Chapter Text
Twenty minutes later, the two of them sit with their backs against the wall with a plate of fruit split between them, dressed in the last casual clothing Suna could find in their bedroom. They’re both dressed in Suna’s clothes, considering the last time Suna was here he brought his entire agency to loot through Osamu’s belongings. Osamu doesn’t seem to mind much. As he brings a half-broken glass of orange juice to his lips, Suna delights in being able to watch him.
Osamu’s eyes dart to the side as he notices Suna’s stare. “What?”
“Nothing.” Suna lifts his own glass to his mouth and takes a few gulps. The citrus bursts against his tongue. “So can I ask you something? Now that everything’s out in the open?”
“Sure,” Osamu answers. He picks a grape off the plate and crunches it between his teeth.
“Onigiri Miya is a cover up then. You’re not actually a cook.”
Osamu cries out, offended. “I am a cook, thank you very much. It was actually what I started off doin’ before gettin’ into the whole”—he waves a hand in the air—“murderin’ business. But it didn’t work out.”
“Oh.” That makes more sense. Osamu is great in the kitchen, which probably adds to the reason why Suna never suspected him of malicious intent over the years. “Okay. But Onigiri Miya doesn’t exist.”
Osamu scrunches his nose. “It does. But not everyone at Onigiri Miya specializes at workin’ behind the counter.” His lips quirk up. “Some of us are more inclined towards the murderous side of the business.”
“Does Atsumu know what you do for a living?”
“Wadaya mean?” Osamu looks over at Suna again. With their spines straight and their legs crossed beneath them, it’s hard to glance over at each other without making the conscious effort to do so. “Tsumu does the same thing.”
Suna freezes halfway between grabbing another grape. “What?”
“Tsumu’s also a trained assassin.”
“You’re joking,” Suna says, but judging by Osamu’s straight face, he’s telling the truth. That’s a shock. Every time Suna and Atsumu cross paths, Suna gets the sense that Atsumu never takes anything seriously and has too much of a loud mouth to be able to get by without offending anyone. He can’t even imagine Atsumu throwing a punch, though to be fair, Suna never would have imagined Osamu doing it either—and he now knows that isn’t the case. “Your brother is an assassin. Is he any good? Is he better than you?”
Osamu scoffs before Suna finishes asking the question. “He ain’t better than me,” Osamu says. There’s a pause as he takes his time to think about Atsumu’s abilities. “He’s decent. A lot more rash, but sometimes, that’s a good thing. Kita-san knows how to use him well.”
“Huh.” Suna learns something new about the family he married into every day. “That’s going to make family get-togethers more awkward.”
“I guess.”
Suna picks up a grape and tosses it into his mouth. “So have you been staying with him? Or at your office?”
“No, I’ve been stayin’ with Tsumu. Actually, he’s pretty pissed at you.”
“For what?”
Osamu levels him with a hard look. “You mean other than you tryna kill me in an elevator? Or runnin’ me over with a car?”
Suna slaps Osamu’s thigh lightly. “You nearly shot my head off!”
“I toldja that was an accident! I really did just want an explanation then.”
Suna harrumphs and lifts his glass to his lips, draining the last of the orange juice. “Yeah, but you nearly killed me.”
“Then you almost ran me over,” Osamu points out. “So we were even.”
“I guess.” Suna sets the glass down on the floor. His mind recalls a minor detail that has gone mostly forgotten up until now, but as the memory reshapes itself, Suna’s jaw slackens. “Actually, you almost killed me on the dunes. So. There.”
Osamu’s features smooth out as he remembers that day himself. It feels like an eternity has passed since then, even if it was only a little over a day ago. It is hard to forget the heat pressing into his back, the sand seeping into his clothes, the rumble of the explosion as it shook the earth. “Oh, right,” Osamu says. “Forgot about that. Sorry.”
Suna nods. He’s not fussed about it. Not anymore. If the two of them were to mark a tally of how many times they nearly killed the other, they both had a lot to claim. He’s over it. “It’s cool.”
There’s a rumble of a car outside.
Suna doesn’t think anything of it.
He reaches over for the last grape of their pitiful meal, and he throws it in his mouth. He doesn’t think much of anything until a shower of bullets rain through their windows.
His instincts kick in before his mind catches up with his body, and Suna flattens himself against the ground. He registers Osamu doing the same, his palm steady and firm against Suna’s hip as more bullets fire overhead. His heart races in his chest as Suna attempts to come to his senses. He can account for the obvious truth: they are being attacked, and their attackers are shooting to kill. Suna tries counting to ten in his head to calm himself down, even as his eardrums start to ache from the overpowering noise.
Has it been that long? Is their time up? He supposes it does make sense. The invoice from his superiors had been clear and blunt. Suna had forty-eight hours to kill Osamu. Suna failed—which meant that Suna had to be punished. He hadn’t even thought about the forty-eight hour mark. If he had, he would have suggested they run somewhere safer, instead of remaining in the most obvious location.
Suna loses himself in his thoughts so much that he barely notices Osamu gesturing for him to move down the hall. His movements are wild and insistent, but there’s a layer of control to them as he crawls over the floor for his gun. Suna can only gape as Osamu sends back a few shots in answer, but when Osamu looks back over his shoulder at Suna, Suna understands what they need to do.
They can worry about the rest later. Right now, their most pertinent objective is to escape this house unscathed. Suna slides along the floor, even as more bullets shoot through their walls, answering for Osamu’s shots. His hand wraps around the rifle he’d discarded, and he tightens his grip around it as he heaves it up on his shoulder.
It’s a good thing he does, too. When Suna pushes himself to his knees at the end of the hallway, he spots a foot around the corner. He pulls the trigger in time to send the attacker collapsing to the floor before they can get a shot in.
“Osamu!” Suna shouts.
“I know!” Osamu calls back, his voice strained. Osamu sends off another round of bullets before there’s a quick lull, and he scurries along to join Suna where he crouches. “We should get to the car.”
“Right.” Suna makes the calculations in his head. There’s a side door out of Suna’s office. If they run along the path, they can reach one of their cars. As of this moment, they are severely underprepared and outnumbered. Their attackers have the upper hand. They need to do whatever they can to claim it back. “Okay. Through my office then.”
“Yes.”
Suna dives into a forward roll, crossing the distance between the hall that looks out between two windows on opposite sides. Sure enough, as soon as he makes his move, several guns are trained on him at once. It’s through speed and speed alone that ensures he gets to the other side in one piece, even if he’s got a few bruises to show for his tumble. He lifts his own weapon towards the front-facing window as Osamu prepares to do the same. Suna nods, giving Osamu permission to go, and as Osamu rolls forward, Suna covers his path, shooting enough to dissuade the attackers around front from getting too close.
Once they’re both inside, Osamu draws the door to Suna’s office shut behind them. “We’re gonna be swarmed the second we step outside that door,” he says.
“I know.” Suna strides over to the desk he hardly uses. It’s been mostly for show, considering he never wanted to keep important documentation from work at home for risk of Osamu stumbling upon it. But it does prove useful at times like now. “I got it.”
