Chapter Text
—OSAMU—
Osamu doesn’t know how long he stands there in the back alley of his restaurant, smoking through cigarettes until his throat burns.
He doesn’t remember if he took the bus, drove, or walked back to Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s place.
He knows a few things though.
The first: he is exhausted, and as he lays across the couch in Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s living room, he feels tension in his shoulders release into the couch cushions.
The second: he can not keep living like this. He’s suffering, the people he cares about are suffering with him, his business, the restaurant he’s poured years of blood, sweat, and tears into, needs him. No more of this.
The third: Atsumu and Kiyoomi are shameless heathens.
Osamu has a pillow pressed over his face attempting to drown out the muffled, yet very distinct, moaning coming from down the hall.
And although he is thoroughly disgruntled at the turn of events of having to listen to his brother get-some, he can’t help but mumble into the pillow,
“I probably deserve this shit.”
And all of it, the weariness, his exhaustion, the sheer audacity of having to listen to his happily married brother and brother-in-law, makes him chuckle.
For the first time in many nights, Miya Osamu sleeps soundly and, blessedly, dreamlessly.
The next morning, Osamu is woken by a sweaty, socked foot in his face.
“Get off my couch, we have a guest room for a reason.” As Osamu bats Atsumu’s foot away from his face, he blinks into the early morning light streaming through the window.
Atsumu has clearly just gotten home from his god-awful early morning run, slightly damp from sweat, but a blessed two mugs of tea steaming in his hands.
“Fuck off, Tsumu.” He grumbles. Then, taking the warm cup of jasmine tea in his hands as he scoots over to make room for Atsumu on the couch, “Thanks.”
“So, talk.”
“Ugh. I don’t know I’m just … ” He drags a palm down his face, attempting to scrub sense into his pores, “ ... confused. Angry. Hurt.”
“Fer sure. That makes sense, all valid feelings.”
“Fuck, I hate that ya have yer shit together.”
“I’m yer older brother, I have to be here to give ya my worldly wisdom and life experience.”
Osamu huffs a laugh, “Never thought I’d see the day.”
He looks around the living room, at the series of pictures from Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s life, their Olympic’s photo front and center, Atsumu’s smile beaming, Kiyoomi’s small grin warm.
“Where’s Kiyoomi?”
“Oh, it’s our day off, he likes to read in bed fer at least another hour. Catch up on the news and shit, it’s pretty cute. Then we’re gonna go to the market and pick up groceries. Ya know, like adults.”
Atsumu knocks into his shoulders, a familiar gesture that speaks volumes to Osamu.
It’s support. The unconditional kind that only they know. The kind that says that they would move mountains out of each other’s way if that was what they needed, but also, the steadfast belief that if what the other truly needed was the push to climb said mountain, that they would be beside the other, ready to climb and jeer him to the peak.
It gives Osamu what he needs to find the words he hasn’t been able to find since that fateful day.
“Tsumu I… I don’t know how ya do it, you and Kiyoomi.”
“More specific please, Samu.”
Osamu gestures at the room around them, the stills of happy faces frozen forever, “Ya two got this picture-perfect weird situation goin’ on. Yer happy, and I… Fuck I don’t know how to look at ya and not feel jealous of what ya got goin’ on.”
Atsumu hums, sipping his tea before mumbling, “I get how ya feel.”
“Quit lyin’ Tsumu, yer half of Japan’s ‘Most Photogenic Couple’.”
The mug Atsumu’s been sipping on lands hard on the coffee table, startling Osamu.
“Listen, yer gonna have to knock it the fuck off.”
His eyes are hard and set, not an unfamiliar look to Osamu, but the way Atsumu’s jaw is set leaves him taken aback and silent, so Atsumu presses on, looking dead set on him.
“First, I do know how ya feel cause I watched ya with Rin fer years, and I was pretty sure I would never be able to have what ya had back then ever. You two were the high school sweethearts of all of Amagasaki and I was yer dumbass brother who couldn’t land an actual date until I was 18. Secondly, don’t you dare make it sound like my marriage has been easy, cause it’s been hard.”
