Chapter Text
To fall in love would be to fall – falling in love like falling into water. Five summers ago, falling off the edge of the boat to the sound of his mother’s laughter as she flirts with the skipper.
Suna crashes through the waves and sinks, and he can see the sun and its dazzling light as it glitters above the surface far, far, far away. Sudden heart-in-throat fright before the water parts to cradle him as he falls.
It’s as if time slows to a crawl, viscous and honey-slow, and the world a slow-spinning top. The water swirls in front of his eyes. There’s startling clarity as he blinks through his lashes, through the sting of salt, and bubbles escape from between his lips. It’s quiet down here, below the surface and worlds away, just his heartbeat in his ears.
The most memorable part of this dream, and it's just a dream, is the feeling of the ocean slipping between his outstretched fingertips as he reaches, reaches out to grab at nothing.
He wakes when he finds he can’t breathe.
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Eventually, Osamu gets a girlfriend. It’s not Saitou, who’d barely been able to look Osamu in the eye the entire time her hands had been on him, measuring inseam and shoulder width for the school festival. Saitou, who still attends every volleyball game they play because she’s in the marching band, attends most of their practices to watch Osamu score service aces against his own teammates.
It’s not Suna, either, obviously, because Suna doesn’t like Osamu that way, doesn’t want to kiss him any more than anyone else in the room, doesn’t want to hold hands under the table or anything like that. Not Suna, because he’d said no, not quite in so many words.
No, Osamu’s girlfriend is from the class down the hallway, and Suna doesn’t know her name because he never asks. Osamu doesn’t tell him either, probably because he doesn't.
When Osamu first breaks the news to him, they’re in his room, Atsumu having stepped out to use the bathroom. It’s become a habit, sort of, since that first time they’d met outside of school and volleyball, to head home together after practice, and sometimes Suna says yes when he’s invited inside.
His eyes are wide and dark. Grey like the snow that gathers by the side of the road in winter. Something in the twist of his mouth daring Suna to refuse, as if he would. His uniform is messy, one side of his collar tucked in the inside of shirt, twisting up his loosened tie, and he fiddles with it now.
“Oh.” Suna’s mouth parts then, surprised, like he rarely ever is, and his eyebrows lift. “Wow.”
Osamu blinks at him and brings his hand up to gnaw at a hangnail.
The moment passes and Suna shakes his head, rights himself again. “Congrats, man.” He says, belated. “Wow,” he repeats and reaches out to pull at the collar of Osamu’s uniform distractedly, uncrumpling it and straightening it back. “I’m happy for you.”
“I still,” Osamu swallows. “You know,” and makes an incomprehensible gesture with his hand. “But she’s cute and really good at cooking, and she likes me and – “
“Can’t wait for something that’s never gonna happen, right?” It leaves his mouth before he can stop the words, and it comes out sharp – maybe even cruel if he’d changed the emphasis – but he can’t help himself. They’re both thinking it anyway. No point in pretending what’s happened didn’t happen. Before Osamu can stiffen, though, Suna continues.
He breathes in and then out, slowly, through his nose and feels the tension leave his shoulders, voice gentling. “Hey, no, I’m joking, Osamu. I get it, seriously.” Suna smiles, and when he finds it comes easy, lets himself relax into a full grin. “And you shouldn’t say stuff like that, y’know, it’s not fair to your girlfriend. Gotta be careful or this’ll be the shortest relationship of your life, and I’ll never let you forget it,” he teases.
Osamu doesn’t say anything, eyes searching, and after a moment, he must find what he’s looking for because the corners of his mouth lift in a tentative mirror of Suna’s smile, his expression a little resigned.
“Okay, well I know it’s not like I need your permission, mom.” Osamu’s expression remains stoically unchanging even when Suna kicks him in the shin. “But I just wanted you to be the first to know.” He rubs his hand along the back of his head and looks out the window, embarrassed. “So you don’t think this changes anythin’… I’m not leaving you or whatever.”
Suna flushes, and now he’s the one glancing away, feeling too hot.
“Really,” he sighs, digging a knuckle into the space between his eyebrows. “I wish you’d forget that.”
“How can I forget?” Osamu grins and leans into his space. “It’s not every day Suna Rintarou deigns to show us mere mortals that he has a heart.”
Suna groans and buries his face in his arms. “Whatever, I'm glad she's taking you away, I forget you Miyas are all the same.”
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“It won’t last a week,” Atsumu says, bitter, dark eyebrows drawn together in a furrow. He’s glaring angrily at the softball fence, just past where Osamu and his new nameless girlfriend are sitting, sharing lunch. Despite Osamu’s earlier promise, it feels like Suna’s been seeing less and less of him. He drums his fingers against the tabletop. It’s nothing he hadn’t known.