Suna crouches down to peer at the hidden compartment beneath his desk, stashed into the wooden frame, and he undoes it with careful movements. Osamu comes up behind him, but he remains quiet as Suna takes out another two rifles and enough ammunition to last. He places them on the table before pushing the door to the compartment back in place.
“Jeez, Rin,” Osamu says, picking up one of the rifles for himself. “You really made a fool of me.”
“You made a fool of me, too.”
“Eh.” Osamu shrugs. “That’s fair.”
Suna heaves up the remaining rifle and steels himself with a sharp breath. Since no bullets have been fired in the last few minutes, it’s safe to assume they’ll be surrounded regardless of which exit they choose to use. It’s an uncomfortable thought to bear, even if he’s been in situations like these a million times over. It’s a whole other experience to share this danger with a partner—or, more specifically, his husband.
The hesitation must be visible in his expression, because Osamu tilts his chin up with his knuckles. “Hey,” Osamu says, his eyes searching Suna’s. “It’ll be fine. We’ll get outta this.”
“Even if we manage to get to the car, they’re going to chase us down,” Suna says. “They won’t stop.”
“We’ll worry about that when it comes down to it.” Osamu drops his hand from Suna’s face. “Okay?”
The reassurance he offers makes Suna want to believe him. He wants to hope that they’ll get out of this alive, because if these are the last minutes of his life, that would be a shame. It would be a pity, because he hasn’t had nearly enough time with Osamu to feel satisfied with death today.
“Okay,” Suna says.
“Ready?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll go first.”
Osamu walks over to the side exit out of Suna’s office, his back straight, his body standing to attention, and he keeps his rifle steady in his hands. He waits until Suna joins him before nudging the door with his foot. As it slides open, several bullets soar through the air without warning, and Osamu holds his arm out in front of Suna as he leaps backwards, avoiding the storm. Like before, Suna’s heart rate quickens, and it’s startling when the realization that he’s concerned for someone’s life other than his own hits him.
He doesn’t want Osamu to die. Not by his hand, nor anyone else’s.
As Osamu leans forward to shoot back in answer, Suna’s throat jumps. He’s not willing to die today, and he’s not willing to let Osamu die either.
Osamu runs forward with the break in their fighting, and he storms towards the car parked a few feet away. Suna peeks out past the frame to see if he can spot some of their attackers, and he finds them perched in a truck in front of their front lawn. His heartbeat pounds through his ears until it’s deafening. His mouth feels dry as he takes aim, and before they can shoot Osamu in the head, Suna pulls the trigger.
The bullets fire in quick succession, and many of his shots hit their mark. Unfortunately, their attackers are prepared. They lurch backwards as the bullets hit their protective vests, and they manage to crawl into the back of the truck to reorient themselves. Even so, Suna catches the driver in the head with a killshot right as Osamu ducks behind the side of the car.
A jolt runs through Suna when his eyes lock with Osamu’s. Osamu motions with his hand, and Suna knows it’s his turn now. There’s no time to be afraid, even though his stomach feels caught in his throat. There’s no time to hesitate, because as the truck pulls away while Osamu takes aim, Suna finds another three people waiting at the foot of their driveway, rifles aimed to kill.
Osamu notices them at the same time Suna does, and he readjusts his target.
This is his chance.
Suna doesn’t waste his time. He runs along the line of bushes and keeps his head low as the shots ring out. He doesn’t spare a glance to see whether Osamu has managed to kill any of them off. He only has one goal, and that is getting to the car unharmed. Still, each step becomes another mountain to cross, and that invisible coil around his insides tightens the longer it takes him to cross the distance.
When he finally crashes into the passenger’s side door, relief courses through him. There’s no time for gratitude as Osamu pops open his door and hops inside. Suna clambers into the car right as Osamu turns the keys in the ignition. It comes to life under Osamu’s hands, and the engine roars like it’s been waiting for this moment. Suna barely shuts the door before Osamu tears down the driveway.
“Shit,” Suna cries out, gripping the handle with all of the force he can muster. “Wait, Osamu!”
But Suna realizes Osamu’s plan the second the car storms down the driveway. There’s only one attacker standing, the other two collapsed in heaps on the gravel, and he raises his weapon to shoot again when he catches sight of Suna and Osamu in the front of the car. Whether his aim rings true or not, the choice is made for him as Osamu slams into the last attacker with the front of the car.
Unlike Osamu, he does not roll over the top. In fact, when Suna flicks his eyes over to the rearview mirror, there are now three heaps at the foot of their driveway.
“Shit,” Suna says. He grapples with his seatbelt and manages to buckle it in before Osamu takes a sharp right. “I can’t believe you ran him over.”
“Why? You did it to me.”
Suna starts to respond with an indignant remark when he notices the affectionate look Osamu sends his way. “What?” he asks instead.
“Nothin’,” Osamu says. He returns his attention to the road ahead of them, which puts Suna more at ease. As much as he has faith in Osamu’s aim, he has less faith in Osamu’s driving skills. He’s been in the car with Osamu before. That alone is enough to make him hold on for dear life. “Nice headshot on the driver.”
“Oh.” It was a nice headshot, but he hadn’t spared enough attention in the moment to appreciate it for the beauty it was. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The two of them fall into the same comfortable silence as before when they were back at the house, sitting with a plate of fruit between them. That had been twenty minutes ago. Yet so much has happened in the time since. Beyond the rumble of the engine, there’s nothing else to accompany them. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
Suna keeps looking around them, even as they turn onto the main roads without any hurdles. It’s too much to hope for the chase to end back at the house, but EJP Raijin is nothing but efficient. When a black van speeding down the street behind them appears in his vision, Suna braces himself for the worst.
“Open the trunk, Osamu,” Suna instructs. The space is too limited for him to bring out his rifle comfortably, so he settles for the handgun hidden in the glove compartment. While he loads it, Osamu presses the button on the ceiling that opens the trunk automatically, and he casts one last worried glance at Suna before the bullets start.
The first few pelt the backseat, and it gives Suna enough time to climb out of the front and onto the floor. The car swerves between lanes, and the abrupt movement makes Suna topple forward. At this point, he’s not sure whether it’s evasive maneuvering on Osamu’s part or the product of his shitty driving. Either way, he recovers quickly enough to balance himself on the headrest and take aim.
He counts two passengers for the time being. There’s the driver and another person with his own weapon held out from the passenger’s seat. Suna manages to shoot three times before the car veers again, and he slams into the side door. He bites down on his bottom lip because of the sudden drop—hard. The metallic taste of blood lingers even as he adjusts to take aim again.
Even so, his bullet misses the windshield, and Suna suppresses the snarl of frustration building up inside him.
“Osamu!” He has to raise his voice over the wind streaming alongside them before his words are carried away. “Drive straight, you asshole! How the fuck am I meant to aim when you’re driving all over the place?”
On cue, the car switches into the left lane, and Suna stumbles forward right as one of their windows shatters. The glass crumbles into a million pieces, and Osamu raises a hand to ward off the worst of it while steering with his other.
“It’s not my fault,” he shouts back. “This is yer shitty car’s fault!”