Atsumu releases any remaining fire out in a sigh, leaning back into the couch, crossing his arms and looks at a photo on the far wall. It’s from their wedding day, taken from a distance. They’re in the middle of the dance floor, totally caught up in each other, grinning, mid-laugh, and dancing like absolute fools.
Osamu watches as a small smile creeps across Atsumu’s face.
“Omi and I are only good cause we've worked at it, Samu. We've messed up enough times that we know how to move on and move forward together. My marriage is not perfect, it’s been riddled with spectacular failures, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“How did ya make it? How do ya keep makin’ it work?”
“Lotta things Samu. We go to a relationship counsellor once a month, that’s helped a ton. We make a little date out of it. We’ve learned to choose each other and what we have over winning arguments that don’t matter in the long run. Helps when yer a stubborn asshole who’s married to a stubborn asshole.”
Osamu sips his tea, thinking. Atsumu watches as he mulls it over in his head. It’s a usual routine for the two of them. Atsumu’s the talker, the rambler, Osamu prefers a slightly more thought-out approach.
“But whatever Rin and I had all those years ago didn’t work out like that. He’s in love and he’s happy and I’m…” He gestures around to the couch, his slept-in clothes from the night before, all the evidence of his loneliness.
“In love but fuckin’ miserable?”
Atsumu’s tact has always been disastrous at best. Osamu shoves him a little, spilling his tea a little in the process.
“Hey! Come on, am I wrong?”
“No but with Rin–”
But Atsumu cuts him off, fixing him with one of those looks.
“No more comparin’ whatever this is with you and Sunarin or me and Omi. What makes ya happy when yer with Meian ?”
And that’s it, isn’t it?
When it comes down to it, Osamu was happy with Meian, with Shuugo.
The moments spent in the kitchen watching him burn eggs, the furrow in his brow when he’s working on a particularly hard crossword, the look in his eye when he listens to Osamu break down every single thing that happened at the restaurant that day. The moments of in-between, building blocks between picturesque moments, all the little moments he’s been looking for, wanting for.
"I don't know exactly what there is between you two, but I do know that just because something breaks doesn't mean ya can't make it into something new and maybe even a little bit better." Atsumu smiles fondly to himself, thumbing the golden ring on his left hand as he speaks.
"Besides," he locks eyes, losing the softness that was there a moment ago, "yer a fuckin' adult and it's time to learn to talk about yer feelings. At least get some closure. Meian looks like a zombie and obviously feels like garbage, and he probably should, but ya never know what might be on the other side if ya give yerself a chance to be vulnerable with the guy."
Fuck, Osamu thinks, he’s going to have to thank Atsumu one day for being a mature human and that’s irksome.
"But if he makes ya feel like this one more time, no one's gonna stop me from buryin' him in one of his fuckin' pastures. I will dig him a grave of cowshit."
“Don’t put yer hands in shit, Tsumu, yer husband will murder me.”
Atsumu chuckles, finishing off his tea, letting a silence fall between them once again.
Osamu sighs deep and starts zipping up his hoodie he slept in.
“I should go check on the shop, I think I left Tadaaki to close up last night. Feel like I owe it to the staff to manage the lunch rush.”
"Make yerself somethin’ before feedin’ the masses, Samu.”
“Yeah, yeah…” As he rises from the couch, he notices Atsumu furiously typing on his phone, “Who are ya textin’?”
“Omi, of course.”
“… Tsumu he’s literally in the next room.”
“Yeah but I can’t say this out loud.” He says as if this should be obvious, but Osamu is still clueless.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
"Samu, I'm gonna be very honest with ya, besides wantin’ to see ya figure yer personal shit out, I need ya outta my house for a bit.”
"Why?"
"Ya don't wanna know."
Wrong answer, cause now he needs to know.
"Tell me."
Atsumu raises his brows at this. "Ya really don't wanna know."
