Atsumu’s eyes snap up, something unpleasant hovering in his expression for a moment. But then he seems to force it aside, unsheathing a smile instead. “Oh, I did make you jealous,” he practically purrs, crowding Osamu back against the bar again.

Osamu hums, distracted by Atsumu’s hands going to his waist, under his untucked shirt, thumbs sliding over his bare skin where he wishes he wasn’t ticklish. “Not jealous.”

“Something, though.”

Osamu feels like a collection of jagged edges, throat burning and heart pounding from other people’s cigarette smoke. He’s been close to cracking all night, and Atsumu is staring at him like he sees every fissure, like always.

It’s late enough that Atsumu doesn’t even protest when Osamu grabs his arm and steers them towards the coat check without another word.

Atsumu’s eyes snap up, something unpleasant hovering in his expression for a moment. But then he seems to force it aside, unsheathing a smile instead. “Oh, I did make you jealous,” he practically purrs, crowding Osamu back against the bar again.

Osamu hums, distracted by Atsumu’s hands going to his waist, under his untucked shirt, thumbs sliding over his bare skin where he wishes he wasn’t ticklish. “Not jealous.”

“Something, though.”

Osamu feels like a collection of jagged edges, throat burning and heart pounding from other people’s cigarette smoke. He’s been close to cracking all night, and Atsumu is staring at him like he sees every fissure, like always.

It’s late enough that Atsumu doesn’t even protest when Osamu grabs his arm and steers them towards the coat check without another word.

The demon king’s right arm is black, from elbow to fingertips. Not blackened as if burnt, or resembling the ink-stained skin of an artist, but night black, soul black, like something has been cut out of reality itself in that specific shape, a black hole tipped in five tapered claws.

It’s where Iwaizumi’s greatsword caught Oikawa in the last battle, just before Oikawa caught Iwaizumi.

Victory hasn’t been exactly what Oikawa had expected it to be, but tearing out a few foolish heroes’ souls supplied him with more than enough demonic energy to replace his stolen limb with something else. It’s ice cold, his new hand, and he finds his fingers tapping idly more often than in the past, but the claws are very sharp, and useful.

With Iwaizumi shackled up in the ravaged throne room—bound hand and foot, suspended between the stone ceiling and floor—it’s easy for Oikawa to do what he will.

Stupid. Koutarou lets out an anguished growl and tries not to snap his phone in his hand (it hasn’t even been that long since he’d gotten his last cracked screen fixed). “Yeah,” he grinds out, “yeah, look, I’m really sorry I wasted your time! I didn’t—this isn’t—ahhh, I can’t believe I trusted that guy.”

“Hey, no need to apologize to me, it’s your phone bill.”

His teasing tone, the little awkward laugh at the end, all that would usually annoy Koutarou even more, but it’s… kinda cute. Koutarou sighs into the receiver. How pathetic can he be, swooning over some random dude on the other end of a phone sex line? Maybe Daishou was onto something after all.

Then the guy says, “Um, this is going to sound weird, I know, but… you sound upset. Do you want to talk about it?”

Goshiki was having such a good time at the club that night, until all the screaming started.

Pretty people adorned with tattoos and piercings and arguably not that much black leather and vinyl had pressed brightly colored drinks into his hands. Lights flashed and music pounded like a heartbeat and he’d danced and gotten deliciously sweaty and someone had even licked his neck once.

At first it was just a few whispers, things like, “Is that him?” and “Oh, fuck.” Not all that unusual for this sort of place, but before long the flash of metal caught Goshiki’s eye, along with a general rising panic near the exits, and he thought maybe he should find his friends.

Goshiki was having such a good time at the club that night, until all the screaming started.

Pretty people adorned with tattoos and piercings and arguably not that much black leather and vinyl had pressed brightly colored drinks into his hands. Lights flashed and music pounded like a heartbeat and he’d danced and gotten deliciously sweaty and someone had even licked his neck once.

At first it was just a few whispers, things like, “Is that him?” and “Oh, fuck.” Not all that unusual for this sort of place, but before long the flash of metal caught Goshiki’s eye, along with a general rising panic near the exits, and he thought maybe he should find his friends.

“Have you ever… I mean. I was… wondering if you’d help me with something,” Tetsurou managed. Maybe he should have rehearsed this.

“Does it involve getting up?” Kenma asked, the branches of the next part of this conversation tree already obvious in his tone.

“Not… exactly?”

Kenma paused his game. The cheery, repeating tune of the menu screen somehow wreaked more havoc on Tetsurou’s nerves than the anticipation of what he knew had to come next.

Twisting in Tetsurou’s lap to look him in the face, Kenma propped himself up with one arm on his chest. Well? said that pointed stare, those pretty golden eyes that gave Tetsurou endless daydreams, and occasional nightmares. Tetsurou swallowed hard.

It was when Kenma wandered too far and saw Akaashi climbing out of the river that he became sure of two things.

“Ah,” he’d said, mostly to himself.

“Oh,” said Akaashi, looking up from the struggling slip of a drenched white kitten in his hands. “Kozume. How long have you..?”

Kenma stared at him, at his perfectly dry warm-up gear that should have been soaked to translucency, at the shape of his body that seemed very different a few moments ago from a distance. “Long enough.”

It’s not that Eita needs to call it a night yet, it’s just that he needs a breather. Maybe some electrolytes. Maybe—

“Don’t,” he says, noticing Satori slinking under the net onto his side of the practice court. He frowns at how ragged his voice sounds, how raw his throat feels. Sure, his quads are protesting a little, but he’s definitely got a few more—

“Nah, we’re done.” Satori’s circled behind him and his voice is very low. It makes Eita jump.

“You can—ha—head out if you want.”

“Eita-a-a-a-a…” Satori sing-songs softly, as if that alone is a convincing retort. His hands drag up Eita’s bare arms, long taped-up fingers rough from today’s hours of regular practice—and then making half-assed receive attempts for however long Eita’s still been here drilling jump serves.

Eita straightens and Satori grips his shoulders, hands slipping under the seams of his sweat-soaked tank top and digging into sore muscle a little too hard. It’s part massage, part assessment, part… something else. He hisses when Satori’s thumbs press in deep, at the base of his neck.

“All this tension. Not good, ya know?”