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“Hey,” Keiji says, dropping a copy of this week’s Shonen Biz on the table in front of Osamu. He drapes himself along Osamu’s back, pressing a greeting kiss to his cheek. “You should read this.”
“You know I always do,” Osamu says, turning his head to return the favor. Welcome home.
“Yeah, but you should really read it. Very closely.” Keiji reaches over his shoulders to flip through the pages, leaving it open on the table when he finds what he’s looking for.
It takes Osamu a second to realize what is so exciting about this particular page, but when he sees it, he’s pulling the magazine even closer to glance over the words again and again. He feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes and wonders, damn, when did I get so sappy?
Editor: Miya Keiji
“Fuck, baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion, “I’ll never get tired of seein’ that.”
Keiji removes himself from Osamu’s shoulders to slide into his lap with a pleased smile. Osamu welcomes him happily, taking Keiji’s hand to smudge kisses all over his knuckles, lip catching on the wedding ring gracing his left hand. Keiji just laughs on the onslaught, and it shoots a streak of adoration through Osamu so bright that he can’t not kiss him.
Their moment is ruined, as moments tend to be ruined recently, by their front door slamming into the wall with an outraged, “Fuck!”
Osamu pulls back and drops his head into Keiji’s shoulder with a groan.
When Miya Osamu was a kid, he was terrified of snakes.
When he was a teenager, he feared for the future. The vague unknown of life after high school petrified him.
As a young man and new owner of his own restaurant, stupid adult things like taxes and employing teenagers scared him.
What Osamu did not realize is that his greatest nightmare would come as an adult in the form of his fucking twin brother and Suna. Or his twin brother and Suna fucking. Whatever.
The fucking thing is not a recent development. They weren’t officially together in high school (thank God, Inarizaki VBC would have imploded), but he knows they hooked up a few times. He’s not stupid. They stayed behind at practice to “help clean up the gym” one too many times for the two least helpful people Osamu knows.
But the living together in the apartment next door thing, that’s new. And it’s also the worst thing to happen in Miya Osamu’s twenty-three years of existence.
The stars just so happened to unfortunately align so that their neighbors were moving out at the same time Atsumu and Suna made the only adult decision of their life so far to find some permanent housing. Keiji, ever helpful and polite, mentioned this fact to Atsumu, not knowing the chaos this would unleash on their perfectly happy, domestic, calm, AtsumuandSuna-less life.
Keiji removes himself from Osamu’s lap with a knowing smile at the intrusion, sliding into the chair next to him. Osamu makes sure to snag his hand before he gets too far and turns to face the hurricane that has decided to wreak havoc on his life this evening.
“What’re you doin’ here?” he snaps.
Atsumu slams the front door shut with almost the same intensity that he flung it open with. “That little bitch locked me out of the apartment.”
“I’m assuming ‘that little bitch’ is your boyfriend?” Keiji asks.
“We’re not datin’,” Atsumu says, as if he hasn’t been living with Suna for the past three years, calling Suna stupid shit like “hot stuff” and “babe” for the past three years, bringing Suna home for New Years for the past three years.
Osamu rolls his eyes. “Well, then what the hell are you two doin’?”
“We broke up,” Atsumu says and saunters into the kitchen.
“Again?” Osamu groans.
There are a lot of annoying things about Suna and Atsumu’s relationship.
They love to let themselves into his apartment without warning and steal leftovers from the fridge. Their apartment looks like it's inhabited by fifteen year olds, and everytime Osamu comes over, they have somehow lost the bottle of Febreze he’s bought for them. Their favorite pastime is this annoying game where they pretend like they’re talking shit on Osamu when the three of them are out together, even though Osamu knows they’re just whispering random shit to each other to fuck with him.
But the most annoying thing of all is that Atsumu and Suna break up almost monthly, and Osamu, as the resident best friend and twin brother, gets to deal with the fallout. Every. Single. Time.
“That’s the second time this month,” Keiji remarks.
“Yeah, I’m aware, thanks.” Atsumu has made his way back from the kitchen, balancing a bag of takeout on a tupperware of onigiri. “Do either of you know how to pick locks?”
Osamu and Keiji shake their heads in unison.
“Fuck, guess I’m breakin’ the door down,” Atsumu sighs. “You and Keiji have fun with your crossword puzzles or whatever.”
