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"I'm gonna kick yer fucking ass, you dick!"
Suna rolls his eyes in a characteristic manner as Atsumu screams across Zoom, an outburst in reaction to Osamu's beating both of them at Uno for the nth time that night. They always get so competitive over stupid things that have no consequence in the real world. To be fair, none of them have any idea over video camera if Osamu (or Atsumu for that matter) is cheating, but both Miya twins are far too prideful to cheat in order to win - even at Zoom-Uno.
"Yeh'll just have to wait 'till ya get here, asshole," Osamu responds in kind - a promise - as the sound of him shuffling cards is slightly offset from the video evidence that shows those deft hands of his.
Suna likes those hands, even if the quality of the video can't nearly capture their every perfection. He finds them...hypnotic. The blocker used to associate those hands solely with the hitter who could actually set decently and the sloppy writings of a teenage boy preoccupied with attempting (and failing) to ace a class the night before an assignment was due. But they've taken on a different kind of beauty now.
Those hands haven't changed too much physically - they're still graceful with a hard edge, fingers long bordering on lanky, blushing knuckles in stark contrast to his pale skin; The callouses have faded a bit too, considering his primary source of fitness training had switched from volleyball to regular nights spent at the gym. But they aren't the reckless, rough and tumble hands Suna remembers. They're poised now, with a delicate manner about them, precision etched into the curve of each finger.
Suna is transfixed. But only for an allowable moment.
"Suna ya already zonin' out on us? It's only like, nine," Atsumu chides through the screen - obviously, he isn't tired. Suna is a man of boundless energy that he channels into all-nighters rather than his outward expression. But tired is a much better story than 'I was drooling over your twin brother,' so he doesn't bother to correct.
"I've learned to tune out yer guys' stupidity," He decided that's a better answer, very Suna, if Suna says so himself. And he does. He sighs. Secret safe for another day. There's going come a time when that statement didn't apply, he knows.
"Dick!" The twins chorus, drawing the smallest of amused smiles from the middle blocker who scoffs. They're always so predictable, sometimes it even makes the toying with them less fun. Though, Suna doesn't often find himself feeling that way.
"Just 'cause yer bigshots now doesn't mean I'm gonna stop calling out yer dumbassery."
Despite what he would tell anyone who asked, Suna actually likes the fact that he and the Miya twins still keep in contact, even if it means he's in constant torment. He likes that it seems the natural way of the world for them to still be so closely knit even if Atsumu and Suna are on opposing teams and Osamu is always out of town on restaurant business. And yes, okay, maybe there's always the uphill struggle against his own feelings that is ever-present in the background of all their conversations - words he has to swallow in their presence. But maybe he doesn't mind it that way.
The twins roll their eyes in unison.
"Oh shut up, jerk!"
As per usual. Predictable.
-
Suna remembers a lot of things. He remembers trips to the flower shop near their first house with his mom - roses for his Aunt Jeanie in Canada if he recalls correctly. He remembers half-hearted text conversations with people he wouldn't ever contact again. He remembers leaving behind three different cities, three different friend groups, three possible timelines, staring at them as they retreated into the distance through the back window of a car. But memories are like children: even if you say you don't have favorites, you do.
He remembers meeting the Miya twins on a summer day that was too hot and too cold - a ten-year-old standing against blustering winds was bound to feel that way. He remembers thinking they were obnoxious and pushy, not wanting to be friends with them at all really - there's no way these can be my only options.
He remembers summers after that spent with their hands sticky from melted Rocket Pops, forearms red from keeping a volleyball in the air for a record sixty minutes.
He remembers his bleeding knees that hurt to walk on and Osamu beside him, telling him poorly constructed stories of aliens with no particular plot-structure and an ambiguous beginning, middle, and end to keep him distracted while Atsumu ran home to get their parents.
He remembers Osamu grinning at him across the small gap separating their houses, practically giddy at the fact that they shared windows facing each other - "Suna! I bet 'Tsumu's jealous of my room now!"
He remembers a lot of things - things they probably don't seeing as the Miya twins are in constant motion. Always moving, never stopping to dwell on the past. Because why should they? Suna couldn't really be called all that sentimental, but secretly, his soul was syrupy like molasses, and just as sweet, weighed down by the press of all the possible memories that had been stolen from him.
He used to feel bitter that something that should've been his was always taken - moving from one city to the next like a slinky would do that to you; stretching your time until you thought you had forever, then snapping back to reality seconds later. He used to hate that the chances at lasting friendships and potential crushes and polaroid summers and all the things a warmly lit childhood was supposed to have were pulled out from under him.
But the Miya twins lasted. Stubborn and persistent, like the itch of a bug bite. Years of him pushing them away - disregarding their inquiries into his schedule, ignoring their requests to hang out after school, calling them stupid, idiot - only led to them latching on tighter.
Atsumu with his vibrant personality that used to make Suna's skin crawl with annoyance, constantly asking questions, getting mood swings the size of the grand canyon, stubbornly staying put as though he was being presented with a challenge and saying, fuck it, you can't beat me.
Osamu with his laid-back attitude, with his energy that always seemed to whisper at Suna, relax, it'll be okay. Whatever it is. Just forget about it. With his insistence on physical contact. He'd always relied on his brother for that, Atsumu acting like the older sibling even though he was three and a half minutes younger. But as they grew into their own personalities, Osamu sought comfort in Suna's hands - tugging him through rainstorms to catch their bus even though the middle blocker didn't mind getting wet, practically flopping on top of him after a stressful day.
It never felt unnatural with the Miya twins. Annoying as all hell sometimes? Yes. But never wrong. He'd tried to pinpoint exactly when it had started, the feeling of rightness, the feeling of forever. Sometimes he lays awake at night trying to figure out when the switch flipped. But he can't.
And Suna thinks, maybe it's always been this way. That maybe it was always meant to be this way.
-
They decide to meet up the weekend before the Jackals and Raijin are scheduled to match up considering Hyougo is on the way. Plus, it's always nice when they have actual time to meet in person instead of sporadically being dragged into a seven-hour Zoom call.
"Forget it! We're not stayin' with Ma'! I'm a grown-ass man."
