyebrows????
you’re dead to me scrub
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16 hours earlier
Atsumu’s stomach feels like lead, a weight that pulls at his shoulders as he hunches over the counter at Onigiri Miya and stares at his phone. The screen reads his half-drafted text, each character agonizingly typed with a second, third—hell, fourth—thought each.
> Say Omi-kun, would you
Date me? his mind supplies helpfully, and it’s not wrong. He does want to date Sakusa, genuine to the point that Osamu only teases him about it half as much lately. But you don’t just text a guy like Sakusa Kiyoomi with a straightforward pickup.
He types a few more words, deletes them, then types again. He doesn’t want to confess his feelings over text, but he also wants to ensure he can talk to Sakusa privately, somewhere that isn’t during practice or a game, away from prying eyes.
This shouldn’t be so hard. Sakusa is his teammate. They’re friendly enough these days, Atsumu thinks. After the last couple seasons, Sakusa inches away from Atsumu’s attempts at skinship with slightly less alarm. He doesn’t even wear his mask all the time around Atsumu anymore, and Atsumu is pretty sure that the twitch in his lips means he is laughing at Atsumu’s jokes, well, at least some of the time . He doesn’t even turn away from Atsumu’s brazen, only half-joking pick-up lines anymore. They’ve both taken to an easy exchange of banter instead, one that mirrors the back and forth of their relationship on the court. All of that has to count for something, right?
“So what do you think it is this time, angsting over his atrocious dye job in the Volleyball Monthly feature again?” Suna’s dry voice intones from beside him. “Or lamenting how the gif of him from the Jackals’ fan appreciation day is trending again?”
“He’s probably staring at a picture of Sakusa and trying to remember how to spell ‘gorgeous,’ ” Osamu’s voice replies, just as deadpan.
“It’s that bad, huh?” Suna snickers. “Bets on when he quits being a chicken and does something about it.”
“I give it a couple years.”
“I give it a decade.”
“I’m literally right here,” Atsumu growls, unable to tune out the commentary any longer, but then the phone abruptly disappears from his hands.
Suna leans back from Atsumu’s grasp and wrinkles his nose at the screen. “Really? You’re fussing over game this bad when the league championship is in a few hours?”
“I don’t need to be worried about that ,” Atsumu says, reaching for his phone even as Suna pulls back again. “The Raijin don’t stand a chance.”
“Oh good, I was worried for a second there that being lovesick was making you soft. Glad to know you’re as big of a jerk as always.”
“Look who’s talking,” Atsumu fires back as he lunges for the device this time, only to lose it to another hand in the scuffle as both he and Suna topple awkwardly off their stools.
“Hey, you idiots, don’t go making a mess in my restaurant before dinner service,” Osamu chides from behind the counter, phone held aloft as the two pick themselves up. He watches impassively as Atsumu and Suna stand up and brush themselves off, only glancing at the screen when Atsumu holds out a petulant hand for its return.
“Oh, crap,” Osamu says, and Atsumu’s heart sinks.
“Don’t tell me…”
“Uh.” Osamu looks sheepish for once, and he doesn’t even protest when Atsumu leaps over the counter to retrieve his phone, and that’s how Atsumu knows for sure that he’s screwed.
The message thread between himself and Sakusa is no longer just the normal, business-like exchange of game strategy, training information, and practice times. There is now one, unfinished, wholly misleading, and wildly out-of-context addition to their otherwise blandly professional conversation.
> Hey Omi-kun, would you go out with me
Atsumu barely registers Osamu’s hand on his shoulder as he crouches down and contemplates the logistics of quitting volleyball and moving countries in the next two hours.
“ ‘To talk about something after the game.’ That’s all I had to finish typing!” Atsumu moans.
“When, three years from now?” Suna scoffs, looking entirely too nonchalant for being ninety-percent at fault. “Just type it now.”
“It’ll look even more suspicious now!” Atsumu wails, eyes glued to the screen in hopes that the read receipt doesn’t tick on.
“Or desperate,” Suna tacks on, and Atsumu contemplates chucking the phone at him. What good has it done him at this point anyways?
“Hey, c’mon Tsumu,” Osamu says, punching Atsumu’s shoulder lightly. “At least this way, there’s no more fussing over whether you will or won’t, right? Silver linings, or whatever.”
“I can still fix this.” Atsumu ignores them and straightens up, a more feasible plan than changing his name and moving to Canada formulating in his mind as he haphazardly grabs his bag and starts to hustle out of the shop.
“Does this mean I lost the bet?” Suna calls out as Atsumu rushes past, and he makes a mental note to aim more than a few serves his way tonight.
If he survives the fallout of this text, that is.
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Eyebrows
whatever you do DON'T let him loose in retail when he’s drunk
save his wallet from himself
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If there’s one thing that Atsumu knows from his many hours of pining after Sakusa observing his teammates closely, as a world-class professional setter ought to, it’s that Sakusa Kiyoomi is a creature of habit. He always shows up for practice or warm-ups at least an hour early from the set time, and he religiously sets his phone to the Do Not Disturb once he’s there.
So when Atsumu sprints into the gym with the single-minded goal of stopping Sakusa from reading his text and very little thought beyond that, he panics when he sees Sakusa taking a break from his stretching routine and reaching to pull his phone from his duffel bag.