“It is not,” Suna yells. “The car is perfectly fine! It’s the fact that you can’t drive in a straight line that’s fucking us over.”
The wind ripples through his shirt as Suna climbs back into the front. He leans his face close to Osamu’s to ensure that the meaning isn’t lost. “Let me drive,” Suna orders.
“No,” Osamu says, his eyebrows scrunching together. “I’ve got it.”
Suna believes that Osamu is resisting purely based on Suna’s complaints. Otherwise, he doubts Osamu would be this stubborn about it. But this is a life-or-death situation, and he has zero time or patience for Osamu’s ultra-competitive bullshit. His nails dig into Osamu’s shoulder.
“Osamu,” Suna says. “Let me drive. Now. Or I swear, I’ll fucking sit on your lap and do it myself.”
Osamu turns his head so quickly that his nose brushes Suna’s. He must sense the determination in Suna’s voice, because other than a few grumbles, he doesn’t argue any further. He waits for Suna’s hands to grip the steering wheel before easing himself out of the seat. There’s a small gap of time in which Osamu lets go of the gas pedal in order for Suna to replace him, and that split second alone makes his heart leap into his throat.
“You got it?” Osamu asks while sliding backwards.
“Got it,” Suna confirms. He plops into the driver’s seat, the cushions still warm from Osamu’s weight, and his foot pushes down on the gas. The car speeds forward, and Suna’s fingers curl tighter around the wheel while another series of bullets chase after them.
Osamu kicks the left side door open, and he holds himself parallel to the street as he fires off a few shots of his own. Suna makes a conscious effort to drive as well as he possibly can. If he jerks the wheel too far in either direction, there’s a great risk of Osamu flying out of the vehicle.
Unlike Suna’s shots, Osamu’s bullets reach their target—only to ricochet off the windshield.
“Bulletproof,” Suna says, a simple explanation.
However, over the roar of the wind and the discharge of bullets from the gun, Osamu doesn’t hear him. He folds himself up and pulls the door shut. “They’re bulletproof!” he says.
Suna huffs.
Osamu switches tactics and tests out Suna’s maneuver of shooting through the open trunk. It presents an easier field of vision while simultaneously making Osamu an easier target to hit. Osamu doesn’t mind, though, and he tries again. This time, he aims for the tires.
A few seconds later, he sits back, safe behind the backseat as he reloads his gun. “You know,” Osamu says, “I actually managed to hit the windshield.”
Suna doesn’t respond. His answer is to slam on the brakes, and the abrupt stop sends Osamu flying into the front seat, his back slamming into the dashboard. Suna snatches the opportunity to slap his knees. “That’s because I’m a good driver, dickhead,” he says.
Osamu groans. He pushes himself back into the backseat. “Why is there a bat in the trunk?”
“Don’t you remember? You and Atsumu tried baseball out the last time we went to visit your parents.”
“Oh, right. Forgot about that.” There’s the distinct sound of steel colliding with bone. Suna’s gaze flickers over to the rearview mirror to see the side passenger fly backwards as the bat slams into his skull. Osamu reaches forward and pulls on something. “Uh. Oops.”
Osamu rolls forward again, his fist pounding against Suna’s seat. “Drive, drive, drive.”
The panic holds tight in his voice, and Suna is powerless to do anything except heed his instructions. He forces the car forward beyond its limits, right as a bomb bursts right behind them. The swell of heat remains palpable even from the front of the car, and the van that had been following them slows. Their relief is short-lived, however, as two more identical vans swarm up on either side of them.
The pressure builds up, as does the line of tension in Suna’s spine. The wind whips strands of his hair into his face, but he keeps his attention fixed ahead, even as the vans nudge their car on both sides. The metal lets out a loud screech as the outsides of the three vehicles bang together, and Suna eases the wheel to the right, forcing one of the vans to scrape along the cement border separating the lanes.
In the next breath, Suna switches course, whipping the wheel sharply to the left. He forces the van along a narrow path as they turn into oncoming traffic. His heart skips so loudly he can hear it through his own ears. If he screws up here, they’re dead. He’s reminded of this fact especially as one car barrels straight towards them, their horn blaring.
Suna drags the car to the right to avoid the collision, and the change in direction leaves the pursuing van behind a few feet. Through the rearview mirror, he spots the passenger climbing out of their seat and onto the side of the van, and Osamu doesn’t need further prompting. As the passenger opens the door to the backseat of Suna’s car, Osamu kicks open the opposite door and tosses him out the other end.
“Slam into them again,” Osamu says.
“I know.” He doesn’t need to be reminded. The wheel turns to the left, and their car shudders as it comes into contact with the van again, and Suna holds his breath as the entire frame of their vehicle seems to rattle against the force.
Suna urges the car back into the correct lane, away from the oncoming traffic, and this—at least—gives him a small amount of relief. It’s short-lived as the van corrects its direction and maintains its pursuit behind them. The bullets begin to pelt against the metal again, and Osamu leans back against the driver’s seat, his shoulder brushing against Suna’s.
He cranes his neck back to get a good look at Suna. “You good, Rin?”
“Fine,” Suna says, his eyes never straying from the road.
“Gotcha.” Osamu draws himself forward, his handgun raised, and he prepares to take aim.
A few seconds pass, and although that’s not a lot of time, with the adrenaline pumping through Suna’s veins, it feels too long. “Any day now, Osamu.”
“I got it.”
“Really?”
“I got it,” Osamu insists.
Another few seconds tick by, and Suna decides he’s given Osamu enough of a chance. “You took too long,” Suna says before jerking the wheel sharply to the left.
He hears Osamu tumble in the backseat, but Suna’s window of opportunity is too short to regard him with a cursory glance. Instead, Suna holds out his own handgun and takes three shots on the first van, all while reversing the car. Just as expected, one hits the engine, and the van explodes in a dust of smoke, launching into the air. It spins before landing roughly on the ground, upside down.
It requires all of his strength to turn the car back around and continue forward like before. One last look at the rearview mirror confirms what he already knows: they’ve won this battle. The pressure softens inside of him, and his mind is much clearer. Even though they’re hurtling down the road in their banged up vehicle, this is much more manageable. His grip loosens on the steering wheel, and Suna breathes a sigh of relief.
Osamu rests his chin on Suna’s shoulder. “I said I got it,” Osamu mumbles, pouting.
“You took too long,” Suna repeats.
Osamu lets out a petulant whine. Maybe it’s the effects of the rush of the chase wearing off or maybe he’s feeling grateful to be alive, but Suna takes one hand off the wheel to hold Osamu’s face close to his, his palm cupping Osamu’s cheek.
Out of all the places Suna expected to be after their high stakes car chase, he would not have chosen to be sitting at a table in a nearby café. But Osamu had insisted, and Suna figured he’d owed him after snatching his moment of glory out from under his nose. When Suna spotted their other guest, he’d been tempted to turn on his heel and walk straight out of the store.
“I thought you killed him,” Atsumu hisses as the pair of them take their seats. He has a teacup propped in front of him, but he must have been waiting a while, considering it’s empty. He looks the same as usual: tousled blonde hair, taunting smirk, scrutinizing as ever. His eyes follow Suna the entire walk up, and they never leave him even when Suna sits down. “You were supposed to kill him, Samu.”
