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“Yo.”
“Hey,” Atsumu’s voice crackles through the phone.
“What’s up?”
“Nothin’. Just haven’t heard from ya in a while.”
“Yeah. Been busy with the shop and with, uh, Suna.”
He sneaks a glance towards the register. Suna is not a social guy, but his years as a professional athlete have given him good social skills. He’s a natural on the register.
He’s got a kind smile as the old woman he’s helping goes on about something or other. He nods frequently at whatever she’s saying, replying every so often with some variation of, “You’re kidding” or “Oh my god, really?”
“How’s he doin’?” Atsumu asks, and Osamu moves his gaze back to the payroll he’s approving.
“He seems fine,” Osamu says, signs his name on a paycheck. “He doesn’t talk about it much.”
“Tell him I say hi,” Atsumu says, “and that EJP is total shit without him.”
Osamu watches Suna hand the older woman her change with a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Osamu wonders if it ever used to, or if this is a new development. He finds himself overthinking Suna’s expressions a lot lately.
“I’ll tell him,” Osamu says. “Come visit us, yeah?”
“Whatever,” Atsumu says, but he sounds pleased at the invitation. “He talk to his dad yet?”
Osamu flinches, the movement dragging out the line of his signature too far. “No, not yet.”
When Osamu turns his gaze back to Suna, the woman is gone, and he’s stretched himself along the countertop, lazily scrolling through something on his phone.
Osamu’s gotten after him about having his phone at the register before, and Suna will always shoot him a lazy grin and drawl, won’t happen again, boss , but it always happens again.
It’s not like he can fire Suna. He doesn’t even technically work there. Besides, he’s somehow managed to charm all the older ladies, who coo at him as he hands them their receipts, and Osamu doesn’t want to lose their patronage. Plus, he’s a good cashier.
Suna’s looking at him now too, gaze flicking back and forth from Osamu to the clock above his head. It’s a familiar signal. Suna’s ready to clock out for the day, and Osamu will be right behind him.
“Listen, I’ll call ya later,” he says to Atsumu. “We’re headin’ out.”
Atsumu just grunts in response, and Osamu hangs up.
Suna straightens up as Osamu approaches. His Onigiri Miya hat is crooked where it had rested against the counter.
“Amano-kun’s closin’ up today,” Osamu says, as if it had been his idea to leave. “Let’s go home.”
“Lead the way, boss,” Suna says, and he follows Osamu out the door.
It’s been an abnormally warm March in Kobe. Osamu squints against the sun as they head out to the street.
Osamu usually spends the spring travelling Japan with the Onigiri Miya truck. He misses the change of scenery it provided, and he misses getting into V.League games for free with a vendor license, but he thinks of Suna, and he decides it’s not the worst thing he could lose.
The walk from Onigiri Miya to Osamu’s dinky little apartment isn’t long, but the silence between them makes it stretch on.
It’s not like Suna was the most talkative before everything went downhill, but now his silences feel charged instead of comfortable. Osamu always feels the need to fill them, doesn’t want Suna alone in his head for too long.
“Talked to Atsumu today,” he says. “He says hi. And that EJP is shit without ya.”
“Dramatic,” Suna says, but his mouth quirks up anyways. “They’re fine without me.”
(Which is not true. EJP was a favorite to win the V.League championship this year, but they’ve been struggling to uphold their reputation as a blocking powerhouse this season.
Onigiri Miya is known for their V.League watch parties— buy one onigiri, get one fifty percent off. On these nights, Suna hides in the back room while volleyball veterans stuff themselves with onigiri and ask what happened to that freaky flexible EJP blocker.)
“Heard from your dad?” Osamu asks.
Suna’s nose wrinkles. “You know I don’t want to talk to him,” he scoffs.
“Could be good for both of you.”
Suna rolls his eyes. “Stop talking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re my boyfriend.”
And Osamu knows a Suna dismissal when he hears one, so they spend the rest of the walk in silence.
Osamu always waits until the shower starts running before he makes the call.