"Thought we had no secrets?" He crosses his arms as he says it, he will be winning this one.
Atsumu carefully puts his phone on the coffee table facedown and looks Osamu dead in the eyes.
“Omi’s gonna bite someone’s head off if he doesn’t rail me through a wall pretty soon.”
Osamu inhales sharp but maintains a cool head because he can still win dammit.
"Liar, I literally heard ya last night." It was awful, like hearing your parents going at it but worse because that was his gross brother moaning. These two were rich, why did they not have better walls?
Atsumu sighs, and fixes him with a look as if he were talking to a child.
"That was just some sweet love-makin’ Samu, I’m talkin’ about gettin’ railed . Like bend me in half and-”
"Stop! Please. Forget I asked. I'll be outta the house. How do ya even text him somethin’ like that?”
Atsumu shrugs, picking his phone back up and unlocking it, “Got some nudes saved up for moments like this.”
Samu groans as Atsumu’s phone dings with a response. Why does he even ask? The grin that creeps across Atsumu’s face as he takes in whatever Omi’s response is is frankly, a nightmare.
“Samu, ya should get outta here.”
“I’m goin’, yer the worst.”
“Stress relief is important!” Atsumu cackles from the couch as Osamu makes his way towards the genkan.
As he slips his shoes on he hollers down the hall towards the door of the master bedroom, “I expected better from ya, Kiyoomi!”
“Leave faster.” Comes a loud grumble from down the hall.
Before he closes the door, he makes eye contact with Atsumu, mouthing a quick thanks , which is returned with a wave of a hand, a warm, supportive smile, and a no problem.
Atsumu and Kiyoomi are indeed a perfect storm. Messy, vulnerable, and cracked right open in front of each other. They’re not easy. But relationships aren’t simple, they are not built on only sunny days, and are not tested on mild weather. There are moments where they are simply two people standing in the eye of a hurricane, determined to weather it.
Maybe it’s time, he thinks, squinting into the morning sunlight.
And that day, he makes it to his restaurant, he sweeps the floors, preps the rice, opens the shop, and thanks his staff for their hard work over the past week.
He doesn’t text or call Shuugo, but his finger gets closer and closer to hitting the ‘call’ button, hovers for a few seconds longer every time.
It’s progress. It’ll take time.
—SHUUGO—
Meian Shuugo is a good, solid, dependable guy. He’s been in an emotional slump, sure, but he’s a strong leader, a tidy home-owner, a terribly patient captain to every high-octane monster he’s shared a locker room with. He’s reliable and responsible, all of these are wonderful qualities that Shuugo possesses.
So how did he get here, sitting alone at a booth in a bar on a Friday night, sweating buckets through his favourite argyle sweater? Osamu used to tease him that it was his ‘Dad Sweater’, the memory makes him wince and sip at his beer.
He’s stressed. Sad. Petrified. Frustrated. Terrified.
It’s a lot more than he’s used to feeling post-win, but earlier today was their first game back since ‘the incident’, now almost two weeks ago. It makes sense that there’s a lot going on.
They had won in four sets, barely. Kiyoomi’s on a limited rotation as a pinch-server for the next week until his hand properly heals, but the monster still pulled off back-to-back service aces when they needed it. Atsumu has had to make due with one of the second-string spikers instead of his husband, he’s good enough to not let it phase him but his eyes kept flicking to the bench between every play. Shuugo just worked to keep everything running smoothly.
It felt good. Volleyball has that effect for him. And leading his team gives him something to focus on. But once it’s done, it all comes crashing back in. He got to forget about everything with Samu for a second, the media shit show, this impending meeting with—
“Hey.”
And there he is.
Suna Rintarou, slightly hunched, hands in his hoodie pockets, bored expression, with those eyes Shuugo’s had to go head-to-head with over the net hundreds of times at this point.