Ah yes, another healthy Miya twins argument, Suna thinks as the smell of coffee fills his lungs, rejuvenating in its own right. He got lucky with the Miya brothers. They were all coffee people. He would be able to stand them even less if they harped on him about how caffeine stunted growth. He's six-two. He'll be fine.
"I'm agreeing with you, 'Tsumu! Jesus fucking christ. And the only reason ya don't wanna stay with Ma is 'cause ya wanna do weird sex stuff with yer boyfriend," Oasmu accuses, and Suna could've lived without that image in his mind. What was sex even like with a mysophobe?
"At least I have a boyfriend," Suna nears the table, backpack slung over his shoulder, lazy eyes trained on the open seat next to Osamu as he waits for them to notice his presence. He's never been one to announce himself with fanfare, not like Atsumu. "Yer gonna be alone forever, asshole-"
"Suna!" Atsumu's head twists to register his brother's excited half-yelp, brown eyes widening with something akin to delight. But Suna's not really paying attention to that.
Osamu is a work of art even Atsumu can't pull his attention from. His silver hair is messy, gorgeously messy. Suna can picture those fingers of his combing through it, muscled arms flexing as he works at the knots - he was never so obsessed with his appearance like his brother. He's wearing a thin, long-sleeved shirt because, unlike Suna, he's not weather-resistant. But the fabric hugs his muscles and Suna can see every slight strain. He's smiling, too, beautifully. He is beautiful. But it shouldn't come as a surprise to Suna. Osamu Miya always has been.
He wants to say 'I love you'.
"I'm home, idiots," He says instead. Those seem to be the right words because the twins, affectionate as always, jump him like a pack of wild dogs, practically wrestling him to the ground in the middle of the (thankfully) uncrowded coffee shop. Atsumu is punching him in the shoulder and Osamu's arms are wrapped around his waist from behind, lifting him into the air like he weighs nothing. He can feel Osamu's chin against his shoulder.
The contact makes Suna skittish, but he wants more, for it to last longer than it should; stardust burns in his veins.
"Just as obnoxious as always," Suna deadpans as Osamu drops him and he brushes non-existent wrinkles from his t-shirt. The words are a half-hearted truth. He likes their propensity for spectacles more than he'd like to admit out loud - in all honesty, he'd barely admit he held any affection whatsoever for the two idiots standing in front of him now. Not out loud, not to anyone. But the truth was there, buried under layers of half-lies.
"Still an asshole, as always," Atsumu retorts most cleverly.
"Give him a break, he just got here. Can we just enjoy bein' together again?" Osamu can't actually believe that they can just eat in peace. Not with the combination of Suna's sarcasm, the twins' bickering, and Atsumu's tendency to take everything personally.
"Not when he's bein' a dick," They slide into their seats, Suna taking up the stool next to Osamu, who casts him a coded glance. Something silvery, something cryptic. Suna would spend hours tripping over his own thoughts trying to figure out what unspoken words Osamu was hiding if he didn't refuse to accept that sappy, sentimental side of himself.
Still, he relishes the warmth radiating off his best friend, the way the sides of their thighs press against each other, knees making contact under the table. Osamu doesn't notice, or he doesn't mention it, only continuing to bicker with Atsumu like Suna's whole world didn't just stop turning on its axis. The middle blocker's gaze is stuck on the far wall, analyzing every crevice of every brick, trying and failing to pick up his thoughts left shattered on the floor. Anyone who looks at him will mistake it for Suna's normal, lazily far-off stare. It's a lie.
"Yer a dick all the time and people still put up with ya," The conversation had barely progressed and Suna briefly takes a moment to wonder how a few seconds could draw out into a lifetime at a single point of contact. But he doesn't take too long.
Only an allowable moment.
"I've got a heart of gold ya liar," Atsumu's words may be true, but if he does, he certainly covers up that golden heart of his quite well. But the subject changes like the wind, as is the norm with the setter. "So, what've ya been up to, Suna?"
"Volleyball, obviously," Half a sneer, half a smile curls his lips as the sudden memory that he had completely forgotten to order coffee for himself finally graces his mind. A belated thought that makes him inwardly pout. He disregards it in favor of paying attention to his friends (and they claim Suna never did anything for him). "We're gonna beat yer asses next weekend." It was a promise, and one Atsumu gladly accepts as a challenge.
"Ya wish ya could."
"Sounds like someone's in denial," The smirk that wants to rest on Suna's lips barely gets reigned in as he lifts an eyebrow. Small words are all he can really manage at the moment with Osamu's body still pressed against his. The table pushed up against the window is too small for the stools and forces them together in a way that shouldn't make Suna's pulse beat as fast as it does. It's like someone is running races through his chest with no regard for whether or not Osamu can hear it. "I-"
Suna's next sentence is interrupted before it can even start as Osamu releases a muffled cough into the crook of his elbow. His brows crease in the middle, almost as if he's disappointed in himself, before grabs his throat with his hand as though it's offended him.
A mixture of concern and a breathless sort of trance washes over Suna as he watches Osamu rub at his Adam's with a rosy thumb. He wonders if his throat hurts. He wonders if he could kiss away that pain, if his lips could melt that ache with a warm touch - what would Osmu's soft skin feel like under his tongue? How could his throat move then? What sounds would he make?
But the thought is fleeting. Quickly replaced by concern that Suna doesn't show on his features as Osamu coughs more, louder, rougher this time. Is he sick? No, that's impossible. Osamu never gets sick. He's always in top shape no matter what the circumstance. He hasn't even gotten so much as the common cold since they were kids. Are you okay? Talk to me. What's going on? Are you hurt?
"Ya good?" Suna settles for a question that is lacking in expression - in other words, how he's supposed to sound - as his lazy eyes cut to the man at his left. He briefly entertains the possibility of reaching out to touch him, a silent form of comfort for both of them, but the possibility dies at the edge of his fingertips. As always, he's unwilling to risk it.
He receives a grunt in the affirmative before Osamu is standing up from his stool, causing the metal to screech across polished concrete. Without another word, he's heading for the bathroom, leaving his brother and best friend alone. Suna directs his eyes back across the table where Atsumu is frowning, brown eyes fogged with something cloudy the middle blocker can't quite make out. And he thinks, Atsumu is actually worried...huh... Because Atsumu never worries. Suna doubts he has enough brain cells for that.