Atsumu sucks hard at his juice box and continues. “Bet you ten dollars.”
"What?" Suna blinks and refocuses.
Atsumu groans, throwing the plastic straw wrapper at his head. He misses, and it flutters to the ground, and he complains as he bends at the waist to pick it up, before knocking his head against the underside of the table as he straightens. Suna snickers.
"I said 'Bet you ten dollars it won't last a week.'"
"Oh."
The younger chances a glance at the other, thumbnail picking absently at a whorl on the bench.
“Sure.” He’s got faith in Osamu. “Your loss.”
“Ugh, you always take his side.”
“You sound jealous.”
“As if! You two can play tea party all by yourselves, I don’t care, I’ve got tons of other people needin’ my attention.” Which, okay, not what Suna meant. He lifts a chopstick to point in the direction of the couple.
“Jealous of him dating, dumbass. Something you want to share?”
Atsumu splutters. “Whatever, same thing! If I wanted a girlfriend, I’d have one. Unlike some people, I know how to prioritize though, and the team needs me at the top of my game right now.”
Suna hums.
Atsumu growls ineffectually and crushes the juice box in his fist before tossing it onto his table. “I’m serious. I only hate it ‘cause they’re insufferable, and ‘Samu can’t afford to be so distracted when the loser can’t even beat me for service aces on a good day.”
“Right.”
“You wouldn’t get it, Sunarin, you only hafta see this shit at school.” This is true. So far, Osamu’s kept the time he spends with his friends firmly separate from the time he spends with his girlfriend, keeping both spaced apart like the little squares in a bento box. “I gotta see Samu’s dopey face at home when he texts her.”
Atsumu's mouth becomes increasingly animated when he gets into his moods, and Suna watches it distractedly, notices the drop of apple juice at the corner of Atsumu’s lip. It holds on stubbornly as the other seethes.
“You’ve got a little, uh.” Suna points at Atsumu’s mouth, and the other sticks his tongue out, misses, and continues as if uninterrupted.
“He walked into the door once, y’know, ‘cause he was too busy staring at his phone. If he doesn’t get his head on straight and fucks up on the court, you’ll see.”
Suna rolls his eyes and reaches out to thumb at the other’s lip before wiping the dampness off on the shoulder of Atsumu’s shirt.
“Thanks.” Atsumu’s eyes flicker to the wet spot on his shirt, and he brushes at it distractedly. “And the bastard didn’t even tell me - ” Ah. “It was so obvious I figured it out myself ‘cause he kept skipping out on our practices.”
He’s steadily growing redder as he complains, the flush on his cheeks bringing out a faint tawny dusting below his eyes, tokens from sunnier days.
“Starting next week we’re gonna be together all the time anyway,” Suna muses, dragging his eyes from Atsumu’s freckled nose to meet his gaze. It's interesting, Osamu’s skin is clearer than his twin’s. If one day Atsumu and Osamu return to their natural hair color, part their hair the same way, and stand side by side and did not speak, Suna thinks he would still be able to tell them apart – from the front, or the back, from their shadows, from their calluses and their mouths.
It is only natural to pay attention to the things one likes, and Suna is very observant.
“Spring Tournament’s coming up, and Coach’s got our schedules packed to our necks. You’re gonna be eating your words and wishing you were seeing less of us before long.”
“That’s not what this is about, stupid,” Atsumu lies. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what that bastard gets up to, it’s just that now I’ve gotta practice my serves by myself.”
“Sure,” Suna says, rolling his eyes again, but he leaves it be. Atsumu is too obvious, both him and his brother really. Heart on sleeve. His gaze slides back to the tree where Osamu and his girlfriend sit under, the sunlight dappling their overlapped legs bright like the spots on the back of a fawn.
Osamu reaches over to tuck her hair behind her ear, his movements rough and self-conscious. She smiles, and Suna absently thinks of the phone calls he’d made in the past weeks, sitting in his call history, each one zipping 424 kilometers all the way to Tokyo, to slowly pile up in voicemail.
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In the end, there’s no time to dwell on his mother’s recent period of silence or on whatever’s going on with Osamu because just as Suna had said to Atsumu, the Spring Tournament is coming up.
With Kita as their unyielding captain and the team hungering for a win after the close call with Itachiyama last year in the finals, every second of their free time is spent practicing. Suna gains new bruises on his knees and aches in muscles he never knew existed. Bruises on his bruises. A new appreciation for clean laundry.
“Strongest challengers” may sound cool, but what people shy past acknowledging is that what it really means is “second place,” and none of them are satisfied with staying just that. Every news source calling them that feels like a slap to the face. When you’re first, you’re a winner, and anything less is all the same – second, third, last.