“Nice to see you, too, Atsumu,” Suna says, hunching over the table.
“We can’t stay long,” Osamu says. He waves off Atsumu’s offer to order drinks. “It’s dangerous for all of us. I need you to tell me one thing. How bad is it? How much are they payin’ for someone to kill us off?”
“It definitely ain’t worth it,” Atsumu says, his nails clicking against the porcelain of his cup. “I’ll tell ya that much.”
“Tsumu.”
Atsumu heaves a heavy sigh. His gaze flicks back and forth between the two of them. “It’s a lot of money,” he admits. “A shitload of money. When I say it ain’t worth it, I mean it.”
Osamu lowers his head. Suna can tell he’s making the calculations, predicting the possible outcomes, but if Atsumu says it isn’t worth it, he’s probably correct. Atsumu wouldn’t risk Osamu’s life. He would betray Suna without question, but if Osamu’s life is attached to Suna’s, then Atsumu wouldn’t take the risk of making an incorrect declaration. He’s studied the potential risks as much as Osamu is doing right now. He’s come to the conclusion himself that the odds of survival are slim.
“What do you suggest?” Suna asks, drawing Atsumu’s attention.
Instead of answering, Atsumu says, “I don’t know what Samu sees in you, Sunarin. I really don’t. I told him not to marry you.”
“Oh, give me a break. It’s not like you’re the world’s best brother-in-law.”
“Excuse me? I bought ya that sweater for yer birthday, you asshole.”
Suna shoots him an incredulous look. “Yeah, and it didn’t even fit.”
Atsumu opens his mouth, but Osamu stops him before he can shoot back a retort of his own. “Shut it,” Osamu instructs. “Both of you.” He clasps his hands in front of him, still mulling it over, and Suna resists the urge to smooth out the furrow between his brows as he concentrates. When his palms lie flat against the surface of the table, Suna knows he’s come to a decision all on his own. “It is worth it. Right, Rin?”
Although his expression is full of determination that they can emerge out of this situation alive, there’s a layer of hesitation there, too. It’s like he’s holding himself back on Suna’s behalf. If Suna decided to cut ties and head off on his own, Osamu would let him. He’d be willing to lose Suna if Suna wanted to separate for their own good. If Suna’s being honest, Atsumu’s calculations worry him. Even if he’s confident in their abilities, there’s only so much they can do against dozens of armed assassins.
But Osamu is staring at him, insistent and committed and full of belief in their capabilities, and Suna finds himself saying, “Yeah, it’s worth it.”
There’s one thing that might persuade both of their agencies to back off. It’s a long shot, but it’s all they’ve got. Suna contacts Komori off a payphone and scribbles down the address when Komori reads it out. After he hangs up, he holds the sheet of paper out to Osamu.
If they want to survive, they’ll have to atone for their mistakes. They have to catch the person they were originally charged with capturing.
They have to catch Riseki Heisuke and use him as a bargaining chip.
Suna can’t help but be disgruntled when he’s left behind. His equipment is arranged all over the dashboard of a brand new truck, and his earpiece fits snugly into his ear while he waits in the driver’s seat. Over the line, Osamu’s breathing rasps through, and Suna hauls his laptop further into his lap while he pulls up the footage from the camera attached to Osamu’s head.
Suna kicks his feet up onto the wheel while he refers to the blueprints of the building Komori sent him. “You’re going to go right in about two feet.”
“Okay.” Osamu’s voice crackles through the comms, but Suna picks apart his every word. It’s crucial for Osamu to follow Suna’s instructions—especially now. There’s no doubt that Riseki Heisuke will be heavily guarded, and their limited two-person team makes them defenseless if his security picks up on their presence before Osamu can retrieve their target.
Suna wishes he was the one inside right now, crawling through the vents. Sitting in the truck and waiting for Osamu to return makes him restless—but Osamu did beat him at their quick game of rock, paper, scissors, so it was only fair that he got to infiltrate the building.
The pixelated scene inside the vents isn’t as clear as Suna would prefer, but it’s enough to work with. The worst part is the way the camera shakes whenever Osamu crawls forward, his head turning from side to side. It gives Suna a headache.
“Turn right,” Suna says.
“Uh.”
“What?”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Suna insists. “Turn right.”
Osamu snarls, and the noise is so loud that it’s almost like Osamu is sitting right next to him in the passenger’s seat. “I can’t,” he repeats. He aims the camera to the right, showcasing a thick wall without a tunnel to the right. “I can go forward, or I can go backwards. But I can’t turn right. There isn’t a right to begin with.”
Suna zooms in on the blueprints. A path is drawn out going to the right, but if it is no longer there, then they’ll need another route inside. “Okay. Give me a second.”
“Waitin’.”
Suna stares at the files with a pinched expression. He can guide Osamu forward more, but there’s no direct vent into the room where the prisoner is held. If he guides Osamu backwards, there might be a vent, but it will definitely take longer. As he deliberates, Osamu’s intermittent sighs cut through his mental commentary.
Suna almost doesn’t hear it when Osamu says, “I’m just gonna blow it up.”
“What?” Suna says, not fully understanding. “I’ve almost got it.”
“I’m gonna blow it up,” Osamu repeats.
“Osamu—”
No sooner than Osamu’s name leaves his mouth, a loud explosion rings over the earpiece, and the blast forces Suna to rip it out before he loses his hearing. The footage becomes fuzzier until the signal cuts altogether, and panic grips at his throat until it nearly chokes him. Without the camera online, he has no method of aiding Osamu from the outside. He waits a few seconds before popping the earpiece back in to see what he can hear.
A few grunts reach him, followed by the quick spurt of gunshots, and Suna hates that he can’t tell whether Osamu is being fired at or if he’s the one doing the firing.
“The car,” a tinny voice says. Suna doesn’t recognize it as Osamu’s until he hears his next command. “Bring the car up close, Rin.”
Suna drops his feet from the steering wheel and shoves his laptop into the back of the truck. His fingers fumble for the keys, twisting them into the ignition, and the car starts with a nice roar. The headlights beam in front of him, and Suna takes that as his sign to reverse the car backwards. He pushes the back of the car until it’s right up next to the exit he had instructed Osamu to escape from.
It takes a few seconds, but the storm of bullets sounds closer and closer as time goes on. Sure enough, when Suna looks back over his shoulder again, Osamu emerges from the building, a hostage hauled over his shoulder, tied up and gagged, and he wastes no time in popping open the trunk.
A few armed security guards follow close behind, but Suna takes care of them. He cracks open the driver’s side door enough to take aim, and he shoots off several bullets as Osamu slams the trunk shut. He dashes over to the front, and Suna slams down on the gas pedal as soon as Osamu climbs in.
The tires peel away from the curb, and a few bullets hit the outside of their vehicle. But the truck hurtles forward, and that panic that had kept him in a tight chokehold loosens its grip the more the building shrinks in the distance. In the passenger’s seat, Osamu huffs in an attempt to regain his breath. He’s shrouded in a layer of debris and smoke, but other than a blooming black eye, he doesn’t appear to be hurt.