"Careful with yer face there. Someone might actually think you care."
"He's been like this since we got here," Atsumu ignores his snide remark, the crease of his eyebrows reflecting something stormy. "Keeps coughin'. I told him he should go to the doctor before he gets people sick but the jerk is stubborn as always."
Suna almost finds relief in the face that Atsumu's expression shifts from worrying back to his normal state of softened contempt for his brother. He doesn't want to have to worry about Osamu's well-being because Osamu has never needed it before. Neither of the Miya twins ever had. They're the kind of steady-state people who's drama is superficial, who are actually the most reliable souls you'd ever meet, who are always there, always themselves.
The sky will fall when the Miya twins meet a challenge they can't face.
Moments later, Osamu is back, causing Suna to wonder how long it had actually been since he'd left. Looking back, it could've been fifteen minutes or thirty seconds and Suna would never know.
"Oh he finally decides to grace us with his presence again," Atsumu snarks, but there's something different about Osamu's reaction. Something dragging, slightly off-beat, like he skipped a measure in the music and is trying to find his way back.
"Screw you, asshole," His clap-back is delayed and Suna can see it written on Atsumu's face that he notices too, but he doesn't mention it. Maybe he's tired, Suna thinks, the thought a veil for an uneasiness rooted deeper down. It's unnerving to see Osamu so off, like something isn't clicking. Too subtle to be anything like Atsumu's mood swings, but stark in contrast to anyone who knew him well.
The rest of the time at the coffee shop goes smoothly enough with the twins making up most of the conversation - Suna's never been much of a talker anyway. He speaks when spoken to, shares when it's appropriate, and he has always silently thanked the twins for not expecting him to fit the mold or fill in the gaps.
And when it's time to leave, as usual, Atsumu grins broadly like a child (because he feels secure enough in the knowledge that they'll meet again to smile) and Osamu ropes him in for a casual hug with a surprisingly strong arm, to which Suna rolls his eyes - a necessary precaution. As usual, cold seeps into Osamu's absence bitingly as he releases Suna. And as usual, Suna is left thinking about what it might be like to walk home with Osamu's arm around him just like that. To an apartment - their apartment - that would be warmed by sickly sweet affection (and maybe a heater).
As usual, as it's always been, he's left thinking about stealing memories he has no right to, holding them close even though they were never meant to be his.
-
Suna's apartment is in perfect order, as per usual.
He doesn't know why his parents still keep it considering they've all moved far from Hyougo - maybe they rent it out (he doesn't doubt it), maybe they hope to keep a strained tie to the only place they'd ever really stayed in. Either way, it's a nice convenience to have when he visits, which isn't often now.
He drops his bag at the front door, kicking his shoes off lazily and leaving them in no particular organization. His mother would swat him upside the head for his carelessness. But his mother never was around, nor was his father. So Suna took the liberty of disregarding the thought. In the library of his mind, it was but a crumpled sticky note left to be discovered and once again tossed to the side.
He's hungry having consumed only coffee in the past seven hours, but he doesn't eat. He knows as a professional volleyball player he should be far more strict about his diet, but it's hard for him to muster up the energy to care. Many other thoughts take up the space reserved for concern about his well-being. Thoughts mainly consisting of one person.
Osamu.
He's been thinking about Osamu a lot lately. I mean, he's always thought of Osamu a lot considering he had been one of his two friends in the world for so long, but when he was younger they'd always been accompanied by matching thoughts about Atsumu. The twins were a package deal, after all. But things change. And now all that Suna thinks about as he practically falls over the arm of his couch is how warm and ticklish he felt all over as Osamu breathed a goodbye against his ear.
Suna used to catch himself wondering if there was any possibility that Osamu felt similarly, if maybe he got butterflies when Suna helped him stretch after games, if he wasn't content with a nudge in the ribs and a 'see ya' as a proper goodbye either. He's since banished those thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to quit the fatal drug after Osamu had moved to get his restaurant started. The only problem with fantasies is that you have to return to the real world eventually.
He stares at the ceiling now, contemplating how some hours move so fast while moving too slow. Time moves currently at the present moment, but when he touches Osamu, when he's with him, it becomes drawn out, elongated, before slingshotting back to reality hours later when they say their goodbyes and Suna feels that something had been stolen from him.
Suna almost always finds himself falling asleep to Osamu's silvery eyes, his hair always in a certain state of disarray, the way he used to swing their hands when they were kids and went "adventuring," and tonight is no different.
Tonight, as he lets his eyes close - only for a minute, he tells himself, because he's sure he'll figure out something else he wants to do with his night if he thinks hard enough - he imagines Osamu's lips next to his ear, those hands gripping his shoulders, the sides of their thighs pressed together under the table, a single point of sweet contact that Suna would let himself drown in if ever he had the time.
Yes, tonight is no different.
-
"Fuck," Suna startles from his deep sleep with the sound of a buzz next to his ear, obnoxiously loud in the dewy silence of the early morning. Maybe it's not early. He really can't tell. In typical Suna fashion, he fell asleep on his couch.
With a lazy index finger, he flips his phone over, immediately identifying the messages lighting up his phone as ones from the Miya twins. Other than the one with his current teammates, the chat with the Miya twins was the only one he actively engaged in. It's not like he had other people to spend his time talking to. Not anyone that mattered, anyway.
Still, in a habitual reaction, he rolls his eyes. Maybe his unconscious brain worries that one of the twins might miraculously appear and accuse him of being soft, but he doesn't dwell on the thought too long before picking up his phone and flopping most gracefully onto his side.
{Dipshits: 29 new messages}
'Samu >> Hes prolly still sleeping you asshole
'Tsumu >> SUNNNNAAAAAAAA ANSWER US
'Samu >> You're an obnoxious bitch
'Tsumu >> UNO REVERSE MOTHER FUCKER
'Tsumu >> SUNAAAAAÆÂĀÁ
'Samu >> Typing his name incorrectly isn't gonna make him unsleep faster
'Samu >> Half of those don't even make the right sound you dumbass
Me >> What the hell do you guys want?
