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Miya Osamu and Akaashi Keiji are getting married. This is surprising to exactly no one. It was practically love at first sight. (Or at the first onigiri, whatever you choose to believe.)
The faces occupying their reception are decidedly a strange mix, considering Miya Osamu is twin to pro volleyball player Miya Atsumu and Akaashi Keiji has his own strange slew of professional athlete and non-pro-athlete friends alike in his life as well.
Suna Rintarou is here, which is to be expected. He is immediately connected with Miya Osamu, afterall, by means of having gone to high school and playing volleyball together. Komori Motoya is also here. A little less directly connected, sure, but he’s friends with Rintarou, and cousin to Sakusa Kiyoomi, who plays for the Black Jackals and is definitely not romantically involved with Miya Atsumu who is, again, twin to Osamu. So, yes, he’s here.
And he watches Osamu, who’s in the center of the dance floor, soft pink lights illuminating his features as he closely embraces Keiji for their first dance. It’s endearing, really. At least Motoya thinks so. They give you that feeling that you’re intruding on something secretive, something precious.
He glances around his table, and quickly gathers that the rest of the occupants do not share the same sentiment. Rintarou’s eyes are narrowed, mouth set into a straight line as he watches them sway across the wooden floor. Atsumu and Kiyoomi don’t seem to mind, but they also aren’t really paying attention, either. Atsumu’s practically vibrating, like his chest has inflated 6 sizes too big and is ready to burst. And while Kiyoomi’s face refuses to give anything away, his eyes clearly aren’t trained anywhere specific, like his focus is pulled somewhere else.
(Motoya is nothing if not nosy. He leans over just slightly, unsure of what to expect. Turns out, their hands are intertwined, resting idly on Kiyoomi’s thigh. He has to suppress a chuckle.)
His eyes fall back on the dancers, and then back to Rintarou. He can’t help it, clearly something is going on in the man’s head. His energy is unsettled more than anything, if his scrutinizing gaze is anything to go by. And when the lights shift back to a warm yellow and the song concludes—not without the gentle applause of the attendees—Motoya doesn’t miss the grip Rintarou has on his champagne glass as he proceeds to, in this order: down the rest of its contents, burp into his fist, and stand from his chair to announce that he’s going out for air.
Now, Motoya is no stranger to the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat.’
He’s been told this no fewer than many times in his life—his childlike curiosity and wonder never quite seeming to lift it’s hand off his shoulders even as the heavy realities of life made themselves known in the way they always do as you grow up.
His mother used to say that life is like a peach; fuzzy, pink, and pretty on the outside, looking so good you’d just have to bite. But then you’d reach a pit in the middle of it all. You’d consume all that was sweet and nice and you’re left with only knowledge that weighs heavy and rough in the palms of your hands.
“You took that pit and planted it in the ground, to keep growing yourself more peaches,” she said once in his teen years, more to herself than anything.
“You keep finding all that is good. Pits only mean more peaches, to you. Don’t give that up, Motoya.”
So, sure, Motoya is no stranger to the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat’.
Which means he knows better than anyone, that it actually ends with ‘satisfaction brought it back.’
(Though, most people choose to omit it. Oh well.)
This is all to say that Motoya decides to excuse himself for a bathroom break—which had truthfully been on his mind already, anyways—and goes to find Rintarou’s solemn figure out on a balcony afterwards.
Rintarou’s leaning lazily on the painted white wood of the railing, a cigarette resting idly between his pointer and his middle finger, Motoya notes as a cool breeze whispers against where his skin is bare. He walks over, the tap of his shoes against flooring giving himself away as he settles himself to the other’s right.
“I didn’t know you were a smoker,” he says, though no part of it is accusatory, as though he's forgone the standards of their profession.
Rintarou turns his head, blowing smoke out into the air at a practiced angle, so as to hinder Motoya’s chances of being subjected to second hand contamination.
“I’m not,” he supplies, simply. Dryly. Motoya can’t help his smile.
“I’m not either,” he chuckles. “Hand it over.”
Rintarou does, but not without wide olive eyes and pupils that dilate in the slightest as he watches Motoya bring it to his mouth, let his lungs fill with false freedom, and push the grey clouds away with curved lips.
(He drops the cigarette to the ground and stomps it away with the toe of his shoe, after.)
“Here I thought I was in for a scolding,” Rintarou marvels.
Motoya only shrugs. “You seem like you’re having a rough night.”