“I told you not to blow it up,” Suna says, his grip tightening around the steering wheel. “I told you to wait.”
Osamu rests his elbow against the window and uses his hand to prop his chin up. “Just like I toldja I had the van covered, right?”
“You—you are so annoying,” Suna mutters. He’s still riding off that surge of panic—the one that had swallowed him whole the second he lost connection with Osamu. The reprimands fly off his tongue without him meaning to put his fears into words. “You could’ve been hurt. Or worse—killed. This is exactly like you. Why would you hurtle into danger without considering the consequences? Why would you—”
Suna cuts himself off. He steels himself with a sharp breath, and his hold on the wheel eases. When he looks over at Osamu, he’s watching him steadily, those dark eyes of his gentle and soft despite the chaos he must have encountered inside. Even with the tinges of smoke residing against the outer edges of his profile, he’s stunning. This is a new sight for Suna—Osamu recovering from the tailend of danger, easing off the adrenaline rush.
On one hand, it’s a homage to the exhilaration Suna feels whenever he comes back from another job. On the other, he gets a sense of the fear others feel when the people they love sit close to the line of danger. He’s speaking angrily because he was scared, and he was scared because he genuinely thought that Osamu might die.
“Sorry, Rin,” Osamu rasps. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Suna says, too quickly.
Osamu cracks a smile, and Suna feels his world right itself again.
It’s not like Suna has never interrogated anyone before. Even if his work doesn’t usually demand it, he knows how to draw information out of hostages. It’s the dingy hotel room that unnerves him most. The wallpaper looks like it’s about to peel off, each piece of furniture is covered in a thin layer of dust, and the lightbulb connected to the lamp is too dim to make anything out. He doesn’t even feel safe sitting down on the bed, so he perches himself at the very end while Osamu tightens the restraints around Riseki.
He looks like his pictures. If anything, he might look younger in person, that skittish air about him more defined, but he keeps still as Osamu walks around him in slow steps, viewing his progress.
“Any day now,” Suna murmurs.
Osamu gives him a dirty look. It’s harder to see with the low lighting, but it’s always been easy picking out Osamu’s expressions. “Don’t undermine me.”
Suna holds up his hands in faux surrender. “Sorry. I know this is your time. The floor is yours.”
“Thank you.” Osamu crouches down low in front of Riseki, his left arm perched on his right knee. He tilts his head to the side, and Riseki follows Osamu’s every move with his sharp gaze. “How are you, Riseki-kun?”
“Fine,” Riseki responds in a strangled voice. He takes a moment to clear his throat before repeating himself. “Fine.”
His lips curve into a polite smile. “Okay. Then you’re willin’ to answer a few questions for us. Is that right?” Without waiting for an answer, Osamu continues. “What is it aboutcha that is so important that both of our agencies wanted us to kill you?”
It would have been too easy if Riseki had been forthcoming with information. Instead, he clams up, his lips pressing together in a hard line, and it doesn’t faze him when Osamu pushes his head closer. Even though his hands tremble at his sides and his eyes twitch, he keeps quiet.
“No?” Osamu prompts. “C’mon. We don’t have all day.”
No, they don’t. Frankly, Suna doesn’t have any patience left to spare. He stands up and grabs ahold of the telephone from the side table. Without warning, he bashes it into Riseki’s nose, and there’s a distinctive crunch of bone upon impact. Riseki cries out from the pain, and two droplets of blood land on Suna’s knuckles. It’s nothing compared to the steady stream that trails down from Riseki’s left nostril.
Riseki regards Suna with more fear than before as Suna sets the telephone back onto the side table. Whatever calm he’d conditioned himself to feel had evaporated, and all that he has now is full-blown panic, evident in the size of his pupils and the whimpers rising through his throat.
“So,” Osamu says, wincing on Riseki’s behalf as he views the damage. “Uh, as you can see, my husband is an impatient man. Tell us what you know.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Riseki hunches over in the chair, but he doesn’t get far before the restraints force him upright. The blood from his nose drips onto his jeans. “I’m not the target. I’m not the one they were after.”
“Then who are they after?” Suna interjects.
“You,” Riseki says. “Both of you.”
“What?” Osamu sits up straight, his arm falling to his side. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“They found out the two of you are married,” Riseki explains. His words come out in a rush, spurred forward by the shared intensity in Suna and Osamu’s eyes. “They didn’t like that. The job in Tottori. They hoped you would finish each other off.”
“What?” Osamu repeats.
Meanwhile, Suna does the math in his head. No matter how far-fetched Riseki’s explanation sounds at first, it was too much of a coincidence that—out of all the assassins for hire in Hyogo—he and Osamu were charged with taking out that hit. In all the pandemonium that had followed, Suna had forgotten to consider the odds. The chance that he would stumble upon Osamu was slim without outside interference.
“That’s not possible,” Osamu is saying. “That’s not—”
“It’s not likely,” Suna says with the intent of reassuring Osamu as best as he can, “that your brother has any idea of it.”
Osamu’s jaw slackens.
“I’d say this comes straight from our superiors.” It’s an inconvenience, because if his own agency tried to kill him, Suna is now out of a job. He can’t continue working for someone that might turn around at a given moment and stab him in the back. He has enough trouble looking ahead for enemies; he doesn’t want to turn around and find another there waiting. “It’s—”
Osamu rises, and he strides over to the chair. His hands start patting Riseki down despite the latter’s protests. “Where is it?” Osamu demands. “Where is it?”
“Where is—?” Suna starts to ask before stopping. He makes the connection without Osamu having to clarify. If he and Osamu were the target before, they might still be the target. If this has all been orchestrated from the beginning, then by taking Riseki hostage, they’ve fallen right into another trap.
“Ow!” Riseki cries out. “Okay. Okay. It’s in the belt. The belt!”
Osamu stands back, his shoulders tense, and Suna is certain that he looks as fraught with fear as Osamu does right now. Suna darts over to the window and peels back the curtain. Even with the darkness that comes with nighttime, he spots at least three pairs of headlights pulling up to the curb outside of the front of the hotel. They’re attached to three armored vans, and as the doors open, several burly men emerge from within, each toting heavy assault rifles.
He and Osamu are only two people with a limited amount of weaponry to spare.
Atsumu was right. The chances of survival are slim at best.
Suna casts one look back at Osamu, confirming what Osamu has already guessed, and Osamu reloads his gun, ignoring the way Riseki flinches, before tossing Suna’s over to him.
“You ready, Rin?”
“Mmhmm,” Suna hums. If he says an actual word, it’ll give away his nervousness. Even as his hands wrap around his rifle, they shake more than they should.
“Through the window then.”
They’re crouched behind the dumpster behind the back of the hotel, their heads craning around the corner as the assassins ascend up to the hotel room they had reserved. Inside, they’ll find nothing. Nothing except for Riseki Heisuke, tied up tightly in restraints and strapped to a wooden chair. There’s no trace of either of them left behind.