'Tsumu >> THERE YOU ARE
'Tsumu >> YOU WANNA GO SEE A MOVIE WITH US
'Tsumu >> fuck capslock srry
'Tsumu >> Anyway do ya
Against his better judgement, Suna ends up going.
They buy gummy bears - well, Atsumu does because he's an addict (Suna doesn't understand how he still stays scary fit when all he ever eats are processed carbs. Maybe he just never dropped his light-speed metabolism, Suna thinks.) but Suna sticks to a bottle of water, and Osamu gets nothing, too busy complaining about the prices to spend any money. His concerns are fair. Five hundred and eighty yen for water is fucked.
In all honesty, Suna can't remember the last time he'd been to a movie theater since he'd turned eighteen, nor can he remember what movie they're actually going to see. Not that he really cares. He doesn't mind either way. The only genres Suna finds entertaining are horror and thrillers - they're the only ones with enough interest to keep him engaged (okay, maybe it's only because they genuinely freak him the fuck out, but hell will freeze over before he admits that out loud. Especially to one of the Miya twins).
Suna only ever liked movie theaters because they were dark and no one ever bothered him by talking to him. But he's starting to like them for stranger reasons as Osamu laces their fingers and tugs him along. Faster, his action seems to say, though Suna is already tripping over himself to keep up with the twins who are practically giddy with the delight. His heart pounds against his skin to the point where he's sure Osamu can feel it pulsing.
But the gesture is lacking something that Suna wants. It's lacking the warmth - well, not warmth per se, because Osamu is always warm. But it's missing something beyond friendship.
Missing isn't the right word for something that was never there in the first place, Suna reminds himself, painful as the reminder may be.
Osamu drags him into a darkened theater, still not releasing his hand as they're consumed by darkness only to be temporarily blinded by the flashing of ads on an enormous screen. Suna doesn't mind being tugged around like a security doll. It somehow makes him feel wanted in a way that even his parents had never managed to accomplish. He's always been following Osamu anyway. Even when he walked in front of his best friend, false pretense convincing him he was in the driver's seat for once, he was always waiting for Osamu to catch up and stand shoulder to shoulder with him once again.
Now is no different. Even if he is just waiting for the inevitability of separating to sit in seats that aren't as comfortable as they supposedly claim to be.
The inevitability comes sooner than expected, warmth escaping his palm as Osamu releases him so they can sink into their respective seats. As per usual, the twins sit on either side of him to discourage bickering between the two, though it rarely worked. Suna takes a small solace in the fact that they're almost completely alone in the movie theater at eleven-thirty in the morning. At least they won't be receiving any complaints.
There are other upsides to being alone in a movie theater, too. Things like being able to adjust seats whenever you see fit, being able to climb on the railings (it was much more entertaining as a kid, but there's something about sitting on the instability of a thin metal bar that makes the surrounding darkness seem invigorating). Atsumu seems like the rambunctious one of their group, but it's Suna who can't sit still. He gets restless - especially during horror movies when he feels like he might scream. He hates being around people when he's scared - not that he is or ever gets scared. Most don't notice the subtle cues, but the Miya twins always had a knack for it.
Suna finally focuses on the screen when the ads cease and the movie begins - and of course, it's just like the Miya twins to pay money to watch a movie they've already seen five times (one that still makes Suna's skin crawl even though he knows every line of it). Annabelle: Creation. Suna hates that movie with every fiber of his being. But he stays.
I already spent money on this, he rationalizes. Might as well see it through.
Suna tenses nonetheless beside Osamu, and he hopes the silver-haired man can't tell - though he's sure his best friend has already caught on. Osamu somehow always knows.
At the first jumpscare, Suna is already out of his seat. This is nothing new to the Miya twins, but Atsumu usually ignores him - something he's secretly grateful for - but Osamu is the one who's always one step behind him. He knows his fidgetiness is a tell, an obvious one at that. But the thing about tells is that they're usually not conscious.
With all the agility of a cat, Suna is sliding over the back of his seat as sliently as humanly possible, body seeing the comfort of somewhere much farther away from the screen than they are sitting. Suna refuses to call himself sensitive, but seeing every detail is painful to him. So he travels to the back of the theater who's shape is undefined in the looming darkness. Like a scared child, the devil on his shoulder chides him.
Suna knows there's no shame in being scared - toxic masculinity and all that - but trained habits are not easily outrun.
He sinks down against the wall carpeted for sound-dampening when he reaches the back of the theater he didn't know existed. There's a brief, childish rush of excitement at the idea that he's literally sitting somewhere he's never experienced in his life before, but it's gone as another sharp sound pulses through the room. He curls inward on himself, knees pressing up to his chest in a weak attempt to keep himself safe from a nonexistent threat.
And he stays like that for as long as he can before someone is suddenly invading his safety corner. With how backlit the figure is and the already surrounding darkness, he shouldn't be able to tell which one of the Miya twins is approaching him. But he knows it's Osamu from the way he walks, stepping over chairs - poised, deliberate. If it was Atsumu, he would be clumsy, like an overzealous puppy.
Osamu doesn't say a word as he takes a seat next to Suna. Too close, he wants to insist. Closer, his brain unconsciously says.
Osamu's fingers tangle with his and Suna feels momentarily overwhelmed with the sudden input of new sensations. Osamu's thigh pressed against his, Osamu's hand gripping his own, Osamu's muscled arm curling around his own to facilitate the proper angle of their hands slotting together, Osamu's head resting on his shoulder like their five years old again. Osamu. Warm, feather-light touches like stardust, but solid and stable.
Briefly, it hurts.
It's just the sharpest, most singular instance of pain, but it hurts. Stolen memories run through his mind at lightning speed - not his memories to have. Memories of Osamu kissing him to distract him, holding Suna on his lap, arms around his waist as he explores Suna's mouth with his tongue, all a delicious attempt to reroute his thoughts.
Except they're not memories because they haven't happened. And they wouldn't.
A cough echoes beside him and Suna almost forgets what happened yesterday. But the memories - real ones, ones he didn't fabricate for his own selfish desires - come flooding back as Osamu's coughs grow heavier, rougher. They become less controlled, forcing the victim of their tirades to wrench his hand from Suna's as he attempts to dizzily stumble to his feet.
