Chapter Text
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『 This is Osaka Calling and you’re reading an excerpt from our November issue 』
The Skulks. Ring a bell? If it doesn’t, worry not, for the beat of their latest single that has half of this city tapping its toes to it certainly will. Teenage Fantasia is fun—an eclectic miscellanea of purring indie, catchy pop, and a sprinkle of incorrigible rock—and you can tell the people playing it are having a damn good time too. After featuring on a short ad for one of Osaka’s oldest record stores, NORTH Records, the song became an unexpected hit, big enough to sell out more than a few gigs. Still, very little is known about this local phenomenon so, naturally, we got in touch.
Semi Eita, Ojiro Aran and Suna Rintarou are names that make up the trio. Semi is the man behind the raw, eccentric vocals, and he’s recently taken up the role of lead guitarist too. Ojiro’s bass lines are the reliable backbone of the melody while Suna holds perfect control over the rhythm section by rumbling freely around the kit with the buoyant spontaneity and mirth of a child in a candy store.
Did they ever expect to have a hit on their hands with Teenage Fantasia ? Not at all. In their own words, they’re just having fun, messing around , the true definition of a hobby band. Makes you wonder what they could come up with if they ever got serious but, alas, we found they have their hearts set on different pursuits. You might have heard of A.R.A.N., the up and coming artist in Osaka’s tattoo scene, known for his intricate, jaw-dropping blackwork. Or perhaps you’re into the analogue sound revival movement and you know about Suna, the dedicated record hunter who wants to run a record store of his own one day but whose home turf is, for now, none other than NORTH. Semi, on the other hand, spoke to us at length about his music studies, his belief in the power of music to overcome social barriers, and his dream of taking his music tutoring to the next level by reaching out to Osaka’s less advantaged youth. We might not need to spell it out at this point but they’re good, hardworking kids.
Their partnership with NORTH did not materialize out of thin air. The record store is the birthplace of the band and that is where they still rehearse and record, three years later. A collab was only natural. Those familiar with the store might know it underwent some management changes and we are happy to report, firsthand, that it is still under the attentive care of the Kita family, in the competent hands of their youngest offspring, Kita Shinsuke, a long time friend of everyone in The Skulks and their makeshift manager ever since the group started gaining traction about a month ago. That is to say, if you’re ever in the vicinity of NORTH, you might just find yourself crossing paths with any of the vulpes in The Skulks, if you know who you should be looking for—and they’re not hard to spot at all. Semi, with his ashy blond hair and dyed tips, often seen carrying a guitar case on his back; Ojiro, in all his 186-centimetre-tall glory and a smile made of sunshine; and Suna, all sleepy eyes and unconditional love for dark nail polish, high top Converse, and eyeliner so sharp it could put yours to shame. Additional fun fact: they’re all above 1.80 meters tall.
If up until now you have been wondering why there are only three members where there used to be four, so did we. When asked about it, the trio informed us that their lead guitarist is no longer in the picture due to internal conflict and that they’re actively looking for a replacement. Some might argue it was our job to pry further than that, but they did not elaborate and we were there to talk music, not gossip.
Now, on with the interview. Unsurprisingly, we met at NORTH […]
『 This article and interview are featured in their entirety in our November issue. Subscribe to our digital magazine or purchase a physical copy at your nearest corner store. The Osaka Calling team thanks you for your continued support of independent music journalism. 』
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“ Aran, Eita! Could either of you go get my spare drumsticks from the van?”
“Kinda busy here,” comes Eita’s muffled reply from the adjacent room. “You’ve been in there for the past hour, what the fuck are you doing?”
That’s a blatant lie—it’s been ten minutes—but time warps and expands before a concert, so what felt like an instant to Suna might have felt like a small eternity to his friend.
“This fucking eyeliner,” Suna hisses. He wipes a botched line over his eyelid for the third time that night and tries again. “Shit’s not agreeing with me today. Also, I’m half naked.”
Eita’s voice becomes clearer as he pops his head around the door, “I’ll go if you do my makeup.”
Suna feels an incoming eye roll but curbs it for fear of butchering his eyeliner a fourth time and further wounding his pride. “Did you just hear what I said?”
“Yeah, and I trust your worst makeup job will still be better than anything I’ll ever be able to do.”
