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A FamilyMart branded plastic bag is slung carelessly onto a wooden coffee table, a chilled collection of ’Asahi Super Dry’ bottles creating circular imprints due to heating and the process of condensation via the Suna family household. The two have long discarded their shoes at the door.
Osamu insisted they could’ve ‘hung out’ at his, but Rin raised the major predicament that was Atsumu; Suna’s parents being absent on business trips in other prefectures was just a coincidence, and in their case, a massive advantage. Either way, the silence of the Suna household was one Osamu met with his manners left at the door.
Rintarou had been the one to step in before him, taking it beyond his own responsibility to remove the beers from their confines and align them directly onto the tabletop. His frame bent over, back leant forward in a way that would bring pain for any other volleyball players. As a thick brow raises, Osamu’s gaze finds itself following the line of Suna’s thin waist, chasing the dips of his sides. All that slouching does wonders, hm?
As the other raises himself back upwards, Osamu’s grey eyes snap away to snatch multiple glances at family photos perched high on foreign walls; Rintarou and his parents at Fushimi Inari Taisha... Suna when he was a child― oh, hold on a minute. Suna with braces? Osamu has got to remind himself to take a quick picture of that before he leaves.
A snide, yet hearty chuckle passes Osamu’s parted lips, nostrils flared slightly as a minimal amount of air had been exhaled in the process.
“Oh, fuck―yeah. Forgot about that picture. That’s when we were still living in Tokyo,” Rintarou murmurs, only for one of his limbs to curl around Miya’s hips, a hand creating warmth through fabric as it lay upon a curved bone shy of his waist.
The contact remains unacknowledged; it was no secret: Osamu and Suna had always been touchy, as Aran labelled it. There had never been any odd intentions between the two. Who cares if people think otherwise, anyways. Osamu had always been one to appreciate Suna's affections, from laying on spare gym mats together before training, to Rin's thin limb around his shoulders. The twin never managed to understand why there was so much suspicion in being affectionate with a close, or more of a best, friend.
If he couldn't understand, there was no chance in Hell that Atsumu's microscopic, pea brain was able to wrap around such a concept either.
(On Osamu's phone sits a wallpaper of Sunarin spread on the twin's own torso; it's captured from Miya's perspective, with Rintarou flashing a rather kind, yet lengthy middle finger to the camera.
Jesus Christ, 'Samu. Are you fuckin' gay?)
“Man, Tokyo's real nice, huh. Wish we could go back there again some time soon," Osamu mutters absentmindedly, eyes continuously peering from square inch to square inch, “Maybe next time I could get a nice accent like 'ya.”
Rin snorts. His palm lightly rubs at Osamu’s hip, giving it a pat or two, before tearing away, “How about we go together next time we have holidays? Hotel room for two."
The twin threw the other a quirked brow, only to purposely bump his loin against Suna's, "Get us a double bed. Wouldn't want you sleepin' all alone while you're right there, Sunarin."
Rintarou chuckled under his breath, "I'll add it to the room requests, Osamu. C’mon, the beers are going to get warm.”
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Osamu’s body weight feels twice, no―triple, to how it usually feels. Arms and legs have never felt more of a bother than now. God―he feels like a fucking giraffe. What the hell does he do with them?
A glistening streak of moonlight illuminates the wooden flooring of Suna's accommodation. A window is cracked only slightly, a breeze entering to brush the curtain to and fro.
Multiple cans had been crumpled, crushed, and trod on, as well as lazily scattered around said wooden flooring; two familiar frames join. As Miya Osamu lays upon his sinewy spine, Suna Rintarou rests against his left side; a nonchalant cranium is propped on an arm. The moon-supplied light draws a potential barrier between the two, although majority soaks both Osamu and Suna's figures alike statues in a gallery.
It's bright enough for them both to establish features on one another's profiles.
Osamu learns that Rin's cheeks glisten red when drunk.
Rintarou learns that Osamu's Hyogo accent worsens.
A silence is established. Not one they mutually converse of providing, but a natural way of relaxation that both Suna and Osamu had partaken in for majority of the times in which they've quote, hung out, unquote.
“'Samu.”
Rintarou is the first to slice through the smothering blanket of tranquility; Osamu realises soon after that the environment remains serene, even without that security of reticence.
“Don't 'ya call me that, 'yer know 'Tsumu calls me that, Sunarin.”
Suna snorts in response, before whispering a hushed, "Fine."
Osamu inhales deeply, only to exhale and flip onto the flat of his right hip in response, "What did'ja wanna' ask?"
Rintarou's gaze meets his own, the limb propping his head upwards remained in the same position it's been placed in compared to approximately… two hours ago? How long had it been? Where had time gone?
“Have you ever kissed a boy?”
Such a query catches the twin off-guard. Half-lidded orbs expanded in slight astonishment as they continued to maintain the eye-contact with the other effortlessly. Rintarou's stare burnt several holes through Osamu's own.
“Can’t say I haven’t thought 'bout it, but nah. ‘S just been girls so far.”
He'd admit ─ several thoughts had passed his mind about Suna's lips. How they would feel against his own. Did he use chapstick? Has he ever kissed another? Was Suna into other men? Surely, he had to be, or else he wouldn't have asked, no?
As Miya's mind ran miles, one of Rintarou's palms had trailed its way onto the twin's left shoulder, applying a soft amount of pressure until Osamu's intoxicated figure had laid lax against the ground. Osamu hadn't attempted to resist. No, not with Suna. It was never with Suna.
Rintarou had shuffled from his own position to raise a leg over in order to climb on top of the other, thighs on either side of a thin waist; of Osamu's waist. He'd placed his torso flexibility to use, bending so the proximity of their noses was the same to an eyelash.
Osamu's breath had been grasped right out his throat.
“Would you want to?”
It took the arch of a back to provide an answer; lips traced one another's, parting to fit together perfectly like a lock and key. Rintarou was a relentless kisser, taking the opportunity to thread several digits into grey strands. His often foxy eyes had fluttered to a close, but Miya took that as a chance to glance through his own lashes.
Every expression of Suna's had the equivalent worth to the entire world.
Osamu's large hands ran over the curve of Rintarou's thighs and soaked in every line of muscle, every crevice and eventually raised to caress at the soft flesh where thigh met hip.
The twin could sense his oxygen levels lowering, majority of his air breathed gently out through nostils; lips had been far too occupied.
The two eventually drew apart.
"Well? How did that feel?"
"Dunno, 'ya gotta' do it again, Sunarin. Just so I can feel it all. Then, I'll tell 'ya 'yer answer then."
Osamu wouldn't want it any other way.