And this time, Suna lets himself be worried, tripping to catch up with his best friend as Osamu practically sprints out of the theater. Suna doesn't check to see if Atsumu notices or not, but it would be a wonder if he didn't considering the maelstrom of dry coughs his twin is producing. They sound like they hurt, Suna thinks, producing a familiar pain in his chest. Guilt, maybe. For what? He doesn't know.
The light of the hallway is almost blinding as he nearly sprints to catch up with Osamu, following his best friend as they simultaneously crash into the men's restroom. Osamu collapses over the sink, chest still shaking with coughs that echo, dry and rough, like he's forcing something out. Something that hurts Suna the same as it hurts Osamu.
Suna can't tell if the coughing lasts for hours or seconds because time is turning into a slinky again, stretching, seemingly forever only to snap again in an almost reliable rhythm. But eventually, Osamu releases a final, aching cough into the sink, filling it with pearly white...
Flower petals, Suna's mind turns into the equivalent of white noise as he stares, still not really believing reality. Is this a stolen memory, too? He'd never wished for a moment to belong to someone else more.
The worst part is when Osamu looks up at him, sweet shame hidden behind those silver eyes that are swollen and red with unintentional tears as he succumbs to his body's natural reactions, a wry smile perched on his lips.
"Guess the secret's out then," he says.
-
The feeling of sweat clings cool to his skin as Suna wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt. He stares at the notifications on his phone - too many to count if there weren't an automatic feature on IOS that did it for you. And he's good. He doesn't think about the palpable distance that has grown between him and Osamu within the past few days. He doesn't think about the watery redness of his eyes as he crumpled lanky fingers through his silver hair. Suna doesn't think about it at all. Instead, he thinks around it, like exploiting loopholes that are purely mental.
The thinks about every moment, every second leading up to it. He thinks about everything that happened after it. He thinks about a silent train ride that could've been filled with bickering and sarcastic comments if he'd waited a day instead of running away from them. "I want to get in early. Just to get situated before the match. Gotta be in prime condition to whoop yer ass," had been his excuse. Not a very well-crafted one, but it kept the barking twins at bay.
He had made no attempts to see them once they'd gotten in, either - a shameful fact, but a true one. He still texts them regularly, but attempts at plans always die fast and quick. It's a group primed for such an occurrence. Between Atsumu and Osamu's endless supply of useless arguments, Suna's propensity toward being a homebody, and the casual nature of their relationship, suggestions to meet up often got lost in the chain of blue and gray bubbles.
Suna won't be able to tell you why, if you ask him. Maybe he'll tell you that he just needs a break from the twins' yapping at a constant rate. Or he might say that he's been too focused on volleyball to pay much mind to his attention-whores of best friends. But truthfully, it was something much less surface-level. Suna himself doesn't even know the answer.
Maybe I'm scared, he wonders to himself sometimes on lonely nights spent in a hotel room when, despite his best efforts, his eyes still flutter closed to thoughts of Osamu Miya. Maybe he doesn't like seeing Osamu in pain - of course he doesn't, but that's not why, his conscious brain chides. Maybe he aches at the reality of flower petals. Flower petals for someone, for someone else. That hurt him and suffocate him, stealing the air from Osamu's lungs. His Osamu. Not his. He doesn't like feeling bitter - stuck between fear and anger - but what else is he to feel?
He cleans up in the locker room as quickly as he can manage, slipping his shirt over his head in a conscious decision to shower at the hotel. Normally, he wouldn't mind the wait - he likes his teammates well enough, and sticking around to chat idly is nothing objectionable to him - but he wants to be alone. Like a petulant child or a moody teen, he seeks the cold comfort of aloneness. Loneliness is his only friend. I'm such a dramatic bitch, he laughs cruelly to himself. But the pretense of joy fades as quickly as the flash of a sarcastic smile dances across his lips.
As he reaches his hotel room, he kicks open the door haphazardly, throwing his room key on the nightstand and flopping face-first into bed. He should shower, he's sure he should. But the tendrils of fatigue curl themselves around his muscles, running races through his bones. His eyes cut to his phone screen again, lighting with too many notifications. I should respond, he thinks. But a cold fear rips through his body at the idea of seeing Osamu again. Fear of pain. So he turns his phone face down and sighs into the detergent-scented linen of the bedsheets.
Feelings are hardly worth it, he decides.
-
Suna remembers a lot of things. He remembers Osamu's first girlfriend. Her name was Evangeline - a sweet name that meant stars in English (or something along those lines. Suna had never invested much time in finding out). She was an exchange student from America, had strawberry blonde hair in contrast to Suna's average, dark brown hair. She had pale blue eyes that looked sparkling with joy at a constant rate, different from Suna's grayish-yellow irises. She was filled out and nicely shaped, not lanky and lean like Suna. She's pretty, Suna remembers thinking. Though, in what context still eludes him. Maybe the delusion is purposeful, an avoidance for his own peace of mind.
Suna remembers how she and Osamu met. Remembers watching them standing in the courtyard on Valentine's day, arm in arm, a playful smirk resting on her lips. Someone had just confessed - Yukihara, if Suna's memory serves - and the pink envelope, wet with snow in its haste to be forgotten was still clutched tightly in Osamu's hand. How Yukihara must have burned at the sight, Suna remembers wondering.
He remembers a few weeks in March stretching to April when Atsumu had become his best friend and confidant because, like Suna, he took no interest in Evangeline. But his disinterest had a different motive behind it. Maybe sibling jealousy was the right word for it at the time. Suna can't or maybe won't recall his own reason for keeping his distance from her.
She was sweet, he remembers, with a personality akin to honey, a thin, Southern-States accent that lingered like the faint traces of vanilla perfume she was always wearing. She liked Shakespeare, liked reading it to Osamu on dates even though the boy barely understood a word of English, much less old English - Her voice is like poetry, he'd mused to Suna one day as they walked home through a rainstorm. Suna had just rolled his eyes.
Would you say that about me? He sometimes caught himself asking without words.
He remembers being forced to spend time with Evangeline just by virtue of the fact that they shared a common link, Osamu. Remembers learning about her love of poetry and art, learning about how her parents moved around a lot - he didn't like that particular fact. It felt too personal. Remembers finding out that she liked pale pink but not fuchsia, strawberries but not raspberries, pencils but not pens. She was an artist.