Suna questions his misplaced sense of trust. “Fine. But if you end up looking like Robert Smith, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I would be honoured to look like Robert Smith,” Eita offers, taps his knuckles against the wooden threshold and then he’s gone to fetch the forgotten drumsticks, Suna assumes.
He’s finishing up his second eye a few minutes later when a silhouette materializes at the door, taller than Eita, broader than all his friends. But it’s the voice that ultimately breaks through his focus.
“Delivery for Suna Rintarou, drummer of hobby-band-gone-viral The Skulks?”
On the very edge of Suna’s peripheral vision, brandishing a pair of familiar drumsticks with a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, stands Suna’s most recent acquaintance. His face turns towards the new presence with little regard for the eyeliner brush that hovers just a few millimetres away from his eye.
“Oh. You came.”
Miya Osamu looks the same as he did last week—unnervingly attractive, that is—with the exception of the dark bruise around his eye and cheekbone that is now starting to yellow around the edges, a sign of slow healing.
“I remember being invited—was I not? Did I misinterpret the scribbles on the napkin and your drunken slurring?” He flashes a crumpled paper napkin that looks like it has seen better days as if to refresh Suna’s memory. Suna doesn’t need to wrack his brain to recall it, though. He remembers it—barely, but he does. Osamu continues, “Almost got my ass kicked by the bouncer when I showed him this and insisted we’d been invited, imagine that.” The sarcasm is audible in his voice as he looks at the suspicious-looking piece of paper pinched between his thumb and pointer finger. “Don’t think I can blame him, though.”
Suna turns on his seat and faces the mirror again, bringing the eyeliner brush back up to his eyelid to get the job finished. He shoots back dryly, “I’ll be sure to send you a formal invitation next time, maybe with your name printed in gold and an embossing stamp over it. My bad.”
He hears Osamu’s low chuckle from the door. “Save your budget, please. Just give my name at the door next time or something. If it hadn’t been for Eita letting us in, I think I would’ve had my ass kicked by now.”
“I was going to do that, but I haven’t heard anything from you since Sunday and you didn’t reply to my text yesterday confirming your presence so I figured you weren’t coming.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’m horrible at texting people and work’s been keeping me busy. This is a much welcome distraction, though,” Osamu offers, flipping a drumstick in the air and catching it again. “‘Tsumu hasn’t stopped yappin’ about you guys, by the way. He’s oddly excited about the whole thing. I think if you’d asked him to play tonight, he would have. Don’t tell him I said any of this, though.”
“Where is he?” Suna asks, belatedly realizing that Osamu’s presence implies, most likely, the presence of his twin brother.
“Went with Eita to greet Aran, you’ll see him around.” As if summoned, an ugly cackle cuts through the air, signalling the presence of one Miya Atsumu. “Or hear him, I guess,” Osamu adds.
With one last stroke of the brush, Suna caps his eyeliner and decides he’s done with it. There’s a little bump on his right eye that keeps it from reaching pristine perfection but it’s small enough to not be noticeable by anyone else but himself. All in all, it could be worse, given how much he’s struggled with it. He checks the time on his phone. Twenty minutes to showtime.
“Aran and I listened to some of The Black Jackals’s songs,” he comments as he rummages through his duffle bag in search of the specific black shirt he wants to wear in the midst of all the other black clothing he had stuffed in there for no particular reason. “They’re good, but Atsumu’s playing stood out. I was almost impressed.” Shirt located, he pulls it on and happens to notice the way Osamu’s gaze lingers on the plunging rips down the sides, deliberately designed (with a pair of kitchen scissors) to show off the tattoo of a kitsune that stretches its nine tails across his ribs, sinks its front claws above his hip, and bares its teeth at anyone who dares to look. Aran’s work. Suna doesn’t consider himself a show-off, but he’s quite proud to have his friend’s artwork on him and likes showing it to the world every once in a while.
Still standing by the door, now leaning against the doorframe, Osamu points Suna’s drumsticks in his direction, unbothered by having been briefly caught staring at Suna’s bare torso. “Word of advice,” he says, “don’t tell him that, or you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Suna walks up to him until the tips of the drumsticks poke his chest, and closes a hand around them. “Noted. Is there anything else I shouldn’t tell your brother? Why’d they split up?”