And then he’s gone.
“I wonder what it was this time,” Keiji hums, swiping a thumb across Osamu’s hand.
“Who cares?” Osamu asks and returns his attention to his husband’s name typed in fine print on the glossy pages of the magazine.
Suna shows up at their apartment the next day. “Shows up” as in “lets himself in with the spare key Osamu regrets giving him”.
Even though they’ve broken up, he’s wearing Atsumu’s sweatshirt, which Osamu only knows by the grace of doing laundry in the same washing machine as someone else for eighteen years.
“Is he here?” Suna asks, and when the two shake their heads no, he ambles over to the couch to squeeze himself between them. “What are we watching?”
“The news,” Keiji says, and though Osamu knows his husband is very particular about personal space, he doesn’t lean away. Osamu smiles at the two, beyond happy that the two get along, and always have.
“Exhilarating,” Suna remarks, unsparing with the sarcasm, but he stays put.
Even with Suna’s psuedo-rapt attention on the screen, Osamu knows what he’s actually here for. After a few minutes, he gives in with a sigh, “There’s ice pops in the freezer.”
Suna smiles and smacks a loud kiss on his cheek, then Keiji’s, pushing himself off the couch to journey to the kitchen.
When he settles back down, he’s got an ice pop for each of them.
Osamu’s phone vibrates in his pocket.
From: Atsumu
> family dinner tonite at our place!!! don’t forget!!!
To: Atsumu
> Didn’t you and Rin break up
From: Atsumu
> rin and i r adults. we can handle it
> we r making a lovely home cooked meal 4 u
“Are you sure you two still want to have dinner tonight?” Osamu asks.
Suna nods. “We’re mature.”
“You locked him out of the house yesterday.”
“Well, that’s what he gets for deleting my Animal Crossing island.”
Osamu stares at him, waiting for a punchline or some variant of just kidding! He soon realizes nothing of the sort is coming. “Wait, that’s why you broke up?”
“It had four stars,” Suna defends.
Osamu looks to Keiji for support, but his husband just shrugs. “Sounds fair to me.”
Suna grins at Keiji, a strange expression on his usually tired face, but one that’s become a lot more familiar over the last three years.
Entering the Miya-Suna residence is always an adventure.
Keiji’s fist is raised in a knock, but a crash from the inside has him hesitating. They hear a muffled, “Get the fuck back here!’ followed by, “Don’t bite me, fucker!”
Osamu, filled with chagrin knowing he’s the reason Keiji is subject to these two so often, forgoes the knocking and shoves his spare key in the lock.
They’re greeted with the sight of Suna pinning Atsumu to the ground. Atsumu’s got a thumb shoved in Suna’s mouth, who’s got a hand wrapped around Atsumu’s throat. They’ve stopped their wrestling match to stare with wide eyes at their two guests.
“You guys’re early,” Atsumu says.
“No, we’re not,” Keiji replies, stepping out of his shoes.
Osamu sighs, shutting the door behind him. “This better not be a sex thing.”
Suna takes his hand that isn’t pushing Atsumu into the carpet by the neck to pull Atsumu’s finger out of his mouth. “It’s not a sex thing. We broke up.”
“Right,” Osamu drawls. “How could I forget.”
Osamu hears the microwave beep from the other room, and Suna releases Atsumu to go check on their “home cooked meal”. Osamu resigns himself to another family dinner consisting of Hot Pockets and Kraft mac and cheese.
He’s pleasantly surprised to see Suna carrying plates of actual food to the card table set up in the living room until he recognizes the “home cooked meal” as the leftovers that have been slowly disappearing from his fridge.
“Sorry, Keiji, I know you’re disappointed it’s not Top Ramen again,” Suna says, setting the plates onto the table.
“It’s a wonder you two aren’t dead yet,” Keiji says.
Atsumu, who until this point has still been lying on the floor, rises to take a seat on one of the folding chairs. “I’ll have you know that Rin and I are both professional athletes who take our health very seriously.”
“Obviously,” Osamu says as he pulls out a chair for Keiji.
“How come ya never pull out chairs for me, Rin?” Atsumu questions.
“Because I don’t like you,” Suna replies and quickly kicks the chair out from under Atsumu, who falls to the ground. Osamu can feel Keiji wince next to him.
“I hate you,” Atsumu groans from the floor. “This is why we broke up.”