“Good game against the Hornets today, was nice to watch.” At Shuugo’s questioning look, he continues, shrugging, “Toya enjoys watching IIzuna and Kiyoomi play each other when he can, worked out nicely before they hung out tonight.”
“They have a cousin thing tonight, right?”
“Yeah, Toya will drag him out to some new restaurant, they’ll gossip for a few hours, Kiyoomi will have a few too many drinks and they’ll end up calling their moms for a family FaceTime.” Suna snorts.
Shuugo has to pause, because that’s a very specific version of the man he knows.
“ Miya Kiyoomi will have a few too many drinks?”
“Toya’s a good influence on him.” Suna says with a sharp grin. After a moment, it softens, “He let’s people loosen up, let their guard down. It’s nice.”
Ah. Yes. Shuugo knows that feeling. Trusting someone enough to let yourself be seen without any of the usual guards the world encounters.
“Hey, no more of that hundred-yard stare,” Suna slips into the booth across from him, “you look like shit.”
Shuugo scoffs.
“Gee. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Oh yeah, he forgot how much of a little shit Suna Rintarou can be.
Suna signals at a server and soon has his own fresh bottle. He begins peeling the paper label off of it immediately, fidgeting. The silence trickles on for a few more seconds.
“Yer actin’ weird.”
“Sorry, just don’t do the advice thing very often, and you’re kind of intimidating.” Then, taking in his appearance, “The sweater’s a nice touch though. Very Dad-chic.”
“Samu… Samu says something similar.”
Suna lets out a tch sound, “Course he does. Well,” he crosses his arms, leaning back, “let’s do this. Let me guess: He caught feelings, he didn’t say it outright, you got hurt cause you also have feelings, but I’m going to assume you also didn’t say it outright, so both of you made each other sad and now neither of you are talking to each other.”
Shuugo feels himself leave his body in this moment, ascend to the ceiling of this bar and look down at himself, at his choices, all the decisions that lead him to sitting across from this snarky boy and being perceived on a Friday night.
“I’m going to take your silence as a sign that I’m right.” Suna shrugs, “I know Samu, he’s not really built to do ‘casual’. He’s too driven, stubborn, whatever you want to call it. And you’re just too easy to read off court. That and…” his eyes drift down to the twisted and crushed label of his bottle, “... well you know we dated. I know he’s kind of shit at talking when things get tough. Unless Atsumu is physically wrestling it out of him.”
Shuugo can’t help but chuckle.
“I think he puts up a pretty good fight.”
Suna sighs, “He does, but he won’t ever see it that way.”
“What does that mean?”
Suna takes a pause, eyes looking past Shuugo and seeing something inside his mind. He lifts his bottle to his lips and swigs a thought together before laying it back down on the countertop and speaking slowly, eyes still somewhere else.
“I think somewhere around high school, Samu got this idea in his head that he’s a supporting character in his life. Like, that Atsumu is the sun and he’s a shadow. Which isn’t true, at all. I mean, you know that, I know that, but I don’t know if he’s ever grown out of that belief.”
“He loves Atsumu, cares about him, and I don’t think Samu’s ever resented Atsumu for burning brightly, but it’s like… in his head he doesn’t see that just because Atsumu is an attention-grabbing solar flare, it doesn’t mean that he’s any less significant in the sky.”
Huh, Shuugo thinks. That makes sense, in a way.
“I still messed up though.”
Suna shrugs, “Yeah, probably, but people mess up. Talk to him, make sure he hears it. It sounds like you both need to take a lesson from the jerk-Miya-husbands and be a bit more blunt with each other rather than wallowing in your own ‘what-ifs’. And if it doesn’t work out, then at least you can say you actually gave it a shot rather than this tip-toeing devotion you’ve been doing for months.”
Shuugo really wishes he could blame the flush in his cheeks on a few too many drinks, but this is his first beer and he isn’t quite used to this kind of interaction.
God, it sounds good to do all that. He wants to try. He wants to be the guy who might mess things up but tries nonetheless.