“WAIT—”
It’s like the world slows around him: his arm outstretched, the duffel bag on the floor between them, Atsumu’s foot looped in the strap, Sakusa’s look of mild alarm as he stumbles and catches himself on Sakusa’s forearm—
Crack.
There’s a strange weight to the quiet that can fall over a massive, cavernous space like Asue Arena when it’s devoid of spectators. Atsumu revels in the hush he can wring out of a crowd with a single raised fist. Now, though, he can’t bring himself to be the first to break the heavy silence as he, Sakusa, the entirety of the Jackals team, and various facility staff stare down at the shattered remains of Sakusa’s phone on the floor.
Atsumu swallows and it’s like a sonic boom. “Uh…”
He launches into a string of apologies as he crouches down to collect the pieces—like there’s any possible way to salvage his dignity in this moment—but Sakusa bends down and snags his wrist.
“Watch it,” he hisses, and Atsumu cringes.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll clean it up—”
Sakusa clicks his tongue. “No, I mean watch your hands. The fragments are sharp—or are you not the starting setter for our championship game?”
He lets go of his grip just as quickly, and Atsumu stands at a loss of what to do while an arena staff member rushes over with the proper equipment to clean up the mess and shoos Atsumu away when he tries to help.
“I’ll make it up to you, Sakusa, I promise,” he babbles as Sakusa finds a new spot to continue his pre-game stretch routine. “I’ll get you a new one as soon as the game is over.”
“The stores will be closed by then,” Sakusa grunts, seemingly unperturbed about his phone being swept into a dustpan at the moment, which Atsumu knows can’t be true. “Just focus, Miya, before you break something else, like our winning streak,” Sakusa huffs, and returns to his stretch, a consummate professional in the face of technological disaster. It shouldn’t be so attractive considering the circumstances, but Atsumu knows he’s shameless, thank you.
“As if,” Atsumu squawks, clinging to the shred of normalcy Sakusa tosses him. Around them, their teammates audibly relax.
Well. At least Sakusa won’t be reading his message for now.
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+81 120-555-987
Your order #A78910G at Cocomo Mobile - Kitatatsumi is ready for pickup. Store hours are 10:00AM ~ 7:00PM daily. Please proceed to the order pickup counter with your government-issued ID and order number when you arrive.
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For maybe the first time in his whole life, Atsumu finds himself without an appetite.
Around him, the Jackals, the Raijin, and their assortment of friends and plus ones chatter over drinks and small plates at the izakaya they rented out for post-game festivities, but Atsumu has been pushing the same three pieces of karaage around his plate and nursing the draft beer in front of him the entire time he’s been here.
It’s been easy to hide among all the passing congratulations and conversations about the finer points of the match, but every time he glances towards Sakusa, seated four seats down and deep in debate with Sarukui, the pit in his stomach roils with how much he managed to fuck up everything but the game today.
He doesn’t feel like much of a winner when it feels like he’s already lost his chance to win over Sakusa.
“So how’d it go?” Suna interrupts his thoughts with a bump to his shoulder as he settles into the empty seat next to Atsumu.
Atsumu presses his forehead to the table in defeat.
“I broke his phone.”
Suna doesn’t reply to that at first. Atsumu expected a laugh, or at least a snort, but all he can hear is Suna taking a long sip from his drink, and the telltale taps of Suna on his own device.
“Okay,” he finally says, and Atsumu turns to look up at him from the tabletop. “You have a good excuse then, don’t you? To see him outside of practice. Go buy him a new phone, you know, together.”
“Sure, yeah, that’s a great excuse. ‘Hey Sakusa, sorry I broke your phone. I know you can’t take calls right now, but when we get you a new one, can we call it a date?’ ”
“That’s terrible.”
“Exactly.”
“There’s no need for jokes. Just tell him the truth,” Suna says, matter of fact.
“I don’t think ‘I broke your phone because I panicked when I accidentally sent you a text that sounded like me asking you out when I was trying to ask you out later’ sounds any better.” Atsumu knows he’s being a little dramatic, but it took nearly all his courage to even think about broaching the idea of confessing to Sakusa.
Suna rolls his eyes and pulls Atsumu back up in his seat.
“Take it from your wise friend—someone who’s actually dating, I might add—” Suna says, and it’s Atsumu’s turn to roll his eyes, “but let’s just skip the ‘ boohoo, what if he hates me because I broke his phone’, drama. So what? You’ve known each other for almost a decade, and you’ve been teammates for two years. If he likes you back, it’ll be based on all of that. And if he’s the type of person to let one bad experience color the rest of his history with you, then you have nothing to lose.”
Maybe Suna is right. So Atsumu broke Sakusa’s phone. So what? Now he really has nothing to lose, right?
In lieu of admitting Suna’s so-called wisdom, Atsumu takes a long sip of his drink before attempting to bring the conversation from less of a heart-to-heart to more of a jerk-to-jerk.
“Wise? More like wise-ass.”
“Hey, your brother loves this wise-ass, enough to—”
“Nope, nope, nope, okay, enough!” Atsumu shoves Suna lightly and drowns out that bit of imagery by downing the rest of the contents in his mug, and flags down the waitstaff to order another.
He has the start of another plan in mind, but it might take just a bit of liquid courage.
=
scrub 2
when i said you had nothing to lose, i didn’t mean your dignity
you landed him in THAT shirt???