He doesn’t respond, but his eyes narrow in the same way they were fixed upon the couple on the dance floor, and he stuffs one hand into a pocket.
“Is it Osamu?” — he tries, quieter.
Rintarou sighs. “It’s bullshit, is what it is.”
“Them?” Motoya’s eyebrows raise a little.
“No,” he answers, quiet but firm. The wind pushes a little harder and Rintarou has to brush a strand of his hair behind his ear. Motoya finds himself fixated on the careful movements of his fingers, deciding at once that Rintarou has pretty hands before shooing the thought away and nodding in understanding. The other doesn’t have to say more for Motoya to get the idea.
“Let’s get out of here,” he offers.
Rintarou huffs a laugh, albeit a little empty and longing, but when he catches the dim glint of anticipation in Motoya’s eyes, his expression drops.
“Oh, you’re not joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Motoya’s grin is unwavering even in Rintarou’s reluctance. He watches the gears turn behind apprehensive eyes.
“I shouldn’t. Osamu,” he breaths, “he’s still a close friend—”
“Which is exactly why he’ll understand when I tell him you weren’t feeling well and I took you home.”
At once, the tension in Rintarou’s brows dissipates, instead replaced with a rising motion that signals amusement.
“You surprise me more and more.”
His lips are turned up at the corners in a gentle smirk. It dances like orangey-pink sweetness across Motoya’s chest.
“Surprise is a good look on you,” he decides, moving back towards the inside. “Let’s keep it going, yeah?”
Rintarou rolls his eyes, though his smirk persists to betray the expression.
“You’re a bad influence, Motoya.”
Motoya chuckles softly.
A bad influence, huh?
Sometimes, he thinks the same thing about you.
-
So what happens, when you comment snidely about his Toyota, and his laugh tattoos itself onto your hippocampus without permission? You get in the passenger’s seat and put it on repeat in your mind as he trains his eyes on the road.
What happens when he takes you to a karaoke bar and you sing a little louder, laugh a little louder because he does, too? You wax cheesy romantics in love songs, wear your heart on your sleeve on ballads, and duet on songs that aren’t meant for two people, because it just makes it all the more thrilling.
What happens when you find yourself at a McDonald’s for ice cream and fries because neither of you have had fast food in ages and you fixate your eyes on the enticing bit of melted vanilla that hangs off the corner of his lips? You exercise all your self restraint, grabbing a napkin from a now-greasy paper bag to wipe it away, ignoring the way his round eyebrows furrow and those lips settle into a pout.
What happens when on the walk from the parking lot to his apartment, he grabs your wrist and pulls you across the street to the park because it’s the middle of March and the fireflies are ‘just the prettiest’ ? You sit side by side on the swings, letting your legs dangle as you watch fireflies gleam and glow across the night sky, upon the bark of the trees, the leaves of the bushes. You think, as you turn to stare into his ash blue eyes that far outshine the bugs, that he may be the prettiest thing here, afterall.
What happens when you find your heart has risen from its resting place and into your throat, and you spill that, yes, it was about Osamu, but it doesn’t matter now? He looks at you not with pity, but with a face that looks like you’ve just served him the finest dish in all of Japan—your heart—on a platter of gold, and pulls you back across the street and into his home.
He pours two drinks that are fruity and bitter and make your stomach warm. He lifts a glass to cheers. You ask what for. He says ‘to life’. You say, hah, I’ll drink to that, with in character sarcasm but your smile is forgiving.
Fueled by the gentle buzz of intoxication, you talk the rest of the night away. You end up sprawled across the couch together, you play footsies until someone gets a little too close to actually getting injured, you play video games at some point. Motoya is apparently competitive in all aspects of life, and this is no exception. You prod your hands at his frown when he loses, you let the ‘you’re cute when you pout’, fall from your lips without meaning to.
And sometime later, when the sun is rising and the living room is basked in a gentle pink light and you’re a bit more sober but your chest is still just a little too warm—
“Rintarou,” he starts.
“Kiss me.”
Rintarou doesn’t hesitate to comply. He crawls over from his side of the couch, captures Motoya’s hopeful eyes before kissing him like he means it.
Motoya snakes his arms around his neck like he’s one of those peach pits, small and rough around the edges, but his lips move like Rintarou’s the sweetest, most supple thing he’s ever tasted. It's strangely endearing, though he can't place how.
Under the pink light of the sun, something private, something precious.
Under calloused hands, too much sarcasm, and too-bright smiles, a tree of peaches grows within their chests.
Something good. Something sweet.
(Something lovely.)