Osamu doesn’t let go of the drumsticks and gently prods them against Suna until he sways lightly on his feet. Suna can’t tell if it’s meant to hold the distance between them or meant to keep Suna close. “Creative differences?” He shrugs, “‘Tsumu isn’t the best at managing his interpersonal relationships.”
Suna raises an eyebrow. “Should we be worried?”
“Nah, he took the loss of the Black Jackals to heart, actually more than I expected him to, so he’s learned something from that. I trust he’ll behave.”
“Alright, I’ll take your word for it. I’m not the final boss he needs to conquer, though.”
“Who is?”
“Kita-san, our manager. He’s not so easily swayed.”
“‘s he around?”
“He’s out there somewhere, probably making sure everything is as perfect as it needs to be. You’ll meet him, eventually.”
“Here’s to hoping Atsumu doesn’t make a fool of himself, then.”
Osamu is very good at maintaining eye contact as they speak. His attention is unwavering. Suna would find it unnerving were the content of their conversation a little less innocuous.
“Does my eyeliner look okay?” he asks, only because they’re standing in such close proximity that he might as well. “Been looking at it for so long I can’t even tell anymore.”
That only makes Osamu stare harder , somehow. Suna, on the other hand, lets his gaze wander. Up close, his bruise fades from shades of dark purple to pale yellow, drawing attention away from the faint dark circles under his eyes that are most definitely not Suna’s fault.
“Looks good to me,” Osamu offers, then lets go of the drumsticks.
“Cool, thanks.” Suna twirls the drumsticks on his fingers before tucking them between his belt and the waistband of his pants to ensure he doesn’t lose track of them again. Then he raises his voice, enough to be heard over the muted ruckus of the bar just a few walls away, “ Eita, you have ten seconds to get your ass in here .”
“ Coming! ” comes the reply, though Suna can hear him warming up his voice across the corridor, making it clear he isn’t coming , at least not right away.
For a lack of a better thing to do, Suna walks up to the mirror and leans back against the vanity, checking the time again on his phone. He messes with the cap of the eyeliner brush and bounces his leg unconsciously. Osamu is looking out into the corridor, head thrown back as something had most likely caught his attention outside. Suna’s eyes catch on the well-worn boots he’s wearing and the way his dress shirt is tucked into his black denim pants, sleeves rolled up and the first buttons undone in an attempt to make it look less formal, like he hadn’t come here straight from the office. It works, almost, and he manages to pull off the contrasting style of the clothes rather well, but Suna would not be surprised to find leather shoes, a tie, and maybe a two-piece suit folded inside the bag slung over his shoulder.
But that’s not all. He notices something else; something new. Pressing against the thin white fabric of his shirt that stretches taut across his chest, free from the confines of the undershirt Osamu had most likely gotten rid of too—a nipple piercing. It’s subtle, a little barbell that hints at something but doesn’t necessarily steal the spotlight. Suna doesn’t think much of it, really—Aran has them too—it’s more the surprise factor that has him doing a double-take before Osamu crosses his arms over his chest and hides it from view. But while Osamu hadn’t looked too bothered about having been caught looking at Suna’s tattoo, Suna snaps his eyes back down to his feet just moments before the other man brings his focus back into the room.
He pushes the thought of nipple piercings out of his mind only to find he’s still bouncing his leg and fidgeting with the eyeliner in his hands, physical manifestations of the pre-concert jitters that he refuses to acknowledge. He’s almost glad when Osamu offers him something else to focus on.
“I read your interview with Osaka Calling,” Osamu starts. “Fun read.”
“Good to hear. They were cool enough not to include half the bullshit we said. None of us had a clue what we were doing.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Atsumu showed me some of your songs, too. I really enjoyed, uhm—the very last one on the album. Like, on the first listen. Instant replay.”
“Ah, the outro, really? Thanks.”
“Did Eita write it? I read he writes most of your stuff. The lyrics really did it for me.”
“He’s our songsmith, he writes the most, yeah.” Suna drums his fingers on the wooden vanity and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He could leave it at that; let Eita take the credit just this once. But— but , “But the outro is mine, actually. Hayato and I—we wrote it together.”
“Hayato?”