Suna pulls Atsumu up from the ground by the arm. “No, we broke up because you’re a selfish asshole,” he says, which Osamu thinks sounds a lot more dramatic than the actual reason.
“I hate you,” Atsumu repeats once they’re face-to-face.
“You mentioned that,” Suna says and promptly sticks his tongue in Atsumu’s mouth.
“I feel like we should leave,” Keiji says. Osamu couldn’t agree more.
It’s barely noticeable at first. Keiji’s looking over the last few pages in the manuscript he brought home today while Osamu washes the dishes from their actual dinner tonight when they first hear it, a slight buzzing sound that easily goes ignored.
It grows louder, and Osamu’s heart drops along with his sponge when he recognizes the beat pulsing against the wall.
Fuck.
It’s the sex playlist.
“I guess it was a sex thing earlier,” Keiji says from the table as he comes to the same conclusion. “Seems as though they’ve made up.”
“Seems like it,” Osamu grunts and scrubs the plate he’s holding a little harder than usual.
The sex playlist is still vibrating through the walls when Keiji gets up for work.
“You don’t think they’re still...” Keiji questions from his place by the coffee machine.
“I’m tryin’ very hard not to think at all right now, actually,” Osamu mumbles as he cleans up breakfast. “Where are all of our damn tupperwares?”
“Crazy how things just disappear,” Keiji hums, coming up beside Osamu to run a hand along his tensing back. “It’s almost as if someone sneaks in and takes them.”
“They’re drivin’ me crazy, baby,” Osamu sighs, leaning back into the touch.
Keiji’s hand moves to run down his arm and catch Osamu’s hand in his. “I know,” he hums. “I think I’m headed out.”
Osamu walks him to the door, hands still entwined, presses a series of kisses across his face, and sends him off with a, “Love you, sweetheart.”
Keiji smiles at the words, he always does, and gives Osamu a goodbye of his own: a smile pressed against a smile and a soft murmur of, “I love you too.”
He knocks, because he’s a decent fucking person.
“Come in!” Suna coos from inside, an innocent-sounding invitation that, upon further thought, probably should have caused him to worry, but he’s tired and just wants his damn tupperwares.
Osamu pushes the door open, and is immediately welcomed by a gush of water to the forehead. He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face and shaking the wetness from it.
“Sorry,” Suna says from behind the barrel of a water gun, though the smirk he wears looks anything but sorry. “I thought you were Atsumu.”
“I fuckin’ hate you,” Osamu says. “I’m here for my fuckin’ tupperwares you keep stealin’.”
“You’re here to get tupperware? That’s, like, the most old man thing ever.”
“Sorry that I actually care about my stuff,” Osamu says, eyeing the stained couch pushed up against the wall. Next to the couch, he notices a Twister mat spread open on the floor. He remembers the sex playlist playing all night long, and tries very hard not to connect the dots.
Suna follows his gaze. “Sexy Twister,” he says with a smirk.
“I fuckin’ hate you,” Osamu repeats as he pushes past Suna to enter their kitchen. Suna follows him, stashing the water gun on the bare counter. Osamu would be impressed by the cleanliness of the countertops if he didn’t know that the only reason the kitchen is clean is that they don’t actually use it.
As Suna hoists himself onto the counter, Osamu thinks about the friend he knew in high school- quiet, deadpan, analytical. He wonders if Suna from high school ever thought he’d be in a relationship like this, ever thought one day he’d have an apartment and matching grins and a fuckin’ sex playlist with Atsumu.
“Can I ask you about somethin’, while I’m here?” Osamu asks, rummaging through cupboards and stacking his missing tupperwares on the counter.
“Fuck, are you trying to have a feelings talk?” Suna groans. “You know I hate feelings talks.”
Osamu ignores him and continues on with the conversation. “Are you sure you wanna be with Atsumu?”
Suna narrows his eyes, obviously not expecting the question. “Why do you ask?”
“You guys break up all the time,” Osamu explains. “Are you sure that you’re happy?”
“I’m ecstatic,” Suna says, his usual blank expression on. “Can’t you tell?”
“I am beggin’ you, Suna, to talk about your feelings with me without being sarcastic for once in your life,” Osamu says. He closes the final cupboard and turns to face Suna. “I just think ‘Tsumu brings the worst out in ya-”
“You two are identical, aren’t you?”