Like when he’s playing volleyball. It’s inevitable that the ball will drop, that a play will go wrong, but there’s always another chance.
Fuck, Shuugo thinks, maybe it really is that simple.
“Okay, fine I get it, I hear ya.”
Suna appraises him silently, eyes scanning. Shuugo hopes that whatever he sees passes whatever inspection he’s being judged on at this moment, because he finally feels a little more sure of himself.
“Good, next rounds on me. Got at least another hour before I get drunk dialed by Kiyoomi for the shovel talk.”
And they sit in their little booth, sharing stories from their teams, picking away at each others techniques as fellow middle-blockers. Shuugo tells Suna about bringing Osamu to his parents farm for the birth of the calves, Suna brings out his phone to share old videos from the twins wrestling matches in high school.
And yes, an hour passes before Kiyoomi calls with a very serious, slurred voice demanding Suna’s intentions with his cousin.
It’s nice.
And later, after Suna has left to join his boyfriend, and Shuugo is on his way home, he realizes that the tension, the fear, has lessened.
It’s replaced by a tiny, flickering kind of hope. Still tense and loaded, but in a way that promises relief on the other side.
Their talk sits with Shuugo through the night. He gets home, throws his Dad-Sweater into his hamper, makes himself a cup of tea, and goes to bed with his head running through it all.
The next morning, he goes on his early morning run, dusts his entire apartment, takes out his recycling, helps his elderly neighbour down her front step, and starts up his coffee machine for a fresh pot.
As the old faithful machine chugs along, his mind sets itself.
So Miya Osamu thinks of himself as someone destined for the background.
Not on his watch, Shuugo thinks, pulling his phone out.
Since it all happened, when trying to reach out to Samu, he’s hit the ‘call’ button, but this time, uncharacteristically, he decides on a different approach.
It’s time to show Miya Osamu that in Shuugo’s eyes, he’s the brightest star in the sky.
–ATSUMU–
They’re lying in bed, drinking their morning tea, Omi on the last chapter of his book, Atsumu scrolling through his lurker twitter account timeline.
Atsumu’s phone pings in his hand with a notification from Instagram.
@meian_shuugo4 has posted a photo
The post in question looks like a classic notesapp apology, screencapped and posted to Meian’s personal profile.
I want to address the rumours from the past few days.
Actually no, I don’t want to address them. But I have too, because that’s the right thing to do, or the responsible thing to do, I don’t know.
I made out with a woman in a club, you all freaked the hell out. I went home that night to someone else, someone who means a lot to me.
Sometimes, when we find the things we want in life, we don’t take the straight path forward in attaining them. Maybe cause we’re scared that we’re wrong for wanting so much, or the fear that just because you’ve found it doesn’t mean you’re going to get to have it holds us back.
I’m about done with that feeling.
So if you’re a gorgeous entrepreneur who’s one hell of a smartass, with the worst taste in jokes, but the best taste in food, I would really love to take you out for dinner that I promise not to cook.
As a date. To be clear.
- Shu
And there, in the corner, is the little ‘tagged’ icon, and as Atsumu selects it, a little name pops up:
@OnigiriMiyaOfficial
“Huh.”
“What is it?”
Omi hooks his chin on his shoulder, reading the post before humming, “They’re really dramatic, aren’t they?”
Atsumu tries really hard not to laugh, he does, really, but Omi doesn’t miss it.
“What?” He pouts, drawing back.
“ They’re dramatic? How’s yer hand doin’ Rocky Balboa?”
Omi stills for a moment, before standing and leaving the room, calling over his shoulder,
“Divorce."
Atsumu is caught between laughter and his desperate need for attention from his husband, yelling without standing, confident his voice will carry.
“Babe, come on! I was just jokin’! Come back!”
“Drama Queen.”
“Babe!” He whines, echoing through their home… dramatically.
And he looks back at his phone, the post made just a few minutes ago, smiles to himself, and sets it down on the side table before following his husband into the kitchen.
Whatever’s going to happen next is out of his hands.