However, even the proximity of being this close to people who want them dead leaves Suna on edge. He can’t stop licking his lips, tasting the sweat that clings to his skin, and he keeps shifting his weight despite the fact that he’s squatted in a shallow puddle full of rainwater that reaches an inch up his shoes.
His restlessness is inconvenient. This isn’t what he’s used to. Suna is known for being the assassin for hire that operates with a cool head and a dead heart. Inconveniences don’t get to him, and obstacles never sway him from his target. That’s how he’s upheld at his agency. Suna detests the nervous bubble he’s stuck in now, his eyes darting back and forth while he watches the lamp turn on inside the hotel room, waiting for the moment it’s safe to bolt.
“Rin.” A hand splays across his back, and although the gesture is intended to comfort, a jolt rushes through Suna regardless. He knows Osamu feels it, too.
His voice cracks. “Yes?”
“Are you alright?”
Suna can’t get a good look at Osamu’s face without turning around, which is uncomfortable to do in their position. He senses Osamu’s presence, the warmth radiating from him that is undeterred by the brisk air, and his breath hits the nape of Suna’s neck. For once in Suna’s life, he’s glad he’s not alone in this.
Osamu has always been a constant Suna has relied on, but he’s never been supported to this extent. He’s never asked Osamu to risk his life for Suna. But Osamu has. Osamu is. He does it without fail and without question, because they’ve never been the type of couple that needs to ask these kinds of demands of each other.
Suna knows Osamu is guarding his back, because he’s guarding Osamu’s.
He supposes that’s what Osamu is doing right now, asking for reassurance when Suna has little to give.
“I’m okay,” Suna says, his voice small.
“Okay.” Osamu’s hand presses against the small of his back. “We’re gonna be okay, you know.”
Suna hopes so. He hopes it so much that he might choke on the earnestness of it. “Yeah.”
Osamu knocks his head against Suna’s back gently, and it’s such a playful gesture that Suna chuckles. It’s out of place and it’s far from the right time, but it loosens the coil in Suna’s stomach a little bit, and Suna can breathe a little easier.
“We’re gonna be okay,” Osamu says. “We’ll get out of this.”
Even if Suna can’t say the words himself, the confidence radiates, and he nods along. “We’ll get out of this,” he says.
Because it’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done.
The expansive home improvement store a few blocks down suits their needs for the evening. Suna surfaces from the bathroom in a dark suit, identical to the one Osamu has changed into, and his button-down is pressed and unwrinkled against his chest. He appears bulkier than usual at first glance through the mirror, but the additional weight comes down to the bulletproof vest he wears underneath in case the situation turns sour.
The outcome already looks bleak, but as he turns to Osamu, loading his handgun, a sliver of hope blossoms in his chest.
Osamu glances over at Suna. “You look good, Rin,” he murmurs, his voice low. He tosses the other handgun, and Suna catches it before it falls onto the floor. “You always look good.”
“Thank you,” Suna says. The gun feels right in his hand. He sidles up to Osamu.
“What? You’re not gonna say I look good, too?”
“I would,” Suna murmurs as they depart from the restrooms and enter back into the main viewing area, “but I don’t think your massive ego needs it.”
Osamu pouts. He raises his weapon in the next second, and it almost makes Suna laugh seeing this threatening image of a man whining like a child who’s had his favorite toy stolen from him.
Osamu doesn’t need to say anything for Suna to twist on his heel and watch Osamu’s back. They move through the store with slow steps. The lighting is minimal considering it’s after working hours, but there’s enough for the two of them to be able to see their surroundings clearly. The third floor is set up with an open-plan concept, several makeshift rooms standing along either side of their path to introduce customers to new furniture designs, and a collection of mannequins are scattered several feet apart from each other.
Suna leans his head back and speaks low enough that only Osamu can hear him. “Osamu.”
“Yeah?”
“You look good,” Suna says, his throat jumping.
Osamu shoots him a cheeky grin ridden with desire, his face burning red, but there will be time for that later.
Now, they have to get out of here alive. Enough time has passed for the other assassins to catch up, and Suna bets they’re swarming the building. They won’t proceed with much caution, put at ease with the reminder that it’s two against their own reinforcements. They’ll be under the impression that a simple shootout will put an end to this, and they’ll return home with their pockets laden with cash.
Unfortunately for them, neither Suna nor Osamu intend on going down without a fight.
Several minutes tick on, and their movements slow even further when Suna catches sight of a flash of a black uniform near one of the emergency exits. He tugs Osamu by the sleeve and lowers them both down next to a kitchen display, covered in sleek new appliances uncovered with the dust and fingerprints sure to smudge if they were in an actual home. Osamu responds without resistance, and he leans out around the corner to determine how far away they are.
As Suna spins around to check behind them, he notices a stand set up on the kitchen counter. A knife stand. His lips curl up in a smirk before he can help it. This is what he’s talking about.
Osamu follows the line of his gaze before emitting a deep sigh. “Really? You wanna fight them with those?”
“Gimme, gimme, gimme,” Suna whispers, barely listening. He shuffles forward and peers over the edge of the counter long enough to count the knives inside. They’re sharp enough, even if they’re not as well looked after as the ones he typically uses on missions. They’ll do. He slides out the first and squats close to the ground as the footsteps grow closer.
Osamu taps his knee. Once. Twice.
Then, as a boot comes around the corner, Osamu shoots the assassin in the foot.
He launches backwards, screaming out in pain, and right as his comrade runs up beside him, Suna hops up from behind the counter and lets the knife fly. It lands in the other assassin’s neck, and his knees buckle as he falls to the ground. There’s another bullet, signaling that Osamu has finished off the first attacker, and Suna takes his chance to slide out three more knives.
Suna hides behind the opposite end of the counter at the spray of bullets that follow. Their location has been confirmed. Osamu hides behind one of the frames of the falsely constructed walls meant to imitate a real room, and he takes aim as the first of a trio storms forward. He catches the first by the ear, and it’s enough to throw him off.
His comrades do not falter, instead shooting off consecutive shots where Osamu is positioned. Suna leaps up from behind the counter and throws the first. From this angle, it catches the assassin on the right in the side of the neck, and he holds a hand up right before he loses all sense and collapses. Suna ducks down to avoid the bullets that aim for him, but he at least manages to divert their attention from Osamu.
Suna runs along the back of the counter and rises up at the other end. A bullet whizzes past his ear, and it’s enough to make his heart jump into his throat. His stomach clenches, but his grip is steady and firm as the second knife hits right above the vest. He has to aim these carefully. If he hits the vest, the impact is minimal, which leaves him a smaller stretch of skin to hone in on for the kill shot. Luckily, Suna is great at what he does. Adjusting his focus is no problem.
And—as another storm of bullets hits the last assassin—he recognizes that he’s not alone in this.
“Nice,” Suna comments.
“Not done yet,” Osamu warns, emerging from behind the wall. Sure enough, as he jerks his chin forward, there are more assassins running from either side of the store, and their attention is focused on the pair of them. “We run for the elevator. Got it?”
“What elevator?”
But before Osamu can clarify, the guns raise in their direction, and the two of them roll to avoid the onslaught. Suna tosses the last knife, not taking aim this time. He aims in their general direction, more to throw them off than to kill, but it works. The assassin at the front of the group rolls to avoid the weapon, and doing so disturbs the formation of the rest of his team.