For a while, the shared bloodlust is enough to push even Suna to reach further than he ever has, and he stays behind long after practice ends to work on his blocks with Oomimi, who, even though he has graduation to prepare for, accepts his requests each time with a careful, indulgent glimmer in his eyes.
He focuses on strengthening his torso especially because in a team full of players known for being exceptional like the twins and Aran, he needs something to stand out, and a nice side effect is that it gives him a killer body. Gin’s jealous, Suna can tell, and it amuses the team when they compete to finish the longest planking times.
However, like most streaks of motivation that Suna has, it fades out as quickly as it comes, simmering out like smoke dissipating in the air. Sometimes there’s no reason for the crash, sometimes there is. This time it comes in the form of a red “See me after class” written boldly at the top of his midterm essay.
The hours are starting to catch up with him - he’s tired and sore, his grades are falling, his calls are ringing straight to voicemail, and he just wants to go home and feel sorry for himself. One day off won’t hurt, and frankly, he thinks he’s good enough anyway.
“Enough” is not a word that exists in Atsumu’s vocabulary.
After a short warm-up game, most of the team scatters to different sections of the gym after Kita gives them free reign to pick and choose what to work on, and the only ones left on this court are Atsumu and Osamu, currently arguing over something inane, a couple of first years still floundering over which group they want to join, and himself.
Suna’s been sulking because he doesn’t want to be here, and Atsumu’s angry because Suna doesn’t want to be here. The blonde’s been giving him the cold shoulder the entire day – as much as is possible that it doesn’t interfere with practice, he still has goals – which bothers Suna more than he’ll ever admit.
He watches, exasperated, as the twins’ volume reaches new heights and chances a look at the clock. Twenty minutes left until practice is over.
Suna takes this time to quietly edge towards the open gym doors, hoping to give himself an early day off. He’s got another paper due tomorrow that he’d been putting off, and if he doesn’t get home before dinner, he’s not going to finish.
Also, in his defense, he’s gotten approving comments from the coaches these past few practices, and he thinks he deserves a break. Volleyball’s fun, but it’s not his life.
Before he can take another step, however, a voice rings out loud and accusing.
“Where ya headed, Sunarin?”
“Out,” he says and purses his lips. “I’ll practice setting by myself or something.”
“Yeah, right,” Atsumu throws back. “You’re just gonna go home and sleep.”
“Okay,” he acquiesces. “Sure. And then I’ll practice after. I’ll be back tomorrow anyway, and you can yell at me then.”
And of course there's no way Atsumu's letting him go that easily. Not when he's not in a particularly forgiving mood. “That’s fuckin’ selfish. You don’t see any of us here skippin’ out, do ya?” He gestures broadly to the rest of the team. One of the first years hesitates forward, footsteps wavering as he decides whether it’s worth it to intervene, and his eyes dart away to see if any of the upperclassmen have noticed yet.
Atsumu sneers.
“Or maybe we oughta let one of the first year scrubs take your starter position, ‘cause clearly you don’t give a fuck about being a team player, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, give me a break.” Suna rolls his eyes because that’s a bluff if he’s ever heard one, and Atsumu doesn’t take easily to being dismissed, so he steps forward threateningly, knuckles going white from where he’s curled his hands into fists.
Suna shifts his weight onto his back foot, readying himself to hightail it out of there if Atsumu proves he’s as dumb as he looks and decides he wants to get physical. Suna’s always been more of flight sort of guy when things come down to it, and he can’t say he’s regretted it yet.
Before either of them can so much as move another step, Osamu cuts in. “’Tsumu, leave him alone.”
Easily baited and always ready to fight with his brother, Atsumu turns around, attention shifting.
“Right, because you’re so unbiased, aren’t you, you –”
Osamu’s expression folds into something long-suffering, and something unfamiliar flickers in Suna’s chest before he tamps it down, irritation rising to the surface instead. He could’ve handled it by himself, and now this whole thing is turning into some sort of circus spectacle. From the corner of his eye, he can see Kita turning his head, yellow lamplight gaze surveying the scene.
He feels trapped.
Kita is starting to walk towards them, and Suna quickly assesses his options. He clicks his tongue, frustrated, more than he should be. “Forget it, I’m staying.” He cracks his neck obnoxiously just to watch Atsumu twitch, fervently avoids Osamu’s eyes, and walks back to the net, dropping the argument like he doesn’t care, as twin stares turn to watch him go.
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She finally calls him back after practice one day as he’s packing his things for the Spring High National Tournament. He watches his phone vibrate against his bedsheets, the screen lighting up to flash his mother’s name. Something dark and tight slithers to a rest behind his ribs, coiling tight, and squeezes, and his eyes burn as he waits for it to finally go silent.
