msby atsumu who is so focused on volleyball that he's only ever hooked up with a handful of people. he's always thought he was at least decent, but then his most recent hookup looks him dead in the eye and tell him the opposite.
"your charisma isn't good enough to make up for that," they say, stepping into their pants. "just saying."
atsumu huffs and puffs and texts the last person he hooked up with a few times. they're still friendly, but it fell to the wayside after the season started, and he's simply never gone back. he knows that he's good, but he needs the reassurance. it can't hurt to have his ego stroked a little, right?
except they avoid it. they hem and they haw and atsumu stares at his phone in horror.
he stews on it. broods. it gets so bad that he contemplates telling osamu, but he couldn't bear it.
to atsumu, there's only one person he can turn to.
kita sighs into the line.
he can hear him moving. it's late, and kita gets up early, but atsumu knows he still likes to cook for you. to cook with you. he's watched the two of you slip smoothly around each other in the farmhouse's little kitchen, the way the tide meets the shore; ever-changing, but always there.
(he wishes a lot, when he watches the two of you. thinks things he wouldn't dare admit—about the pink of your tongue and the o of your mouth; the way kita's fingers must dimple the plush of your thigh; the ripple of kita's lean muscles. he knows he shouldn't. he does anyway.
but if he's staring a little too much, neither of you ever says anything.)
"when's your next weekend off?" kita asks.
"huh? uh, in three weeks, i think?"
kita hums. "buy a ticket," he says. "we'll pick ya up at the station."
kita lets out a little huff of air; in the distance, atsumu can hear your voice, the sun muffled by morning mist. his chest tightens.
"a lesson," kita says, amusement warming his voice. "after all, you've always been a hands-on learner, haven't ya?"