=
Atsumu thought he’d be able to catch Sakusa alone on his way out after round one, when he would typically wave off the team’s goading to join for additional rounds. But, surprisingly, Sakusa is still with the party at the bar they go to for round two. Whether that’s out of camaraderie or on account of Komori’s nagging, Atsumu wouldn’t know for sure.
Either way, even if he’s still there, Atsumu has yet to manage a moment alone with him. Sakusa is drinking at the bar with a smaller cadre of their group while Atsumu has been roped into a round of drinking games at a different table, and Atsumu didn’t think either of them would be at it this long.
So yeah, maybe the line between liquid courage and totally sloshed is starting to get as blurry as Atsumu’s vision right now, but he is doing just fine . He’s only losing at this particular drinking game because Bokuto and Washio and their friends are all Tokyo-ites and have an unfair advantage naming the Yamanote train line stations, in order . They’re in Osaka, damnit!
After the fourth time he misses naming the right train station as they go around the table, his reflexes might be a bit slower than usual, which is why someone is able to snag the fresh shot glass from in front of him. In his defense, it’s the off season.
“It’s only been five hours since the end of the season, Miya,” a dry voice says, and before Atsumu can tell off the interrupting mind-reader, Sakusa names the rest of the Yamanote line stations in quick succession, then knocks back the shot anyways to everyone’s cheers.
Amid the noise, Atsumu glances back at the bar where Sakusa was seated with others, but it’s empty now, and it looks like Sakusa is getting ready to head out too as he says his polite goodbyes to the table. When he turns away from the group, Atsumu gets up to follow before he can think about it.
It’s now or never.
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Captain
Alright team, you know the drill
Property damage has to go through the team’s lawyer, the rest of your antics can be run by me before we bother Hirotani-san
=
It’s easier than he anticipated to join Sakusa after they leave the bar, and Atsumu chooses to take that as a sign that maybe, just maybe , things are looking up for him. He loudly refuses a taxi, commenting aloud about how he would prefer to walk off some of the alcohol, and when he falls into step beside Sakusa there’s no protest, only a single, quirked eyebrow.
The last round of drinks hasn’t quite hit him yet, so he’s confident he has enough time to guide Sakusa to the nearby park with the romantic city view, officially ask him out, and then ride the high or low of his response all the way back to his apartment and deal with the consequences in the morning. It’s perfect. Hell, maybe he doesn’t even need the park. The little side street they’re on is lit with the glow of light and laughter spilling out from the bars and izakayas that line it, and it makes for a cozy atmosphere in the cool spring night.
“Hey, Omi-kun,” Atsumu starts, pausing at the next intersection, and Sakusa comes to a stop as well. “What would you say if—”
Ding. Ding. Ding.
There’s a series of angry buzzes and loud notifications from Atsumu’s pocket, and he whips out his phone in frustration when they don’t stop.
“Sorry, I thought this was on silent…” Atsumu looks down at the screen and sees a series of messages from Adriah in what appears to be a new group chat instead of one of the many (many) existing league group chats.
The first text reads: “THIS IS A MASS TEXT. WHERE AM I??? T_T,” and a host of pictures follow immediately after it. Of the twenty or so shots, only one or two of them are clear enough for Atsumu to make out some vaguely familiar landmarks.
“Is something the matter?” Sakusa looks expectant, and Atsumu has to hold himself back from blurting out something cheesy, like the only thing that matters right now is you. Uh oh. Drunk, sappy Atsumu is on the rise.
“Adriah is lost again.” Atsumu manages to grit out instead, and frowns at the screen. “Actually, he’s nearby. We could go help him.”
Sakusa’s expression is flat. “We could.”
“C’mon Omi-omi, don’t treat your teammate so coldly!”
Atsumu types a quick reply in the chat and pockets his phone again, and Sakusa seems to deflate a bit.
“Lead the way…”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be real quick, there’s a shortcut this way,” Atsumu reassures himself as much as Sakusa, and turns down a road that leads to the path along the Dotonbori river.
They walk in a comfortable silence, the bustle of the nightlife dimming as they leave the busier districts. Atsumu shivers a bit as they walk a darker stretch along the river, the momentum of his earlier courage stalled.
“About before—” Kiyoomi begins to say, only for a shout to cut through the night.
“Kiyoomi!”
It takes Atsumu a moment to spot the source: above the rivers and waterways that cut through the city is a series of pedestrian bridges, and on one such bridge is Komori, waving enthusiastically, flanked by Inunaki and Suna.
“Hey! Atsumu-kun! Kiyoomi! Over here! Come help us out!” Komori calls out again with the kind of volume that accompanies a pleasant buzz.
Next to him, Sakusa sighs, but he’s already walking towards the bridge, and Atsumu has to take quick steps to catch up. They climb the stairs together and only when they can see the trio properly does Atsumu notice the volleyball in Inunaki’s hands and the phone in Suna’s.
“This bubble eyebrows bastard thinks he can beat me in a serve receive competition,” Inunaki says, jogging up to Atsumu and shoving the ball into his chest. “Let’s show him otherwise, right, Miya?”
“Wan-san…you’re doing this on a bridge? At half past midnight?”
“We needed a sense of imminent peril,” —he shoots a look at Komori and Komori smirks back— “so the loser has to go fetch the ball from the river when they miss.”