“Our former member, the lead guitarist Atsumu is meant to replace.”
The first draft of the song can still be found in one of Suna’s notebooks, littered with nonsensical doodles and unintelligible lyrics that never made it to the final song, memories of a warm spring afternoon that don’t taste as sweet as they used to. Suna resents how even saying his name still makes his stomach churn and his chest cave in.
“Oh, I see. It’s, uh—well, I couldn’t tell if it was a love or hate song, to tell you the truth, but it still resonated with me, to a certain point,” Osamu muses. “A push and pull of sorts.”
“Yeah, well, it’s both. Love and hate, push and pull. We had our ups and downs,” Suna admits. For months they’d soared and crashed and soared again, hacked and torn at each other, until push and pull turned to push and shove and push again. Until Hayato had dealt the final blow and Suna had crashed back down on his own.
The words come out of his mouth just a bit too harshly, against his will, and it visibly takes Osamu a few moments to assimilate their meaning. Eita saves them from a potentially awkward conversation by unceremoniously slipping past Osamu, into the room, and plopping himself on the chair next to Suna.
“Do your worst, Rin,” he urges.
Suna is happy to take the easy way out of a conversation he didn’t want to have. He straddles Eita’s legs with a resigned sigh and leans over him, bringing their faces close so he can visualize the shape of the eyeliner. Eita tilts his head upwards, observing the corners of Suna’s eyes.
“Liar. Your eyeliner looks flawless.”
“After a few failed attempts,” Suna adds absentmindedly as he brings one knee up onto the chair and half sits on Eita’s lap, one hand on his jaw to better angle his face. “See you after the show?”
Osamu only realizes the question is directed at him when Suna looks in his direction.
“Uh, sure. Meet you back here again?”
“Mhm. You can leave your bag over there if you want.”
“Thanks.” He shrugs the bag off his shoulder and drops it on the floor next to the door.
Eita struggles against the hand Suna has on his jaw to look at Osamu too. “We’re going out afterwards, you and your brother should come,” he pipes up. “It’s tradition,” if you can call the four times they’d gotten wasted after their four most recent packed shows tradition .
“Noted. I’ll pass the invitation along.” He takes a step back into the corridor, excusing himself. “Good luck, all of you.”
“Have fun,” Suna shoots back, and then he’s gone.
Eita is wearing the foulest grin on his face when Suna focuses back on him.
Suna squints. “What?”
“Your new friends are quite hot.”
“Help yourself,” he deadpans, earning himself a pinch on the back of his thigh. “ Ow! What’s that for?”
“They’re friends , not food, Rin. Besides, I am happily taken.”
“You started it. Now shut up and sit fuckin’ still if you don’t wanna walk onto that stage with only half your face done.”
—
Two in the morning finds them at a grungy metal club (Eita’s choice) that pulsates in shades of neon green. The walls are exposed concrete and every room looks the same, packed and loud. Suna isn’t lost but he gets the feeling he might be just a couple of drinks away from losing his sense of self. He’s making his back to his group of friends when someone stumbles into him and jostles him a couple of steps back.
It’s Osamu.
“Oh. Suna. ‘m sorry.” He steadies him with a hand on his shoulder despite not looking very steady himself, then steps close so they can hear each other over the music, breath warm against the side of Suna’s face. “D’ya wanna go catch some air? It’s fuckin’ hot in here.”
Suna takes note of his slurred speech and unsteady eyes, wraps a hand around his wrist and leads them through the thick of the crowd until they’re outside. The crisp night air is a much welcome change from the heavy atmosphere inside the club—curse whoever came up with the concept of basement bars and curse Eita, who constantly drags them to his favourite ones.
Osamu makes a beeline for the curb and Suna briefly assumes he’s going to empty his stomach’s contents, but he sits down instead, with his back against the nearest light post. Suna comes to crouch down next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder when Osamu sways precariously to the side.
“Osamu. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
No answer. Osamu has his eyes closed and now that Suna has his body somewhat anchored, it’s his head that lolls from side to side like a baby that can’t hold the weight of its own head, until it tips too far and the rest of his body follows. Suna curses as he catches Osamu between his arms and his bony knees meet the pavement to keep them from going down together.