He remembers the aching feeling of doubt - doubt about the validity of his assurance that she was wrong for his best friend. Doubt about his stance as the protagonist of his own story.
Would I be good enough for you? Am I enough of an artist?
Suna remembers sitting in the supply closet with him after she left, watching a spot on the concrete floor darken as stray raindrops spilled through the high-up open window. Osamu was making a valiant attempt not to show the physical manifestation of his hurting, face to his knees, fingers laced over his head in a protective shell. Suna remembers feeling justified in keeping a good few inches of space between them - he'll seek physical comfort if he wants it.
Suna remembers being selfish, able only to stare out the window as his best friend broke down beside him.
Would you cry like this for me, too?
"I get why she had to leave. But why couldn't she stay?" His voice was raw and fleshy, exposed. He was bearing his heart and soul to Suna and yet, Suna didn't know how to respond. I should know what to say, right? He remembers thinking. This is what best friends are for. I'm supposed to know how to make him feel better. But he didn't. Maybe he didn't want to. He would never wish pain on Osamu Miya, not in a million years. But maybe he just wanted him to get it.
See? Look at how much pain you're in. Because of her. She hurt you like this. Or: I would never hurt you like this.
"I don't know, 'Samu. Not everything in life has a reason behind it. Sometimes things just...happen."
Suna remembers a lot of things. This memory is not one of his favorites.
-
Osamu has him cornered two days later - two days before the match.
"Don't ya have restaurant business or some shit ta do?" They're outside a coffee shop Suna discovered a couple of days ago - some hipster place Suna wouldn't normally like if they didn't have really good pour-over - Osamu's hands caging him against the brick exterior. He doesn't mean for the words to sound so hostile, but maybe he does. Stupid as he knows it is, bitterness is an ugly disease.
"Why're ya avoiding me?" Osamu jumps straight to the point, though Suna shouldn't be as surprised as he is. Osamu has never been one to beat around the bush. Suna usually likes that about him, but in this case, he wishes for a little more time to gather his scattered thoughts. How is he expected to be able for formulate a proper excuse this way?
"I'm not," A simple lie, but most effective.
"Yes, ya are. Ya meet up with 'Tsumu all the time but not me even though we're literally in the same place most of the time," Suna curses inwardly, keeping his outward expression a marble mask. He knew he should've been more careful about that. It wasn't as nefarious as Osamu's accusation made it sound. They had merely met for coffee so Suna could ask him about how Osamu was doing regarding his condition without having to ask the man himself.
"I saw him one time. Stop being a drama queen," Osamu wrinkles his nose at the title usually reserved for his twin.
"Whatever! Yer hidin' something and I wanna know what it is?" Suna keeps his expression deadpan only to watch Osamu's determination crack, fissures and weak points in his resolve showing themselves in the crease between his eyebrows, the downturn of his lips - Suna could kiss those lips. He's certainly close enough. "Are ya upset because ya saw me...Because, ya know, I got, well, y'know...?"
Osamu gets silence in response. No, Suna isn't upset with him. No, he's not weirded out that Osamu has Hanahaki's. No, he's not in need of an apology from his best friend. Yes, he has been avoiding the Miya twins - Osamu in particular.
"Are ya actually gonna make me say it?" Osamu rolls his beautiful eyes and Suna waits. He waits for an admission and it comes easier than he expected it to, like Osamu had been waiting for so long just to say these words. "Fine, I got Hanahaki's disease and yes, I am dying, technically. But-"
"There's not but in this situation, 'Samu," The admission - one he'd asked for - feels like a punch to the gut, Hanahaki's was the knife and this is Osamu twisting it for good measure. So Suna's mask cracks, a hairline fracture that no one but Osamu would ever notice. One could've easily mistaken it for a gray streak in the marble, an artful design, if Suna chose to spin it that way.
"I know but-"
"Who is it?" Are you sorry? Don't be sorry, but don't not be sorry either. If it was me, I would love you back. But it's not, is it? Say it. Out loud, say it.
"Does this mean ya forgive me?" There's something almost childish sparkling in Osamu's eyes - hope, Suna identifies - and briefly, for an allowable moment, Suna is reminded of a poem they studied in high school. Emily Dickinson was the poet's name.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
The assignment had been for them to identify the theme, the narrative, and the purpose behind the words. Suna had gotten an A despite not believing in a single word of what he'd written. Hope is more like a chain, he'd decided only after turning in the worksheet. Dragging you down because you're too attached to let go of it.
"Who is it?" Again, he asks, even though he shouldn't, heart pounding in his ears.
'Ya like setting yourself up for heartbreak cause maybe then yeh'll feel something, ya heartless bastard,' he remembers Atsumu telling him in a makeshift therapy session on the roof of Suna's apartment building. He'd just broken up with his first girlfriend. A fight, nothing special. Certainly not special enough for the kind of heartbreak Atsumu had been talking about.
A smirk rises on Osamu's lips, worry remolding, shaping itself into relief. Suna can't say he doesn't like it. Even if he selfishly wants closure regarding Osamu's feelings he has no right to. The Miya twins were always at their best when they were smiling.
"Wouldn't you like to know, Mr. Nosy."
All conversation of Hanahaki or unrequited love stops there as they fall into their old patterns - like none of it matters, part of Suna wants to think. But he doesn't, skillful as always when managing his thoughts. They get expensive coffee that Osamu, like a heathen, claims tastes like Starbucks coffee and they talk about nothing in particular - maybe everything. Sometimes it's too hard to tell with Osamu.
Suna decides he's done with his tantrum after that, and the avoidance of an aching inevitability gets pushed to the background. He allows, for a moment, the possibility of the return of normalcy.
-
The days leading up to the game pass slower after that, and Suna likes it that way.
He likes barely waking up in time for practice and being forced to rush to the gym where he flings himself headfirst into drill after drill. He likes barely being able to talk but somehow making it to the hotel with enough time to take the fastest shower humanly possible before practically sprinting to premade plans. He likes lazy afternoons to counteract the hectic nature of his day - one spent with both Miya twins, the other spent only with Osamu because Atsumu got held up late by Bokuto.