“What can I say, we liberos live for danger,” Komori grins again, this time with a feral edge to it. Suna just snorts, panning his phone camera between them.
“I’m not bailing you out if you get cited for being a public nuisance,” Sakusa says, and his nose wrinkles. “Again.”
“That time was your fault to begin with and you know it.”
There’s a story there that Atsumu desperately needs to know, but he can already feel the night—and his plans—derailing once again at a spectacular speed. To his surprise, though, it’s Sakusa that steps in.
“As much as I can’t wait to explain to Auntie why you’re infected with some mutant river bacteria, we were actually on our way to get food. The place is going to close soon, so we’ll be leaving first,” Sakusa says, and the two cousins have a stare down that reminds Atsumu of his own unspoken language with Osamu. After a moment, Komori’s eyebrows do a silly dance that has Sakusa spinning on his heel and stomping off.
Atsumu stares after him for a second before Komori takes the volleyball back and gives him a gentle shove with a laugh.
“Go on, Atsumu-kun. Don’t keep Mister Munchies waiting.” Komori winks. “He gets surprisingly peckish when he’s drunk.”
“Sakusa is drunk?” He seems no different from his usual, reserved countenance, even if Atsumu knows it belies a sharp humor and mean competitive streak.
Komori laughs again. “Yeah, he doesn’t act much different outwardly, but he’s a lot goofier.” This, Atsumu can’t picture at all. “And a lot more impulsive for sure.” Komori scrunches his face in thought. “It’s funny, he usually doesn’t indulge to that point these days, not since college at least.” Something glints in Komori’s eye, and Atsumu shivers again. “He must’ve had a good reason.”
=
Adriah
guys???? Are you still on your way?? Hellooooo?
Scrub 2
Taking bets on who goes on who has to go river fishing <image attached>
Captain
Inunaki
Barnes
Inunaki
Shouyou-kun
Go Wan-san!
Sarukui
Komori
Eyebrows
Way to have faith in me, Nagito-kun
Unknown Number
Inunaki
Wan-san
You guys suck it was a tie
Eyebrows
Tell that to your shoes, Wan-san.
Wan-san
That’s only because I lost rock paper scissors!
Komori is taller!! we should’ve dangled HIM over the railing to retrieve the ball
Sarukui
Now this I’ve gotta see
Scrub 2
<attached link to video>
=
It takes a few blocks for Atsumu to work up his courage again after leaving the others behind.
“So I figure that was just an excuse, but what do you say about making it true?”
“What, getting food?”
“Yeah.” Atsumu coughs and looks away from Sakusa’s side eye. “I know a place.”
“I doubt your brother is going to be thrilled at entertaining your late night snacking,” Sakusa says, like he wasn’t the one just called Mister Munchies by his cousin, and looks pointedly at the phone in Atsumu’s hand. The screen continues to light up with more nonsensical messages from their teammates and peers, and the time reads 12:43 A.M.
“I do go to places other than Onigiri Miya, y’know,” Atsumu says, and tries to pout, but his face feels at odds with his mind—all it wants to do is smile like a dope at the man in front of him.
Those last few drinks are really starting to kick in now.
Sakusa’s lips curve upwards ever so slightly. “Oh?”
“It’s a dumpling restaurant. Real hole in the wall, but the best shumai you’ll ever have in Osaka, I swear. And it’s open late, of course.” Atsumu tilts his head towards the street in the direction of the restaurant with an unspoken invitation.
This could work. They can go to the stand, soak up some of the liquor with comfort food, and when Sakusa is warm and well-fed and less-inclined to be cranky, Atsumu can say his piece and be done with it.
For a few breathless seconds Sakusa says nothing, simply scrutinizes Atsumu with an inscrutable expression. Then, he gives a single, quick nod and turns to the direction Atsumu indicated.
They make it all of about three blocks before they hit a snag in Atsumu’s plan. Or perhaps it’s more like they get snagged.
“Omi-omi! Tsum-tsum!” There’s barely a breath between Bokuto’s unmistakable voice and the sudden weight of his arms over their shoulders.
“We’re on a scavenger hunt! Do you guys want to join us?” he says, head bobbing back and forth between them as Sakusa makes a face and ducks out from under Bokuto while pulling him off of Atsumu. Bokuto merely laughs and skips ahead to walk backwards while facing them. “The person who finds the best owl representative is the Owl-Around Champion!”
“Whoa, what the heck are you talking about, Bokkun?” Atsumu knows that Bokuto can drink him under the table, but it’s hard to tell the difference between his usual energy and when he’s drunk until he goes off on strange tangents like this.
“It’s an old Fukuroudani tradition to try and find the best representation of an owl at an away game,” another voice joins in, and then Akaashi falls into step with the group. He greets them with a quiet nod. “Sakusa-san, Miya-san.”
“Akaashi-kun.” Atsumu grins back, but he can feel the edges wavering. “What brings you and—” he glances at the third figure trailing just behind them “—Washio-san here?”
And now, of all times, he internally despairs.
“The owls are conquering Osaka tonight!” Bokuto crows and poses, only for Akaashi to gently start to herd him back to a normal gait.
“We are gathering at Bokuto’s place for a small high school team reunion, given that Washio and Bokuto were playing tonight, and our old teammate Sarukui came down to watch his cousin play as well.”