“Oi, Osamu. Don’t die on me,” he tries again but the other man feels like dead weight against him. He’s out like a light. “ Fuck .” He shuffles around clumsily and somehow manages to slot himself between Osamu’s back and the lamppost, legs and arms on either side of him to keep him from falling over. The weight of him against Suna’s chest is stifling, too hot and entirely too close for comfort but Suna is too drunk to care, and so is Osamu, most likely. “ Hey . I can’t tell if you’re dead, sleeping, or passed out. Any of the last two is fine, just don’t follow the light if you see it, ‘kay?”
A pinch on his cheek seems to work. Osamu blinks a few times in quick succession as if he’s forgotten where he is, then adjusts his body into a better position and closes his eyes again, apparently having made himself comfortable. Against Suna.
“Sorry, I’m just—a sleepy drunk,” Suna hears him mumble.
“Well, you’re kinda crushing me here, you big Snorlax. Can’t sleep on me.”
Osamu grunts as if the mere thought of being awake offends him. “Talk to me, then.”
Suna heaves a sigh, as big as he can muster when he’s got a fully grown man napping against his chest, and tries to come up with something to say. Anything at all. Osamu beats him to it.
“The gig was a lot of fun,” he starts. “Invite me to your next ones. Or, hell, I’ll gladly pay for the tickets myself.”
“Thanks. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“I don’t know shit about, like—technical aspects, y’know?” Osamu continues, and it’s as if each word he speaks breathes life into him, “So my opinion might not be worth much, but I can tell you everyone in the crowd was havin’ a fuckin’ great time, ‘Tsumu and I included. And Semi-san—man...”
“He’s great, right?”
“Really knows how to work the crowd.”
“He can do better, trust me. Just wait until we get a new lead guitarist and he doesn’t have to worry about covering all the guitar parts, then you’ll see.”
“Funny, you really wouldn’t think that by looking at him,” Osamu comments and Suna huffs a laugh because he had once thought the exact same thing.
“Yeah, well— I think concerts bring out a different version of ourselves. That rings true for the people in the crowd and the people standing on the stage.”
Osamu makes his agreement clear by vehemently nodding his head. “You’re so right.”
In the times they’ve been together and in the few text messages they had exchanged, Osamu’s feverishly ecstatic persona Suna had met a week ago at the concert doesn’t exactly match his real-life laid back personality. And on that note, he imagines the real-life version of Suna that’s an expressive face you got there Rintarou has been quite the letdown for Osamu.
Silence follows. Osamu’s breathing slows down again after his sudden outburst of energy. Suna takes a moment to ground himself and control the dizzying feeling in his head that makes his vision spin. His phone vibrates in his back pocket and he whips it out, expecting to see Aran or Eita checking on their whereabouts. He’s wrong.
Hey , the text reads, from an unknown number Suna is all too familiar with. His heart turns to stone in his chest and sinks to his stomach. Dread takes over him, sticky and heavy like molten tar.
“ Fuck no ,” he mutters under his breath.
“Who’s that?” Osamu pipes up and Suna startles, having thought he’d fallen asleep again.
“... my ex.”
“Hayato?”
“Mhm. Yeah.”
“Not on good terms?”
Suna clears his throat. “Well, he cheated on me out of spite. Then we kicked him out of the band after I broke up with him, so—no, not on good terms.”
Osamu sits up abruptly and turns to face Suna, brow pinched with a frown. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Shit happens,” Suna shrugs but it feels forced. “We’d been going downhill for a while.”
“That’s still no excuse. And what does he want with hey at two in the fuckin’ morning, then?” They both peer at the lonely message on the phone’s screen. “Can’t be anything good. What do you even say to that?”
“I’m not sure if it even warrants a reply.”
“Right. Fuck him ,” Osamu grumbles with a lot more poison in his voice than what is to be expected from someone who was never directly involved in the whole ordeal.
He’s still sitting between Suna’s spread legs, torso tilted sideways, shoulder resting softly against Suna’s chest but no longer crushing his ribcage now that he seems to be wide awake and capable of holding up most of his own weight. Suna nudges his back with his knee to get him to look up from his phone. “Are you okay?” he asks, “‘s there something you wanna tell me?”
“I’m fine. Are you okay?”
A good question. He’s hurting, yes, though the edges of his heartbreak don’t feel as sharp as they usually do.