The screen goes black, and then all he can see are the smudges his fingers have left behind and one meandering crack stretching from top to bottom.
His heart catches. Call me again, he thinks. Call me again. I’ll pick up. I swear it.
She does immediately, as if she'd heard, and this one he answers on the second ring.
“Mom,” Suna breathes out. He turns and flops down on his bed, his gaze catching on the mirror in the corner of his room as he does so. He's smiling, and he brings a hand up to touch his lips.
“Rintarou,” she croons and the tension straining his shoulders slowly loosens. “I’ve missed you so.”
“I’ve been calling,” he accuses, falling back into their easy rhythm.
“I saw!” And of course she did, his calls had to go somewhere. It feels weird, realizing that they hadn't all just been dumped into some bottomless cavern, never to be heard. “I saw, baby, and I’m sorry I missed you.” It’s almost enough, that she missed, misses him, too. “There is so much I have to tell you, but I want to hear how things are for you, first! I listened to all of your messages, sweet. You’ll forgive me?”
“Mom,” he doesn’t whine but it’s a near thing, feeling ridiculously relieved that his calls have been received, aren’t little messages in bottles floating out at sea. “Don’t say that, it’s embarrassing, there’s nothing to forgive.”
“Oh, but I feel so bad, baby. I’m such a terrible mother,” she frets, and now he’s the one soothing her because of course he understands. He’s not alone because he’s got his grandmother and his classmates and the volleyball team. He’s got Osamu and Atsumu, and they’re so loud it’s impossible for anyone to feel alone around them.
The thing is, his mother can go back on her promise to call at least once a week, can cut their phone calls short, can leave him in a city kilometers away from her, and in the end, Suna will always forgive her. Because it’s what she needs, because she had to cut her own childhood short to have him, and she deserves a second chance to chase her dreams and take back from the industry that had left her behind.
It would be hypocritical if he blamed her, he knows.
“Rintarou,” she says after he tells her the basics of what's been going on with him and they've lapsed into silence, and there’s weight in her voice now. She picks her words carefully as if afraid of spooking him, and it’s less the fact that she’s being cautious that gathers his attention but the fact that it’s his mother uncharacteristically hesitating. “Do you remember how I told you I’d met someone?”
Vaguely, he recalls. It’s been a while, and he tells her as much.
She gives a nervous little laugh. “You remember,” she insists. “You thought he sounded nice. He has a daughter in elementary school, and she likes volleyball, too, and you thought that was cool.”
And now he remembers because he remembers being so pleased that his mother had thought of him, then, had thought to mention the daughter of a friend simply because she knows he likes volleyball. That she still thinks of him even in the hours when they don’t speak on the phone and that he is still an important part of her life.
“We’re thinking of getting married.”
The air stills.
“What?” It comes out more a gasp than a question, and he tastes ashes in his mouth. He clears his throat and almost chokes on the effort. He tries again. “What?”
“Next year, maybe, nothing immediate!” she hurries to amend, clueless to his inner turmoil. “It’s still in the works. It’s been a lot of trial and error, trying to figure everything out, which is why I haven’t been able to call back as much as I’ve wanted to.”
He blinks a few times and doesn’t speak, staring at an unraveling thread by the foot of his bedsheets.
“Aren’t you happy for me?” She sounds tinny and faraway, like she’s speaking through one of those paper cup and thread phones he used to make, and suddenly Suna becomes aware of just how distant they are.
There’s a note of worry worming into her voice now, when he doesn't speak. “If you don’t like it, just tell me, Rintarou.”
“I don’t even know him,” he replies, forcing the words out of his mouth. And then it registers. “He has a daughter?”
“Oh," And then she's sighing, "Oh honey, you have nothing to worry about.” Because of course she knows what he means even when he doesn't really say it, and when she wants to, she understands him better than anyone else, because they're the same. "You’ll always be my favorite.”
He wants to protest that that’s not what he means, but it dies in his throat before he can even think of where to begin.
“You can come visit! I’ll buy you a ticket this weekend, and you can come meet everyone.”
Suna can’t think of anything he’d want less at this very moment.
“I can’t. I’ve got a volleyball tournament.” He clenches the fabric of his shorts in his hands. “I just told you that.”
“Oh,” she exhales, dismayed, before barreling on again. “Next time, then! You’ll love them, and they already love you. I’ve shown them your photos, and Hana so wants to watch one of your games.”
He must say something in return, but he doesn’t remember what, only that their conversation lasts for just a couple more minutes before he’s hanging up.
It’s strange, he thinks, how lately speaking with his mother always manages to make him feel so much worse.