“Quite the night owls,” Sakusa remarks, offhandedly, and Akaashi cracks a smile while Bokuto guffaws. Atsumu reels—Sakusa making outward puns? Komori was right—he is pretty goofy.
Washio looks tired, but still smiles softly. “There aren’t many chances we can all get together like this these days, and I’m told it only gets harder the older we get. Though,” his smile turns a bit sheepish, “you’re welcome to join us, as Bokuto said. Owl offering or no owl offering.”
“Oh…” It’s hard to turn down Bokuto when he looks at them like that, eyes wide and expectant.
“I’ll find owls for the both of you! That’s a promise! You can be honorary Fukuroudani alum, just for tonight! Fellow Tokyo reps, unite!”
“I’m not from—” Atsumu starts to say, unsure of how to salvage his plans at this point, but there’s a sudden weight on his bicep that sends a jolt of warmth through him.
“We couldn’t possibly impose,” Sakusa says, clasping Atsumu’s arm over his jacket. He starts lightly tugging Atsumu towards a different direction. “And we have to see a man about a dumpling.”
Atsumu, dumbstruck, merely waves as he lets Sakusa pull him away.
He must’ve been hungrier for those dumplings than Atsumu thought.
=
Gin
are the rumors true?
I heard you got in a fight with a pole and lost
=
Atsumu is maybe, sort of, just a bit lost.
He wasn’t really paying attention to which street Sakusa pulled them down when they parted ways with Bokuto and his crew, and the drinks he had earlier are starting to turn the city nightscape into a maze of half-recollections and misdirections. He’s fairly certain they’re at least several streets away from the actual direction they needed to go.
They’re coming up on an intersection where they can cut back towards the direction they need to go, and Atsumu is about to call out to Sakusa when a blur of something comes careening around the corner and slams into his chest with a decidedly wet splat.
The blur turns into a familiar, orange-haired man once it stops moving, and Hinata stares up at Atsumu with something close to horror as the now-crumpled paper cup in his hand falls to the pavement with a soggy rattle. Atsumu’s shirt is wet all across the front, fabric soaked through in an instant and the chill of the water already pricking at his chest in the night breeze.
“Atsumu-san!” Hinata’s apologies are frantic, hands going to pat ineffectively at his torso with the edge of his own jacket. “I’m soooo sorry! It’s just water, I promise, here let me help you clean up—”
“Hinata, you dumbass!” Kageyama rounds the corner and drops his own cup with a splash before reaching to catch Hinata’s arms. There’s a pull at the back of Atsumu’s collar at the same time, and Sakusa spins him around to cast a critical eye up and down Atsumu’s person before turning to address the duo before them.
“What exactly are you two idiots doing?” Sakusa asks flatly, though he sounds more amused than irritated. Hinata and Kageyama, locked in a tussle of hands and arms, share a look before launching into their explanation.
“You see, we were going to race, like always—”
“But it’s late so we didn’t want to cause trouble going too fast in the dark—”
“—so we decided to make it harder by running with full cups of water—”
“—and whoever made it around the block the fastest with the most water left over would win.”
Atsumu glances at Sakusa; he looks just about as dumbfounded as Atsumu feels.
He’s about to comment something like ‘ who would win if one of you was faster, but the other had more water left?’ , but as soon as he opens his mouth, he sneezes.
“Ah! That’s right, your shirt…” Hinata’s brow furrows for a moment before his expression lights up and he digs through the bag at his side. After rummaging for a moment, he pulls out a neatly-folded t-shirt, still in a cellophane bag that indicates it’s new. “Please change into this!”
“Aw, Shouyou-kun…” Atsumu can only make out part of the design on the front, featuring what looks like a cartoon crab and the words ‘ Crab cakes?’ at the top—and who knows what else at the bottom. “...You shouldn’t have.”
“Just take it before you catch a cold,” Sakusa says, eyebrows furrowing as he eyes the wet splotch on Atsumu’s shirt again. “They say idiots don’t catch colds, but I know how much you like to be contrary.”
“How could I catch a cold when you’re here to roast me like that?” Atsumu replies, but obediently starts to pull off his jacket and shirt to make the switch. It’s a little odd changing clothes on a sidewalk in downtown Osaka in the middle of the night, but not weirder than anything else that’s happened tonight. It almost feels natural, in fact, in the way that events and actions sort of wobble in and cohere together with some kind of drunk logic, the alcohol affording a nice buffer to more pointed questions—at least, not until tomorrow.
When he finishes, Hinata and Kageyama have already moved on to bickering about something else inane and unintelligible, and Sakusa is staring resolutely towards the sky.
Atsumu frowns, unable to catch Sakusa’s eye. “I promise I’m not sick, really. Takes more than a little water to take me out! Besides, you know what they say, ‘ handsome men can’t be hurt by water’ ” He tries to smile reassuringly when Sakusa finally meets his eyes, but then Sakusa brings his hands up to press into his face and mutters something that sounds like “...oblivious…”
Before Atsumu can ask him what’s wrong, Sakusa regains his composure, face falling back into stoicism, though his cheeks are tinged red from his hands.
“Are you ready to go?” Sakusa says, eyes looking deeper than usual in the dim haze of ambient streetlights. It takes Atsumu longer than it should to answer
“What about them?”