“I’ve felt worse.”
Osamu’s body visibly relaxes with a sigh. “I once got cheated on too, y’know.”
“Oh.” Oh. “I’m sorry.”
“‘s fine, happened a couple o’years ago, I’m over it. But I still remember how it felt. Fuckin’ sucks, doesn’t it? How long were you together?”
“Two years, give or take.”
“Harsh. You loved him.” Suna expects that to come out as a question but it sounds more like a statement. “It hasn’t been very long, though, right? So if you’re anything like me, you probably still do.”
It’s been a month, exactly. A month since Suna found out, three weeks since he told Hayato to fuck off for the last time and Aran and Eita let him know they didn’t want him in the band anymore. Suna closes his hand around his phone and looks off to the side, bites his lip and bounces his leg because it’s been a month and he’s still hurting and he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t be hurting anymore and he wants to stop hurting but he doesn’t know how to because he is still in love with the asshole that cheated on him and said asshole is now texting him at two in the morning and Suna finds himself fighting the urge to—
“Really fucks with your head, doesn’t it?” Osamu’s voice pierces through the trainwreck of thoughts in Suna’s head. “Being in love and wanting to be with them but knowing they don’t deserve you. That you deserve better.”
“How’d you get over it?” Suna regrets the question the second it’s out of his mouth, hates how pitiful it sounds, how pathetic it makes him look, how revealing it is of the hurt still thrashing inside him.
Osamu, however, doesn’t seem to think much of it. He starts counting off the fingers on his hand, “A whole lotta self-love. Self-preservation. A few headbutts from Atsumu—several, actually. A couple of rebounds, though I’m still not sure if those were any help. And most importantly, time.” He holds his open hand up to Suna’s face and wiggles all five of his fingers. Suna grabs his hand and tucks his ring and little finger back down.
“I believe I’m missing a few elements from that equation,” he says. “One, I don’t have a twin brother to kick me around. And two, rebounds are the last thing on my mind.”
Osamu dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Forget about the rebounds. Not important, kinda useless. Forget I even said that. And as for having someone to kick you around, I’ll gladly kick yer ass as many times as you need me to.” His ring and little finger spring back up while he folds his thumb against his palm. “So there you have it,” he declares. A little recipe for getting over a broken heart. Main ingredients: self-love, self-preservation, a few headbutts, and time. Optional: a couple of rebounds. The magic formula. He makes it sound easy. But if Osamu got over it, Suna can get over it too. It’s a nice thought to have, a good reminder that heartbreak doesn’t last forever, even if it does feel that way sometimes.
The phone, now dangling limply from Suna’s hand, almost forgotten, vibrates with several incoming texts.
» You’ve been rejecting my calls
» But there are things I need to tell you
» So hear me out Suna
» I miss you
Suna almost gags.
“Oh, here we go,” Osamu huffs, eyeing the [typing…] indicator on the screen. “Should I make you a little bingo card with the things he’s most likely to tell you at this stage?” Suna shoots him a confused look. “I’ve had this conversation before, Suna. Different people, same bullshit excuses. Didn’t know what they were thinking, the other person didn’t mean anything to them. Maybe they’ll argue how much they still love you,” he puts air quotes around the word love , “and how much they still think about you.”
The phone vibrates again and a wall of text that takes up most of his screen follows.
“Wow,” Suna breathes, incredulous both at the contents of the message and at how surprisingly soft the blow is compared to what he had been bracing himself for. “Looks like we got ourselves a bingo.”
“Told ya. And look, there’s more.” The [typing…] indicator pops up again. “I feel like he’ll top it off by telling you how terrible he feels because no conversation with a cheating man ever ends without at least a sprinkle of self-pity and emotional manipulation.”
Expectation hangs in the air as they watch the screen. Suna feels—strange; detached from the situation, like the messages aren’t meant for him, like they’re somehow being deflected before they have a chance to reach him. He wonders how much of that he can attribute to the alcohol in his blood and the man sitting between his legs.
A few more texts come through. Osamu is right once again. Not once does he apologize. The very last one contains a thinly veiled threat implying that Hayato will show up unannounced at NORTH should Suna fail to get in contact with him. Then the [typing…] disappears and the phone remains dead silent.