("Bokkun is seriously trying to sabotage my relationship. Like dude, just 'cause yer man's busy being a publisher or whatever doesn't mean ya gotta take up all my damn free time," was the lie Atsumu had told them. Everyone knows Bokuto and Atsumu are practically each other's best friend on the Jackals. And when they link up with Hinata, they might as well be the three musketeers, harbingers of chaos.)
Suna likes the routine, the pleasant settling of his world, if only for a couple of days. He knows it'll be uprooted the moment he has to step onto a train and go home, but he can enjoy living in his carefully crafted fantasy, just for a few days.
His future self will put up a fight, he knows, but he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Just for an allowable moment, he tells himself.
-
Suna remembers a lot of things. He remembers every time Osamu has ever touched him.
He remembers when they were eleven: Osamu dragging him through the forest behind the Miya's house, down a well-trodden trail Suna was sure the twins had explored together already. The grubbiness of Osamu's palm had been in stark contrast to Suna's untouched fingers and Suna had wrinkled his nose at the dirt. Osamu had pulled him from his house, interrupting his afternoon snack with the claim, "Suna! I found somethin' ya just gotta see!" It was just a rock Osamu hadn't managed to pry from its resting place. It was pretty though.
He remembers on the first day of middle school, Osamu latching onto him like he was the only thing that existed in the universe. Not because of any special attachment, Suna is sure of that to this day. More because of the separation anxiety of being in a different class than his brother. The twins had been attached at the hip since day one, as much as they bickered. He could imagine what that feeling must be like. The ache of missing someone so bad. Osamu would never know it, but Suna was jealous of him for that. Suna had never experienced a feeling so deep before.
He remembers their first day of high school, Osamu jumping him from behind, arms around his shoulders as he grins that trademark Miya grin and says, "Waddaya think, Suna? Everything ya expected? Can't believe we actually made it to high school." Suna can't remember what he'd said in response - likely something making fun of the Miya twins, "I just can't believe you guys made it to high school." Whatever it was, he's sure it was a half-hearted lie. The stardust on his skin from the contact stayed with him like body glitter for the rest of the day, infecting his every movement with the feeling.
He remembers every touch during practice - lanky fingers pressing gently but insistently against his spine as he tried to stretch out the aching of his muscles, Osamu's body colliding with him at the speed of light when they won a game, the bruising impact painful but warm - every high five, every ruffle of his hair as a silent condolence when they lost, every pat on the back, nice block.
He remembers parting touches on graduation day, their courses already set to stray far from each other - though Suna always knew an invisible force would pull him and the Miya twins back together. It was inevitable, like a lot of things. He remembers Osamu looping their fingers during the graduation ceremony. Maybe if we're tangled, we can't be ripped apart, the contact seemed to say. He remembers an uncountable number of slaps to his shoulder blade to the point where he actually developed a bruise - it'll be okay, but Suna didn't need reassuring. He was sure they were more for Osamu's benefit than his own.
He remembers Osamu wrapping his arms around Suna at the train station, tears shimmering and making his eyes look like the silver lining of a cloud. He remembers the warmth of being wrapped in Osamu's arms, now muscular, no longer lanky and boney like they were in their first year. He remembers Osamu's head ducked to the crook of his neck like it was his favorite hiding place. Suna couldn't object to any of it - not the warmth of his body despite the summer heat, not way their torsos molded perfectly to one another, not the safety it gave him - Even if he should.
Suna remembers a lot of things, and these memories are his favorites. Memories of moments he'd given himself with the justification, only for an allowable moment.
-
The Jackals won, but it came as no surprise. Not that Suna believed his team was fated to lose - of course he didn't. He believed in his teammates wholeheartedly. But there were some things that, even though they should come as a shock, just...didn't.
He should probably be upset or even angry as he tugs a clean t-shirt over his head and listens absently to the bemoaning of his teammates, but he can't really find it in himself to be anything more than mildly disappointed. Against the backdrop of many other things, a single loss doesn't seem like such a big deal. It's not like you're dying, he thinks bitterly.
He looks at his gym bag, open to reveal his phone lighting up with text messages - another Miya twins spat that will inevitably fizzle out when both of them run out of energy to annoy each other - and he thinks about the white flower petals plastered against the sink in a movie theater bathroom, the twisted beauty of them. He thinks about the look Osamu was giving him, like he'd just been caught red-handed committing a felony. He thinks about the idea of loss, the concept of never seeing someone again, and he decides - or more like realizes - he can't fathom it.
What would a world without Osamu Miya in it even be?
A world without one-armed hugs outside of coffee shops. A world without a fearless guide through pouring rain even though neither of you can see more than three feet in front of you. A world without a monster in the world of coffee critics. A world without unrequited love. A world without stolen memories.
He decides he won't, nor does he want to think, about it. Suna's always been selfish, he knows that. People tell him it a lot. He's heard it from friends, from family members, he's heard it from all of the three girlfriend's he's had in his life. The word has often been accompanied by, cold, bastard, heartless. And Suna thinks, maybe I am.
But selfish has saved him from a curse even more painful - heartbreak. So maybe he doesn't mind all that much.
-
Atsumu, much to his surprise, is the one to approach Suna after the game. He's different from Osamu in the way he catches the middle blocker's attention. Suna gets no warning before Atsumu jumps him, muscled arm looping around Suna's neck to curb their one-inch height difference.
"There's gonna be a party at Bokkun's apartment tonight. Are ya comin'?" It only occurs to Suna now that if it's an away game for him, it is, in fact, a home game for Atsumu, a fact he'd conveniently neglected over the past week. He briefly considers that it may have been rude for him and Osamu to ask Atsumu to take a train to Hyougo just to meet with them for a weekend last week. But the thought is fleeting. Suna's never been one to dwell on things he can't change - well, most things.
"Um-"
"Please?" And against his better judgement, Suna gives in, a sigh as his affirmative. Is Osamu going to be there? He wants to ask like a boy with a middle school crush, but he doesn't. There are very few times when they're in the same city that one twin isn't toting the other around everywhere, but his brain wants to know. Suna finds himself in the not-uncommon position of blatantly ignoring his brain.
"Why do ya want me there anyway?" If there's one thing Suna's learned from hanging out with the Miya twins his whole life, it's to never assume nor trust their motives.
