Chapter Text
The beating sun is tanning the pale of Osamu’s nape; he just knows it. Maybe he should have used sunblock, but it slipped his mind in the midst of his kitchen panic. The metal cooler sweats between his hands as he speedwalks up the hill. He’s running late.
Suna is sitting atop the low wall when Osamu finally arrives at the school, huffing and damp around the collar. When he looks up from a packet of papers, he gives him a once over, curls the corner of his lips, and says, “You’ve looked better.”
“And I was about to tell ya how cute y’are today,” Osamu drawls. Suna dons sleek medic robes in navy blue, smartly put together with a white coat. He’s clean and wrinkle-free, but he pulls Osamu’s sweaty body in between his legs anyway and plants a soft peck to his cheek.
“Just today?”
“Just today and the day I first met ya.”
Suna stares. “Why’s that?”
“Hadn’t opened your mouth yet,” Osamu says breezily. “How’s the magic healy stuff?”
He hums softly, smoothing his palms down Osamu’s chest. The contact sets fire to the skin beneath his shirt and he squirms. “I’m getting better at stitching,” he offers softly.
Osamu doesn’t push it, merely tucks a strand of dark hair behind his ear and nods. There’s nobody else around, having left to find lunch someplace cool or retreat back home to study, so Suna allows it. Suna probably thinks he’s too soft beneath the heavy wash of Osamu’s loving, but he’s never met anybody more deserving of it all.
“Oh, here,” Osamu remembers suddenly, “this is for you.”
“A present?”
“An experiment.” He slides the lid open on the cooler he set aside and Suna peers in. Several pink popsicles, wrapped in plastic wrap are nestled in a bed of melting ice. Osamu watches carefully as Suna’s face lights up (subtle, though, like glass sparkling or fresh mint) and he plucks one out.
“You made these?” he asks, unwrapping it with nimble fingers. Osamu nods as Suna takes a soft bite. “Mm, strawberry.”
He fiddles with the button on Suna’s coat. “Wanted to make a strawberry syrup to drizzle over ‘em, but it didn’ turn out right,” Osamu confesses. “‘m gonna try again on this next batch.”
Suna’s reaching in for another. “You mean there’s more?”
“Yep.” A thought occurs to Osamu. “You should come over.”
The gold in his eyes turn mischievous as he licks a long stripe up the length of the popsicle. “Yeah?”
Osamu squirms again, hot under the collar again, and his mouth twitches into an embarrassed little smile. “Don’t be nasty, I just need a taste-tester.”
“I’ll be taste testing alright.”
They could move into the shade, but they remain close together under summer’s gem, snacking on the sweet ice. Suna doesn’t speak much of his studies, and instead he gossips about the others in his class; there're lots of “no-good cats” and “other sly foxes” seemingly prevalent. Osamu comments here and there, but for the most part he’s content to listen to Suna’s ramblings and admire the flush in his cheeks. He doesn’t always talk much and yet it’s the perfect opportunity to blatantly stare at him.
By the time they’re ready to leave, Osamu only ends up eating four and a half of the ten popsicles he made.
Suna is slinging his bag over his shoulder when he groans, “Is stinky gonna be there?”
Osamu shrugs, washing the stickiness from his hand in the melted ice water in the cooler. “Maybe? He might still be out workin’ the register for the old grizzly down the road.”
“Ugh. He should find a steady job for once.”
“Oh? I thought ya didn’t care about ‘im,” Osamu teases.
Suna rolls his eyes and lets Osamu place his wet hand in his. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He just needs to figure it out.”
Osamu casts a sidelong glance at him, but his expression is blank. Suna comes from a long line of doctors and nurses with potent healing abilities. It’s a gift that Suna has never particularly indulged in. He squeezes his hand instead and tugs him along. “Yeah, probably.”
They trudge up the hill in silence, sweating beneath an unforgiving sun. The water sloshes in the metal cooler as it thumps against Osamu’s thigh. At the top, others trickle into the streets, emerging from the relief of tiny restaurants and homes. Osamu’s mind drifts between the sound of Suna’s rare laughter and the pink flavor left on his lips.
“Osamu,” Suna suddenly interrupts.
“Sunarin.”
“Is it just strawberry?”
Osamu hums, pictures the contents of the fruit basket at home. “Yep. Did ya want something else?”
He’s already being pulled down a side alley drawn between a barbershop and a diner towards the business district. “Mangos maybe.”
Osamu can’t help the small grin that pushes it way onto his face. “Mangos it is.”