They glance at Hinata and Kageyama off in their own little world despite standing all of two meters away, deep in discussion about how to improve their methodology for competing with each other and not soaking innocent passersby. Atsumu glances at his phone screen and despairs at the time: 1:12 A.M. There’s a detached sense of urgency that Atsumu is becoming familiar with, one that he suspects can only come from drunkenly wandering a city at night with your crush and being foiled at your attempts to ask them out, very cool, very casual-like.
“I think they’re fine,” Sakusa says, and punctuates it by turning to leave them to it.
Well, that makes two of them.
=
Kageyama
Atsumu-san, please return my shirt to Hinata next time
=
On a night where nothing seems to be going as planned, Atsumu thinks to himself, he really should have expected the universe to screw him one more time.
The small dumpling shop is dark when they finally reach it, windows shuttered and the normally cheerful, if somewhat hokey, dumpling-shaped lanterns outside unlit. It’s well before the usual closing time, and Atsumu jogs up at the unexpected sight, nearly stumbling and catching himself on the door with the reason taped to its exterior:
Closed for personal holiday. Bumpin’ Dumplin’ will resume business on Friday.
Atsumu knocks his forehead against the door and groans.
“Are the dumplings that good?” Sakusa asks as he joins Atsumu at the shopfront.
“Of course they are!” Atsumu spins back to face Sakusa, and the world wobbles a bit. He has to crouch down then, partly to feel the world put itself to rights again, partly because being low to the ground makes the enormity of his failure feel less crushing. “Didn’t you want to try them too…?” he asks, tilting his head up as he looks at Sakusa. He has to squint to make out his face in the shadows.
Sakusa stares down at him, expression unreadable except for his eyes narrowing.
“...really don’t get it,” he mutters, though Atsumu isn’t sure if he hears him right, and Sakusa clears his throat shortly after. “You’re drunk, Miya. I’m taking you home,” he sighs, like he isn’t also weirder, goofier, and yet somehow even more enigmatic than usual, all thanks to the few drinks more than normal that he also had.
Atsumu lets Sakusa pull him to stand without protest, surprised when he doesn’t let go immediately. He wonders if Sakusa is also slightly at odds with gravity right now, and his grip on Sakusa’s forearms tightens reflexively.
They both look up at that moment, locked in a sudden staring contest that Atsumu can’t quite puzzle out the meaning of with a brain that is increasingly less interested in trying to ask out the man in front of him after all of their detours and more inclined to pass out in his own bed. The idle thought that he might mix up those two concepts and say something horrifyingly honest, like asking Sakusa to bed with him, stops him from saying anything at all, so they just. Stare.
It’s nice. Nothing is wrong with this situation. A totally normal and cool and casual night out with a teammate after a victory worth celebrating, that’s all.
It could have been minutes or mere seconds—time has stopped making sense to Atsumu at this point—but eventually Sakusa breaks his gaze and his grip first.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, almost folding in on himself in a way that Atsumu hasn’t seen all night, hasn’t seen in over a year if he thinks about it. He throws a look over his shoulder in wordless confirmation to see if Atsumu is following, then continues to surprise him with his next words:
“Is there a convenience store near your place?”
=
Unknown Number
Hello Miya-senshu, this is Hirotani-san from the Jackals’ PR team. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience.
And if Sakusa-senshu is with you, please pass along the message to him as well.
=
The convenience store is a tranquil oasis at this time of night, cool fluorescence spilling out of the glass storefront like a lighthouse in the sea of drunken haze. As they step into the store proper and the front door swishes closed behind them, Atsumu feels the bright lights and gentle hum of the refrigerators lining the back wall wash over him with a mildly sobering effect. The world is still soft at the edges, but among the orderly aisle arrangement and neatly stacked shelves of snacks and small necessities, things are starting to make sense again, even if his companion is as enigmatic as ever.
Sakusa steps away without comment, weaving through the shelves in the back from what Atsumu can see. Atsumu steps forward to gather his own things, navigating the store easily despite the buzz thanks to muscle memory more than anything. He’s surprised when he finds himself standing outside with his purchases before Sakusa.
He settles in to wait and leans against a utility pole, arms crossed as he observes the bob of Sakusa’s hair navigating the aisles from outside, the black curls dipping out of sight at various points to retrieve whatever Sakusa plans to buy.
It’s been a strange night. Sakusa has surprised him at turns throughout their misadventures, but in the end Atsumu has to acknowledge that he’s probably just being a good teammate and seeing an acquaintance home safe after a night out.
The feeling of failure curls in his stomach, more upsetting than any number of drinks he’s had, and he feels dumb for even feeling that in the first place. He owes it to nobody but himself, after all—it’s not like Sakusa is waiting on him to ask him out. Atsumu doesn’t put much stock in things that he can’t change through tangible means, like practicing a new serve until it crackles across the net. But, with all the detours and delays, maybe there’s a force in the universe telling him that the time to ask Sakusa is not now. Maybe not ever, if he listens to the morose part of him that is only just winding up as the night winds down.
Coming to that conclusion is the most sobering thought of all.
By the time the door slides open to reveal Sakusa and his purchases in not one, but two, large plastic bags at his side, Atsumu has cleaned himself up as best as he can—straightened his clothes, run his fingers through his hair, and taken deep breaths of the cool night air. He’s the very picture of, well, probably not sobriety, but he’ll take pleasantly tipsy instead of messy drunk. The night might be close to over, but that doesn’t mean Atsumu can’t act as a good teammate to Sakusa in return for escorting him home out of worry or obligation or whatever is going on behind those dark eyes.