As the group scatters, they become easier to pick off. Suna grabs his handgun and targets the lone assassin too slow to reach for cover. From the other side, he picks up on another stream of bullets, and he has to assume that’s Osamu’s doing. If he thinks too hard about the fact that they’re trying to kill Osamu as much as they are trying to kill him, he’ll sink into himself.
He can’t afford to do that. Not now. Right now, he has an objective: ensure that he and Osamu survive the night. As simple as it sounds, it’s proving to be difficult.
Suna shoots through the fake windowpane behind the wall and takes out two more assassins. When he looks again, he counts out three remaining.
Three. He can handle three. Three is easy.
Suna throws himself forward behind another barrier, and more bullets chase after him. Even when he’s tucked away and hidden, they continue in full force. He can’t use the window trick again.
Suna crouches behind his cover and takes his time shooting back when they answer. It’s a slow process as his mind works to figure out a solution, and it keeps them from coming any closer. When the realization hits him, he lets out a soft, “Oh,” that feels wrong in the midst of battle.
He doesn’t need to follow their plan or structure for how this is intended to go. He’s forgotten about that. He drags over a nearby cart, wincing as the wheels squeak, and he guides himself onto the bottom shelf. It’s a cramped squeeze, but in the end, he manages to kick his feet off against the floor. He can hear their lowered voices a few feet away, wondering where he’s gone, and right as one of them straightens, Suna pushes forward.
He glides past where they’ve hidden for cover and shoots them numerous times in the legs. While the shouts and screams rise up to the ceiling, Suna takes his chance to finish them off with clean headshots, and their bodies sag against the arrangement of cabinets. He clambers out of the cart, relishing in being able to stretch his legs even though he was only in there for a few seconds, and he straightens.
When Osamu runs up to him and grabs him by the wrist, hauling him forward in the direction of the elevator, Suna complies. His ears pick up on the telltale sounds of bullets being fired after them, but none of them manage to hit. Several come close, hitting the floor near Suna’s feet, and each time, he jumps a little higher than he did before. Osamu’s grip is tight on Suna’s, and he doesn’t slow even when he slams his hand into the button for the lift and the doors slide open.
He pushes Suna inside first, and Suna covers Osamu while he hides. The doors slam shut a few long seconds later. Swanky elevator tunes start up the second the lift drops down, and the two of them catch their breaths while the number changes with the difference in level.
With his handgun tucked away and his rifle in his hands, the entire atmosphere shifts. Suna grips his weapon a little tighter. “You ready?”
“’Course, Rin,” Osamu says easily.
The doors ease apart, and they’re greeted with a crowd of black uniforms. Suna hides behind the metal walls of the lift as he lets out his first round of bullets. Osamu does the same, his aim controlled and efficient, and a few assassins drop to the floor.
Osamu punches the button to shut the doors. For a few seconds, the two heave in place, their chests rising and falling in heavy motions, and Osamu clicks the button for the first floor. The ground floor.
“We’ll try this one,” Osamu mutters.
The elevator drops again, and Suna knows what to expect when the doors open this time. Except—this floor is less full than the others. The teams must have all swarmed to the third and second floors once they discovered their exact location. There are three assassins hanging out next to the elevator, but they’re unprepared and Osamu finishes them off easily.
“Go,” Osamu urges. He doesn’t have to tell Suna twice.
Suna sprints forward, even as bullets come from all sides, and he doesn’t know where he’s running. His gut instinct is to get somewhere safe, and as he ducks behind a wooden crate for cover, he knows he’s not safe right now.
The store erupts into mayhem, shots being fired from all angles, and although Suna tries to ward off the worst of them, it’s overwhelming. As many assassins fall, more surge up to take their places. It’s discouraging especially since it pushes that swell of hope he felt even further down until it’s somewhere too deep to reach. He can’t hold it easily.
The onslaught is never-ending, his muscles ache with exhaustion, and his mind strains from the mental exertion of having to readjust his aim time and time again. He wants this to stop. He wants it to be over. But every time he looks over at Osamu, his teeth gritted with a fiery expression to match, he manages to force himself forward a little more.
He might not be able to do it for himself, but he can do it for Osamu.
That is—until one stray bullet catches him in the vest. He falls back, knocked back from the force of it, and his hands fumble to see where it hit. He feels alright other than the jerk of pain that still reverberates through the rest of his body.
But his head hurts from hitting the floor, and he can’t force himself to sit up this time. He can’t force himself to take another shot. He doesn’t have Osamu’s endless stash of energy to fall back on. He can’t get around this.
He’s going to die here. The thought slams into his brain, and it sits there, settling amongst the other unpleasant realizations that come along with it. He doesn’t get to say goodbye to his sister. He won’t see Komori one last time. He never gets to have a real relationship with Osamu. They swirl around, eating at his insides, and Suna contemplates whether the bullet did get him because he’s starting to lose it.
But he’s here. He’s still here, and there’s a solid arm around his waist, dragging him to his feet. The hand against his side is warm and heavy and reassuring, and his legs follow Osamu’s lead, even as they move with urgency. For Osamu, he can push himself a little more.
Osamu guides him in the direction of a shed, and he kicks the door shut behind them, bolting it closed even as the structure shakes with the impact of new bullets. Osamu sets Suna down gently against one of the countless sacks of fresh soil, and his shoulders settle back as he eases himself into a sitting position.
“Where were you hit?” Osamu asks, tearing at the buttons of Suna’s shirt to assess the damage. “Lemme see.”
“The vest,” Suna says simply.
Osamu’s hands roam up his front as he shoves the shirt off Suna’s shoulders. It falls to the side, leaving Suna in his bulletproof vest, and Osamu locates the bullet where it’s lodged within seconds. He tosses it aside, and it’s only then with Osamu hovering over him that Suna spots the blood leaking from Osamu’s shoulder.
“Uh,” Suna says, one of his hands reaching for Osamu’s arm. “What is this?”
Osamu follows Suna’s gaze, his expression clearing. “Oh,” he says. His brows furrow. “I didn’t even notice.”
Suna drags his discarded shirt over and rips it apart. Even though there are intermittent sprays of bullets every few seconds, he takes his time. The assassins could spring on them at any moment, but at this current point, his mind is occupied with the sole task of patching Osamu up. Anything else is irrelevant. Thankfully, he knows how to handle injuries, having had to tend to most of his himself, and he ties up Osamu’s arm with a tourniquet until he has the chance to study it closer.
He doesn’t know when that will be, but their most pressing issue at hand is dealing with the horde of assassins swarming closer around them.
“That’s good, right?” Suna asks while he finishes tying up the knot.
“Yeah.” Osamu’s gaze drops downward for a split second, but he trusts Suna’s abilities. His eyes don’t linger before he reloads his rifle. “You do it much better than Tsumu does.”
“That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
Osamu chuckles. “Sorry.”