Osamu nods. “Yeah, but-”
“Have you considered that I’m the one bringing out the worst in him? Or that we bring out the worst in each other?” Suna asks. “Who knows, maybe Atsumu would be the one watching Jeopardy and doing couples yoga if he was knocking boots with Keiji.”
The thought nearly brings shivers to Osamu’s spine. “Please don’t ever say that again.”
“Sorry,” Suna says, sounding extremely un-sorry. “You know most of the time we’re faking it, right?”
“Fakin’ what?”
“The breakups. We do it to steal food from your house.”
Osamu’s brain malfunctions at Suna’s confession as the door opens and Atsumu calls out, “Suna! Where the fuck are you!”
“Kitchen!” Suna responds. He winks at Osamu as he pulls both the water gun and himself off the counter.
Atsumu rounds the corner, eyes widening at the sight of his brother, before Suna cocks the gun and takes the shot. The jet of water hits Atsumu straight in the crotch. Osamu cringes, Atsumu gasps, folding in on himself, as Suna drops the gun and tries to make a break for it.
“C’mere, you little shit!” Atsumu exclaims, hooking an arm around Suna’s waist when he tries to slip by. He pulls him against his front, other arm tight around Suna’s chest as he maneuvers them to face Osamu.
Atsumu kicks the water gun over to him with a serious expression. “You know what you have to do.”
“Osamu,” Suna gasps, squirming in Atsumu’s grip. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”
He bends down, picks up the bright plastic gun from the ground. He rises, aims it at Suna’s chest. “This is for stealin’ my food and lyin’ about the breakups.”
“You told him?” Atsumu exclaims, as Osamu hits his target dead-on.
Suna gasps, falling back against Atsumu as he plays dead. Atsumu stumbles under Suna’s sudden deadweight and the two tumble to the ground. Suna is quick to climb onto Atsumu’s stomach, pinning him to the kitchen floor.
Atsumu groans, smacking a hand against Suna’s thigh. “God, babe, when didja get so heavy?”
Suna ignores him in favor of peering up at Osamu with a small smile, more obvious in the shine of his eyes than in the curve of his mouth. “Have you considered, Osamu, that your definition of the worst isn’t the same as ours?”
Osamu steps over the two of them, wielding his tupperwares. “I am never feedin’ either of you ever again.”
They’re curled up on the couch watching Chopped as they always do on Thursday nights. The volume is turned up just loud enough to overpower the sound coming in through the wall of Atsumu yelling at Suna to “stop throwing fuckin’ red shells at me or I’m gonna throw the goddamn Switch out the fuckin’ window”.
Tonight, he and Keiji made dinner together, which they always do. Tonight, they’ll brush their teeth together, read in bed together, fall asleep pressed against each other, which they always do. And in the morning, Keiji will kiss him goodbye at the door, which he always does.
Osamu frowns. “Keiji, are we boring?”
Keiji’s hand pauses its course through Osamu’s hair. After a moment's consideration, he asks, “Are you happy?”
“Sweetheart,” Osamu is quick to say, “of course I am-”
“Then who cares?”
It shuts Osamu up. Keiji’s blunt wisdom tends to do that to him.
He pulls out his phone.
To: Astumu
> Are you happy with Rin?
From: Atsumu
> happier than i’ve ever been
To: Atsumu
> Then who cares
From: Atsumu
> what the hell does that mean
> was that supposed to be rude or nice
> hello ?!?!,
He drops his phone onto the carpet to pull Keiji closer to his chest. “We have to stop feedin’ them every time they break up,” he says. “They’ve been fakin’ it.”
Keiji hums. “I know.”
“You knew?”
“Rintarou told me.”
Osamu gapes at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Keiji shrugs. “Because I thought it was funny.”
Osamu huffs and buries his face in Keiji’s hair. He wonders why he was ever happy that Suna and Keiji got along, wonders why he was so sure Atsumu was the bad influence.
“Not again with the ice cream machine,” Keiji groans at the Chopped contestants, which he always does.
Maybe bringing out the worst in someone isn’t the worst thing that could happen, Osamu thinks. Maybe it’s just what comes along with someone bringing out the best in you.
He threads his hand through Keiji’s to run a finger along Keiji’s ring, which he always does. And if that makes him boring, then who cares?