Suna’s been taking long showers lately. On his first night staying with Osamu, he was in there for so long that Osamu picked the lock on the bathroom to check on him. He knows once that shower starts, he’s got at least a half hour before Suna will emerge.
The line clicks with a gruff, “Hello?”
“Suna-san,” he greets. He puts the call on speaker and drops his phone to the counter.
“Osamu-kun,” says Suna Hiroki. “How are you?”
“Doin’ alright. I should be the one askin’ you that.”
“It’s hard, but it gets easier everyday,” Suna says. “How is Rintarou?”
“He seems fine. He hasn’t been talkin’ much lately.”
“He’s always been quiet.”
Osamu frowns. Words like “always” never seem right coming from Suna’s dad. “Listen,” he says. “I’ve been tryin’ to get him to call ya, but he’s bein’ pretty stubborn.”
Suna sighs on the other end of the line. “Well, I appreciate you trying. I’ll talk to you again next week.”
“Thanks, Suna-san. Talk to ya soon.”
The call ends with a click, and Osamu drops his head into his hands, elbows against the counter. He sighs, heavy and low, as if all his worries will leave with the effort of it.
“Osamu?”
Osamu whirls around. Suna is standing there, in the entrance to the kitchen, eyes blown wide and hands clenched.
His hair is wet. It drips from his bangs down his cheeks like tears. There’s no way he didn’t hear.
“Who was that?” Suna asks, and before Osamu can come up with some bullshit excuse, he continues, “Was that my dad?”
“Suna,” Osamu says, calmly.
“Fuck off. That was my dad.”
“It wasn’t-”
“Thanks Suna-san,” Suna drawls, in a shitty imitation of Osamu’s accent. His once wide eyes are now pinched in anger. “It couldn’t have been my fucking mom, so who the hell was it?”
Osamu knows denying it is a lost cause if Suna is playing the mom card. “He just wants to talk to you,” he says, slowly approaching Suna and his wild-eyed expression.
“Fuck him,” Suna says, backing out of the kitchen. He’s shaking. “And fuck you too.”
Osamu follows. “It’s been months, Rin,” he says. “You’ve ignored him for months.”
“He ignored me for years ,” Suna says, turning his back to Osamu as he trudges towards the guest bedroom. “This is why we were fucked up. You always have to be right, always going behind my back.”
“We broke up because you don’t talk about your issues,” Osamu says, and Suna’s sharp blame sends a bright streak of anger through him. Suna’s reached the guest room. “Like right now, for example.”
“You’re not my fucking therapist,” Suna bites and slams the door.
Osamu slams a fist against the wood. “You could fuckin’ use one!”
The door shudders where Osamu’s fist landed. Osamu stands there, breathing heavy, listening for a sign that Suna is on the other side. He waits for a sob, for a whimper, but all he can hear is his own harsh breathing and his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
There’s a familiar dull pain in his hand and a familiar rush of anger in his chest.
All of it is familiar— Osamu shouting, desperate for an Atsumu-sized reaction, and Suna, shutting this desire down with venomous words and cold silences. It’s been years since he and Suna have gone at it like this. The guilt that settles in the bottom of his stomach feels like coming home.
Osamu listens carefully against the door, but Suna doesn’t cry, doesn’t shout. He never has. Osamu isn’t sure what he’s waiting for.
Suna does not come out of his room in the morning.
Onigiri Miya is short-staffed all day, and the older ladies ask about the tall, handsome cashier while they wait in line.
When Osamu comes home, Suna’s door is open, and he’s gone.
Atsumu finally picks up on the third try. “This better be important,” he says.
“Is Sunarin with ya?”
Osamu hears the concerned breath Atsumu sucks in through his teeth. “No,” he says. “He make a run for it?”
“Fuck,” Osamu says. It’s answer enough.
“He’s a grown man. He’ll be fine. Probably just tired of you pesterin’ him to eat three times a day,” Atsumu says with a nervous laugh.
“I yelled at him,” Osamu says. “I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”
“I coulda told ya that,” Atsumu says. “Don’t freak out, okay? I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually. Like I said, I’m sure he’s just tired of havin’ someone breathin’ down his neck all the time.”