Suna dives over a pile of sacks and peers out through one of the holes in the structure. His vision is limited, but he catches sight of black uniforms, though they appear to be in the same position from the shed as before. He supposes it makes sense. The odds are not in Suna and Osamu’s favor. For the assassins charged with killing them, it’s a waiting game until either of them comes out.
Behind him, Osamu shakes off his own button-down until he’s left with his bulletproof vest as his only cover. He drags a hand roughly through his dark hair. “How’s it lookin’?” he asks.
“Terrible,” Suna says, the word blunt, because he’s always honest. In this scenario, Osamu doesn’t want him to sugarcoat the truth, anyway.
“Fair enough,” Osamu says. “Still, I like our odds.”
Suna leans back until his shoulder brushes against Osamu’s, and his steady presence at his side brings Suna instant relief. It’s like the pressure on his chest ceases, and he can breathe a little easier. Even with his shoulder bleeding through the rags of Suna’s old button down and exhaustion wearing down his features, Osamu looks optimistic.
“Wadaya say, Rin?” Osamu asks. “You regrettin’ not runnin’ when you had the chance?”
It would have been easier, Suna thinks. He could have left Osamu behind and restarted his life elsewhere. He could’ve made a new home for himself. Found a new name and identity. But it wasn’t what he wanted. It isn’t what he wants. Suna’s still getting used to the fact that sometimes it’s worth fighting for the harder things.
Because believe it or not, fighting by Osamu’s side feels like coming home. It’s not easy, but it’s his. It’s what they do. Even when they’re down bad, the stakes are high, and the odds are stacked against them, they can keep on going.
It’s all they know.
“Nope,” Suna says. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”
Osamu chuckles, inclining his head in Suna’s direction.
Suna takes the initiative for once, because if luck isn’t on their side, he might not get another chance at this. There’s no place he’d rather be, and there’s nothing he’d rather do right now than spend what could be his final moments with Osamu. He reaches a hand up, dragging Osamu’s jaw towards him despite the awkward angle, and his mouth catches Osamu’s in a sloppy kiss. His lips shine with spit and sweat, but Suna doesn’t care. When Osamu kisses back, it’s desperate and dangerous and feels like the moment of dodging a bullet by mere centimeters.
It ignites a different kind of fire, deep within Suna’s insides, and it takes tremendous effort to pry himself away, leaving one last lingering bite against Osamu’s bottom lip.
“Jeez, Rin,” Osamu says, his eyes crinkling with affection—the kind that Suna has taken for granted. “You gotta warn a guy before you kiss him like that.”
“Sorry,” Suna says, not sounding apologetic in the least. “I’ll kiss you like that again. If we survive.”
“When we survive,” Osamu corrects. He winks, and Suna’s heart flutters. “I’ll be waitin’.”
Suna smiles at him, despite the fact that he’s weary with exhaustion. “We move at the same time.”
“I’ll be right next to you,” Osamu reassures him.
Suna lifts up his weapon, and with one final look cast at Osamu, receiving a nod of encouragement, Suna kicks open the door to the shed. As predicted, they’re met with a storm of bullets, but the two of them have their own to answer with. With their backs pressed against each other’s, they storm out of the shed, each facing in the opposite direction as they spin around, and Suna keeps shooting. One by one, the assassins crumble around them, and a few bullets whiz past his ears, but unless one of them hits him head-on, he’s not stopping now.
Suna switches directions with Osamu, firing at the other set of assassins to the right, and wood chippings fly into the air with each shot that goes off. His aim is still precise, and he has nothing to fear as he holds his weapon high. Smoke curls around his face, until he reeks of gunpowder, and a few pieces of wood get stuck in his hair. Osamu doesn’t look any better, but he’s still standing, too.
Their numbers dwindle as Suna and Osamu keep firing. As each falls to the floor, Suna becomes more determined. He keeps going, even as his muscles ache and his limbs burn. When his chest tightens further, he still keeps firing. The smoke fills his lungs, making it difficult to breathe, and the stench of gunpowder reeks. But he forces himself forward.
Although it feels like an eternity passes before their progress is evident, the reality is that only three minutes have passed—three minutes strung with chaos and adrenaline and mayhem in a furious fight to pick the other off first. It’s taut with tension, and Suna’s ears ring by the time there are only three assassins left.
He takes out the first before forcing Osamu to crouch low as bullets soar over their heads. Osamu gets the last two shots off, and the final pair of assassins slump to the floor. While they remain in their hunched positions, their chests falling and rising in uneasy breaths, their skin soaked with sweat, Suna is hit with the realization that they won. They’re alive.
They get to live.
Like he promised, Suna kisses Osamu with everything he has.
A week later, Atsumu sits at their table in their dining area, his legs curled up beneath him, cradling a cup of tea between his hands. The image is so similar to the last time Suna saw Atsumu that it gives him chills. But no, it’s different now. Suna and Osamu are safe. They’ve earned this.
Still, it is unnerving to have Atsumu sit in their house without being properly invited beforehand. He never got along well with Atsumu before, and he doubts that their dynamic is going to subvert itself now with all of this new information out on the table. At least, Atsumu gives him begrudging respect—probably because he understands that Suna is partially responsible for saving Osamu’s life, and vice versa.
“So,” Atsumu says by way of greeting. “Good to see ya both in the flesh. Thought I’d have to scrap yer guts off the walls by the time they were done with the two of ya.”
“Nice to see you, too, Atsumu,” Suna mumbles. He raises a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. It’s shorter now: he cut it a few days ago on a whim, and the length is too short to tuck behind his ears anymore. It’s different, and he likes it. A lot of things are different now, besides his physical appearance.
There are plenty of new things to enjoy—like how Osamu calls out Rin every so often simply because he misses Suna or how they sleep pressed together in bed or how Osamu rests his hand on Suna’s back because he likes the feeling. There are lots of new things Suna has grown accustomed to doing, too—like brushing Osamu’s hair back from his face or hugging Osamu from behind while he’s cooking or resting his head against Osamu’s chest to hear the rhythmic beat of his heart. He likes it all, and he can’t fathom how he survived without doing these tender actions before.
This is what marriage is. This is what love is. It’s like peeking out over the waves, both parties reaching for that love at the same time, and he knows that better now.
“Yeah, well,” Osamu says, rubbing a thumb along Suna’s knuckles. “It all worked out.”
Atsumu nods. “It better have, considerin’ how stupid the two of you were.” Atsumu lifts his cup to his mouth and hisses at the steam that rises onto his face. His gaze rests on the pair of them before dropping to their intertwined hands. “So. Uh. How are the two of you, then?”
“It’s great,” Suna says before Osamu gets the chance to answer. His lips quirk into an easy smile, and he looks sideways over at Osamu. It’s as honest as he’s ever been, and he’s sure he’ll continue being honest with Osamu. How could he not—when his chest pulses full of love whenever he looks at him? “We’re great.”
“Yeah,” Osamu agrees. “We are.”
“Ugh. Gross.” Atsumu pulls a face. “You two are the worst.”
Suna sticks out his tongue.
He doesn’t care what Atsumu thinks. All that matters is what Osamu thinks, and he’s never been more assured of Osamu’s love for him. The rest doesn’t matter. He’ll never take Osamu for granted again.