Sakusa greets Atsumu by holding out one of the bags.
“Take this,” he says, as strictly as ever.
Atsumu takes the bag and peers inside, surprised to find it full of drinks labeled as “hangover cures”, headache relief medicine, and what he can only assume are other home remedies for hangovers (he can’t imagine what else the plain umeboshi would be for). There’s at least two or three of each item; Atsumu is surprised the bag didn’t burst.
“For tomorrow morning…or rather, later this morning,” Sakusa explains, then rifles through his own bag (full of what might be the store’s entire stock of pudding—odd, given that he doesn’t have a sweet tooth as far as Atsumu knows).
It takes a moment for Atsumu to remember the role he wants to play to Sakusa’s consideration. “Never thought you’d be the one keeping me up all night, Omi-omi” He manages to muster a smirk.
If looks could kill, the deadpan one on Sakusa’s face in response to him is no more homicidal than usual, but Atsumu’s chest feels a painful stab anyways. It’s really no different to their usual dynamic; Atsumu doesn’t know why he would think differently. He should have quit while he was ahead—a few hours and a few too many drinks ago.
He can feel his face flushing again with embarrassment at the thought of every foolish thing that’s led him to this point, and he launches into his normal, off-the-cuff prattling to cover it.
“Alright! Well, Omi-kun, I think I’ve got it from here. Thanks for humoring me tonight, sorry about the dumplings. We’ll catch ‘em next time, yeah? Can go with the team, they’ll love it for sure” he rambles, pulling out his phone and chattering on. “I’ll call you a taxi back to your place, so you can wait here for that, or at my place if you want. I’m just around the corner, in that building right there—”
He turns to start back towards his apartment abruptly, planning to set off with the confidence and grace of a man that does not need to be accompanied by his crush and concerned teammate, no thanks, that’s enough mortification for the night.
SMACK.
There’s a bright flare of pain at the center of Atsumu’s face, and he stumbles back with the force of it. His ears are ringing as the part of his nose that collided with the metal pole behind him pulses, and he can’t focus on anything but the urgency of the pain at first. When he finally can, he registers that Sakusa’s hands are resting on his shoulders as he bends over and clutches his nose. His voice cuts through the fog of pain with halting clarity and growing urgency.
“—ya. Miya! Atsumu. Are you alright?”
“I don’t know,” Atsumu manages to groan, somehow still managing to have the presence of mind to try and pull out of Sakusa’s grip before he does something truly unforgivable, like bleed all over his shirt.
“Hold still,” Sakusa says, sounding frustrated.
“I’m fine—” If Atsumu closes his eyes, he can pretend it didn’t happen and he’s fine.
“Atsumu,” Sakusa’s voice is low, and there’s the unbelievable sensation of something soft at Atsumu’s chin. His eyes flutter open at the touch, and he involuntarily holds his breath as Sakusa leans in, hands cupping his jaw, eyes focused entirely on him and him alone. “ Hold. Still. ”
Atsumu feels like he’s about to combust, though if Sakusa asks, his face is definitely red from the pain, not the fact that Sakusa is a full four centimeters from his lips. On the plus side, having Sakusa so intent on examining the finer details of his nose injury does make him forget said pain, at least temporarily.
He lets out a breath when Sakusa pulls back, but the relief is short-lived. Sakusa takes out a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it into Atsumu’s hand, fingers lingering as he guides Atsumu’s hand to press light, but firm, against the injury.
“It doesn’t look broken. But we should stop the bleeding and get it bandaged,” Sakusa says, sounding for all the world like he’s cool as a cucumber with his teammate bludgeoning himself by walking into a pole, save for the lightest tremor at the end of the long breath he heaves afterwards.
Atsumu wants to say something, wants to reassure Sakusa that he’s okay, really. That Sakusa doesn’t have to look like that for something that was Atsumu’s own damn fault. That he doesn’t need to be considerate. That he shouldn’t keep doing things that make Atsumu fall in love a little more every time.
But then Sakusa is gone, whisking back into the convenience store and leaving Atsumu to cup his nose and wish for a do-over of the whole evening. If Atsumu wants to be fanciful about it, he can still imagine the sensation of Sakusa’s fingers on his jaw and his hands, and he tries to focus on that instead of the pain.
It’s a small amount of comfort in the face of the bad timing and misfortunes that plagued the last few hours, but it’s enough for now.
=
Adriah
You guys suck
I fell asleep on the train I wound up in IKOMA
I’m in NARA
=
After Sakusa returns from his second round of the convenience store to retrieve basic first aid items (“No Miya, we can’t just ‘stick a band-aid on it’ ”), he insists on accompanying Atsumu up to his apartment. Which is how Atsumu finds himself leaning against his own bathroom sink as Sakusa patches him up.
The way they’re standing has Sakusa practically caging him in, but his eyes and hands are entirely focused on cleaning and taping the gash on Atsumu’s face. This leaves Atsumu the mental, if not physical space to ponder many things: Sakusa’s cheekbones, the twirl of his bangs against his temples, the iconic moles that accentuate his skeptical eyebrow perfectly, and perhaps most of all, where to go from here.