“I’ve been talkin’ to his dad without tellin’ him.”
It takes a couple seconds for Atsumu to respond, but eventually he settles with a breathy, “Fuck, man. That really was stupid of ya.”
Osamu hangs up.
It’s hours later, while Osamu is trying and failing to fall asleep, when the door to his bedroom cracks open and a familiar silhouette slips through.
The door shuts, and the silhouette is lost as darkness engulfs the room again. Osamu can barely hear the quiet footsteps approaching his bed before he feels the mattress sink and a sharp nose poke into his neck.
Suna crowds against him exactly the way he used to— all sharp edges and long limbs. He doesn’t quite fit, yet the line of Suna’s body against his somehow feels right.
It’s easy for Osamu to run a hand up Suna’s spine. “Thought you ran away,” he says.
“Where would I go?”
“I dunno, Atsumu’s?”
Suna’s mouth quirks into a smile where it’s pressed into Osamu’s shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything.
It’s quiet for a while, and Osamu isn’t sure if Suna wants to actually sleep or lay in silence pretending to sleep. It surprises him when Suna’s voice breaks through the silence again.
“It felt good when you yelled at me earlier,” he says. “Everyone is so gentle with me now.”
The guilt that had settled in Osamu’s stomach stirs up again. “I feel bad.”
“Don’t,” Suna says. “Well, not about that, anyway.”
Not about that, but about everything else.
“I shouldn’t have,” Osamu begins, swallowing the pride that rises up his throat like bile, “gone behind your back like that. But I didn't know what to do. To help you.”
“I didn’t hear from him for years. And now that she’s gone, he wants to talk,” Suna says. “It’s bullshit.”
“He’s tryin’.”
“He could have tried before,” Suna says, rolling off of him. Osamu fights the urge to pull him back.
“I’m worried about you,” he says instead.
Osamu can’t make out Suna’s face in the dark, but he hears his shuddering exhale. “I feel like I can’t breathe here sometimes,” Suna mumbles.
“Let’s go out then,” Osamu says. “Somewhere we can breathe.”
Use the right lane to take the Hanshin Expressway No.3 Kobe Route ramp to Osaka.
It’s been years since Osamu has made this trip, but his hands tell him how to steer the car before Siri even has the chance to.
If Suna knows where Osamu is taking them, he hasn’t said so yet. He rests his head against the window and sneaks weary glances at Osamu every few minutes.
This is the road to the place where they spent summer breaks and weekends off. The place where they once lied and told Atsumu everyone was going skinny dipping so he was the only one who didn’t bring a swimsuit and where Atsumu spent the whole day alone in the sand. The place where Osamu confessed to Suna, where Suna kissed him for the first time. This is the road to the place where Osamu first told Suna he was quitting volleyball and where Suna first told Osamu about EJP and where Osamu told Suna that things didn’t feel the way they used to, and maybe they should take a break?
Your destination will be on the left.
It’s a short walk from the car to the beach. Suna kicks up sand as he walks, and the breeze carries it along the beach.
“Did you think coming here would make me feel better? Cause last time we were here, you definitely broke up with me,” Suna says, but he’s smiling, like their breakup is some funny inside joke instead of Osamu’s biggest regret.
“I remember, I was there,” Osamu says, shoving an elbow into Suna. “I just thought it might be nice. We’ve got more good memories here than not.”
Suna hums. “Like that time with Atsumu?”
Osamu chuckles at the memory— Atsumu pouting alone on the beach while the rest of the team taunted him from the water.
A movement from Suna snaps him from his musing. Suna’s pulling off his shirt, kicking his dumb Nike slides into the sand.
“Skinny dipping could be fun, yeah?” Suna asks, dropping his shirt to the ground.
“Keep your shorts on,” Osamu laughs, following Suna’s lead and pulling his own shirt over his head. “I can’t get arrested. I’m a respected business owner.”
Suna rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t make a move to take his shorts off. As soon as Osamu’s shirt hits the sand, they’re taking off into the waves.