Osamu deflates. “I’d ask you if we dated the same guy but I’ve learned they’re all the fucking same. The cheating ones, I mean. Don’t fall for his bullshit.”
It’s odd, but Suna feels almost relieved, in a way. Relieved that Hayato’s texts hadn’t caught him alone in his bedroom when he’s usually at his most vulnerable. Had that been the case, Suna imagines he would be having a very different reaction. Luckily for him, though, and perhaps not so luckily for Hayato, he’s drunk, sitting outside a club with a drunk (new, warm, chatty!) friend sitting between his legs assuring him Hayato has no power here and that everything is going to be okay. None of it hurts as much as it should, at least for tonight.
Osamu looks up at him. In his current inebriated state, his eyes are open wide, big and round, a distinct contrast from the way his eyelids droop, almost sleepily, when he’s sober. “Are ya gonna answer?”
Suna locks his phone and pockets it. “No. I’ll deal with him eventually, but not tonight.” Osamu offers him a lopsided grin and two thumbs up. Suna studies him. “You know, Osamu, you strike me more as the chatty type of drunk, not the sleepy type.”
“Oh, I alternate between the two. One of my many talents. See, if I lean back like this,” he explains, rearranging his body so his back rests against Suna’s chest again, “and if no one talks to me for a while, I will most certainly fall into a deep slumber.”
“Yeah. Please don’t,” Suna mumbles but allows his own head to hang back against the lamppost, closing his eyes for a moment and realizing just how exhausted he is. Perhaps not going out on concert nights would be the wise thing to do (and it comes as no surprise that is exactly what Kita does), but this isn’t the first time he’s doing it and he knows it won’t be the last.
Neither of them actually fall asleep but they rest quietly for a while, comfortable against each other in a way that only drunk people can be. Osamu watches people walking by, Suna looks up at the sky and welcomes the warmth of another body as the night’s chill starts nipping at this exposed skin. Osamu hums and taps the beat of a song that filters out of the dark depths of the bar behind them, fingers drumming against Suna’s bony knees; Suna fingers random chords into Osamu’s shoulder and strums imaginary strings against his ribs. But Osamu can’t play the drums and Suna doesn’t know how to play the guitar so Osamu laughs, loud and full in a way that sounds a lot like his brother. Suna chuckles at the thought but doesn’t tell him.
Then Suna’s phone rings. This time, Eita’s name flashes on the screen.
“Eita,” he greets, words still laced with remnants of laughter.
“ Where the fuck are you? Atsumu says there’s no one at his place. ”
Suna’s brows furrow in confusion. Eita’s end of the call sounds suspiciously quiet. “What do you mean? I’m sitting outside with Osamu. He was feeling—” in the mood for a nap but that’d be a hassle to explain, “—weird.”
“ What. ”
“Why, where the hell are you?”
“ Home. ”
“What.”
“ Everyone thought you two had left. Together. Osamu said he was leaving and we saw you going out with him so, you know, we just—assumed. ” His words slur together one after the other. He sounds plastered and the rest of the group was probably not faring much better.
“You assumed . Right.” He has an inkling of what it is his friends might have assumed. Whether that assumption says more about them or him, he doesn’t know. “You owe me for the taxi ride home,” he concludes, then hangs up with a curse under his breath.
Osamu sits up and turns to face him. “Taxi? ‘s everythin’ alright?”
“No. Our stupid drunk friends put two and two together and reached the brilliant conclusion that we’d left together. You told them you were leaving , then they saw me going out with you so—yeah.”
“I don’t remember saying it like that. And why would we even leave toge—oh.” He halts, chews the realization over in his mind, tilts his head. “Oh?” and that one single syllable is able to somehow condense the full meaning of a very different question: all this time, they thought we were fucking?
Suna sighs. “Yeah. Oh .”
Osamu checks his phone and finds a missed call from Atsumu from a few minutes ago.
“Atsumu left as well, didn’t he?”
“He did,” Suna confirms.
“Of course he did. I give him food and shelter and he leaves me behind at the first opportunity. Fuckin’ rascal.” He gets up onto his feet with surprising ease given his intoxicated state and extends a hand out to Suna sitting on the ground. “Let’s go home, Suna.”
—