There’s no good way to lead into asking someone on a date after they watched you walk yourself into a pole. But when he thinks about it, Sakusa has stuck around for the whole, disastrous night. He’s the one who made sure Atsumu was okay after running into Hinata. He’s the one that extricated them from Bokuto’s boisterous party. Knowing Atsumu’s luck, it might have been him ending up in the river in Komori and Inunaki’s scheme if not for Sakusa’s misdirection. And now, watching Sakusa meticulously cut the medical tape into tiny strips, going almost cross-eyed with his focus on applying them to the gauze on Atsumu’s nose…it’s clear Sakusa cares about him. It’s possible he wanted to be alone with Atsumu as much as Atsumu wanted the same. Maybe, just maybe…
For everything that Atsumu lamented going wrong, maybe it’s high time he makes it go right.
“There,” Sakusa says, and takes a step back. He gives Atsumu another once over, and then a minute nod, as if it’s his own good work that kept Atsumu in one piece tonight. He’s not wrong.
Atsumu is still trying to gather his words as he follows Sakusa out of the bathroom, throat sticking with mild panic when Sakusa makes a beeline for the genkan and starts to pull on his shoes.
“Stay with me, Omi?” Atsumu says before his brain catches up to his mouth. “I-I mean, you could stay. Here. Only if you want, of course. I can call you a taxi too, but you’ll still be out a phone in the morning and I said I’d get you a new one ASAP. We could head out from here together. Or if you go home, I could text you and we could meet up, wait, no—”
“Okay.” Sakusa puts his shoes back on the floor, and turns to face Atsumu.
“Really?”
Sakusa crosses his arms. “I can still take a taxi if you didn’t mean it—”
“I meant it! I mean everything with you,” Atsumu says, grasping for the words he knows he can “I know I come off as a jerk most of the time, and a flirt the rest, and I’m just a volleyball idiot at the end of everything. But I mean it when I say I want you to stay. And if you’re interested…we could make it a regular thing…?”
Silence. Two seconds stretches to ten, and Atsumu can’t spend forever staring at this wall. Finally, Sakusa replies: “Which part? The late night drunk escapades, the head injury, or the impromptu sleepover?”
“ You know what I mean,” Atsumu says, and suddenly there’s a hand in his face. He freezes, unsure of what Sakusa is doing until he pulls Atsumu’s own hand away from where he had been unconsciously picking at the bandage. Sakusa steps closer as he pulls their hands down together, intertwining their fingers.
“I know. You said it yourself. You mean everything with me,” he says, eyes full of amusement when Atsumu meets his gaze. The hall light dances in the corners of his cheeks and nestles under the smile in his lips. Atsumu wants to kiss him.
“I like you, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Do you want to go out with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
=
Akaashi
Please excuse my asking, Atsumu-san, but have you seen Bokuto since we parted ways?
=
Bonus: an interlude from the night before
Bokutou Koutarou is not drunk. In fact, he’s sobering up rather rapidly with the refreshing night air, and life couldn’t be better: the Jackals won the V.League championship, he scored enough points with his new cross shot technique to be MVP, and even Akaashi praised the elegance—eloquence?—of his post-game interview.
Okay, it could be a little better. It’s a bummer that he lost track of Akaashi. And Washio. And Sarukui. Which is weird, because he’s pretty sure they were all going to Koutarou’s apartment. He’s not sure how he lost them.
But Akaashi knows the way, so he’s sure they’ll be fine. Koutarou is on a mission, after all. He has a plan! He found the perfect owl , and right by Atsumu’s apartment of all places. He might as well go see if Atsumu is around and still wants to join the party—it’s on his way anyways.
Except when he gets there the door is unlocked.
Koutarou goes on alert. It could be a matter of simply forgetting after a late night out, but you can never be too careful. Atsumu could be in trouble. He’ll just pop in quickly, and make sure
He opens the door slowly, listening carefully for any sounds of movement inside. Nothing. When he dares to call out softly, he receives no response. The apartment is silent.
Koutarou pads in quietly, peeking into the living area, kitchen, and bathroom and seeing no signs of anyone. The last door is probably the bedroom, and when Koutarou pokes his head in, he can make out two figures sprawled out on the bed, clearly asleep; the sound of soft, even breathing fills the room, and the streetlight outside of the window is enough light for Koutarou to see that it is indeed his teammates sleeping peacefully.
No worries, he’ll just leave the statue he found as a surprise and message them with an open invitation for next time. He places the owl next to bed and snaps a photo, texting it to Atsumu to make sure he knows who dropped by, and slips back out, making sure to lock the door when he leaves.
Even though they couldn’t join the party, he’s glad he dropped by the check. Who knows what could have gone wrong if the door stayed unlocked?
=
Bokkun
hey hey hey!!! you left your door unlocked and you were sleeping when i got there so I made sure you were good and then locked up when I left
I left you a gift tho!!
<image attached>
join us next time the team is in town, it’ll be a good time, promise!
Captain
????
why do you have a picture of our teammates sleeping next to an owl statue?
oh
Wan-san
Oh my god…
I KNEW IT, those bastards
Captain
Bokuto…
Shouyou-kun
oh! so that’s where they went
Eyebrows
bless you bokuto
Scrub 2
somebody call Akaashi