It’s freezing, which is to be expected from the ocean in the middle of the night in March. Osamu’s teeth are chattering as Suna leads him deeper into the water. Suna doesn’t seem to mind the cold, paddling around once the water is deep enough to paddle around in. They duck under the big waves, let the current carry them back to shore.
At some point, Suna wades towards him with a grin. The grin probably should have tipped Osamu off, but he’s distracted by the rare smile and close proximity. Osamu shivers as Suna runs a foot along the back of his leg, doesn’t realize what’s happening until Suna hooks it around Osamu’s ankle and pulls.
Suna laughs as Osamu tumbles into the water, cackling and loud. It’s a sound not many are privy to, and gratitude crashes into Osamu like the waves pushing him back towards the shore. He feels the need to scoop Suna into his arms, so he does. He promptly throws him back in.
They wrestle in the water, smack wet sand onto each other’s backs, race each other against the current. Suna’s gasping with laughter and the effort of coughing up the water that’s snuck into his mouth. Osamu notices that his smile actually reaches his eyes.
Eventually, they drag themselves out of the water. They don’t have towels, so they sit their wet asses in the sand and shiver, watching the movement of the waves. Suna found a stick somewhere along the way and is poking holes in the sand.
Osamu searches around the sand for Suna’s unoccupied hand and says, “It’s been nice havin’ you around.”
Suna doesn’t pull his hand away, but he doesn't look at Osamu either. “Are you saying that you missed me?”
Osamu shrugs.
Suna smiles slowly, shoves the stick into the ground a little harder. “Oh, you did. You so did.”
“Yeah, well, you’re more than just my ex from high school, or whatever. You’re my best friend.”
That gets Suna to finally glance at him, so he keeps going. “I want to help you. But I don’t know how, and it’s makin’ me crazy.”
“You are helping me,” Suna hums, throwing his stick to the side. “I probably would have starved if you weren’t making me eat all the time.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Osamu says. “I want to make you happy.”
Suna’s still avoiding his eyes, but his voice is hard when he says, “My mom is dead. You can’t fix that.”
Osamu isn’t sure what to say after that. He wants to keep fighting him on it. Wants Suna to smile with his whole face again and laugh until he cries again and kiss him open-mouthed again. He wants to say something, wants to break the silence, wants to open his mouth and tell Suna to let him fix it, but for this once, he thinks he can wait.
It takes a while. The wet from the ocean is pooling at the bottom of his neck and the sand is starting to feel more like a second skin when Suna’s voice returns, quiet and strained.
“People keep saying that she’s in a better place now,” he says. “That’s such shit. How could there be a better place than here.”
With me goes unsaid, but Osamu feels the words anyways when Suna’s head drops into his shoulder. Even though he’s wet all over, there’s no mistaking the warm tears Suna is rubbing into his skin.
“Don’t say anything,” Suna rasps, voice thick. “And don’t start crying either.”
“Wasn’t gonna,” Osamu says, as he wraps an arm around Suna’s shaking frame.
If fighting had felt like coming home, this feels like taking your shoes off after a tedious volleyball practice, or finally eating after a long day. It’s a release, a weight lifted, relief. Though nothing has changed, something has shifted.
Suna cries for a while longer. Osamu holds him tighter, rubs a hand along Suna’s ocean-chilled arm when the breeze picks up.
After a while, Suna shudders one last time and pulls away. He rubs a hand against his face and winces when the sand stuck to his fingers gets into his eye.
His voice sounds grated when he starts to speak again. “Coach has been on me about coming back for practices,” he says.
Osamu swallows hard. “So you’re goin’ back to Tokyo?”
“Maybe,” Suna shrugs. “Maybe not. There’s a reason I’m staying with you too, y‘know.”
“Good,” Osamu says. He slips a hand into Suna’s and squeezes hard, settling back into the sand. Suna clutches right back. “That’s good.”
The sun will rise in a few hours, and so will they. Until then, the waves will continue their motions, and they will continue to breathe.