"Yer one a my best friends, dude. Plus, Bokkun wants to meet you. Says he feels left out or somethin'," Atsumu shrugs. Suna could remember the singular time he'd ever engaged with the Jackals outside of the court and it was after a game where their orange-headed hitter had bounced up to him babbling nonsense. The infamous Bokuto Koutarou had been nowhere in sight.
"Fine, but I'm only staying for five minutes," More to convince himself than Atsumu, who already knows he'll probably stay until Atsumu leaves just to appease his friend.
"Great! We can just walk then. It's only like, five minutes from here," Suna detests the idea of walking on his legs that feel like gelatin at the moment, but he doesn't voice this weakness to Atsumu. Instead, he rolls his eyes as a placeholder for his discomfort.
"What about yer boyfriend. Don't ya wanna walk with him?" Suna voices a passing thought out loud.
"Omi hates showerin' in the locker room. Says it's worse than getting in a stranger's car all sweaty and stuff. He went home to change first," Of course, it sounds just like Sakusa to hate the idea of the virtual Petri dish that is a locker room shower shared by a team of sweaty volleyball players. Suna would do the same if he wasn't tired enough after games that the trade-off between having to travel home covered in filth and possibly contracting a deadly disease blurred. "Plus, we haven't gotten much time to talk just us."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Suna wrinkles his nose as a frown tugs at his lips. He talked to Atsumu a few days ago "just them."
There's an unnerving pause - unnerving because Atsumu is seldom silent, always chattering his head off until someone or something forces him to shut up. A soft look of consideration rests on his features and Suna wants to make a joke about how he didn't know Atsumu was even capable of such deep thought. But he doesn't. It's a time and a place sort of thing.
Eventually, though, he breaks the silence between them with, "He coughed up blood last night," and Suna wishes he could jump back to a few seconds ago when unnerving quiet felt like it would stretch forever. Atsumu's head is turned away from Suna so the middle blocker sees only the vague edge of his profile, something else Suna doesn't like. The whole scenario feels wrong, like he's trapped in a vivid dream with no way to wake up. "Refuses to tell Ma. Won't tell me who it is, either."
Suna stays silent, waiting for him to continue - hoping he'll continue. But he doesn't and Suna doesn't have any words that don't make him sound like a heartless asshole. He should, he knows he should - this is Osamu they're talking about, he should have some words, any words - but he doesn't. Suna was never good with them. But the silence is stretching, thinner and thinner, and Suna knows it'll snap soon if he doesn't strike preemptively. It's a break your own heart first situation.
"Why are you telling me this?" There it goes. Snap. The slinky collapses on itself once again, returning to its resting state, waiting to be unfurled.
Time stretches out as if one command, the silence that builds a divide between them nearly deafening. Suna can't hear much over the beating of his heart. A world without Osamu. The idea hurts. And if he could pull his eyes of whatever meaningless things was directly in front of him, he would see that Atsumu felt it too. But he doesn't. As always, he opts for the safe option.
"I'm scared," Atsumu admits at a whisper. Suna can hear the tears in his voice and he hates them about as much as he hates himself for not saying anything. I know. Me too. Suna doesn't say that, more fearful of turning concept into reality than he is of seeming like a dick. "I think he is too. But he won't say it. He doesn't want anyone to know."
"Of course he doesn't. He's 'Samu. He doesn't want anyone to know anything unless it's on his terms," All his words feel so hollow, so shallow, like they're all a lame coverup for thoughts he should say but isn't brave enough to voice out loud. He doesn't like it, but a dull, lasting ache is better than a sharp pain. And besides, his comment earns him the huff of a laugh. Not everything in his world is Osamu. Atsumu means too much to explain in words to him, just in a different way. "Now dry yer tears. Yer boyfriend is mean enough to tell ya ya look gross."
Suna nudges Atsumu. He earns himself another smile and the rubberband of time evens back out again, continuing to move linearly in a smoothly flowing course.
-
Bokuto's apartment is louder than Suna would like. People from his own team and the Jackals mix together like a strange amalgamation of friends and enemies, music that Suna vaguely recognizes as basic pop plays just quiet enough that it's frustratingly muted, but just loud enough that it bugs him. All around him people are happy, which is the most infuriating part.
Why do they get to be happy? Is Suna happy? No, his brain screams at the thought. He's not happy, that's for sure. He's stuck in limbo, between in pain and a marble facade.
There is one positive, though - well, two, to be exact, though Suna will never admit that to their faces. They stand in the kitchen of Bokuto's open floorplan apartment, red solo cups clutched in their hands. Atsumu had blended in the moment they set foot in the place, immediately greeting people like he'd known them his entire life, while Suna still stands in the doorway, waiting for the blond to point him out to his brother.
Osamu grins like he hasn't seen Suna in three years and it makes Suna feel warm, pins and needles spreading through his limbs at just a smile. Maybe he's fallen harder than he originally thought. It doesn't matter though, all that really matters is Osamu.
For a moment, Suna allows himself to be enchanted by the way he looks in a long-sleeved shirt and ripped jeans, by the way he grins at Suna like just won the lottery, by the way he smells vaguely of strawberries as he pulls Suna in for a causal hug that could mean nothing or everything - it's open to interpretation. No, it's not, he's your best friend, he chides internally. But tonight, he lets himself ignore the nagging itch at the back of his mind.
Suna forgets easily enough about wanting to disappear from this party as fast as possible when Osamu pulls him by the hand into the hallway. Let's disappear into our own little bubble, the action says. Just like when they were kids. On the subject of being there only for Atsumu, they can relate.
"Why're ya here?" The question is cursory. Suna doesn't really care about the answer.
"This is my week off and 'Tsumu's convinced I'm gonna spontaneously combust or somethin' if he leaves me alone for more than three seconds," Osamu rolls his eyes, but Suna can see the appreciation resting beneath them, though he'll ardently deny such an accusation if asked directly. The Miya twins may bicker like there's no tomorrow, but secretly, somewhere deep down, hidden from the rest of the world, the care. About each other, about their friends, about a lot of things, really. Suna knows.
When Suna says nothing, Osamu takes the hint he didn't even know he was sending. Suna often wonders if he's becoming lazy with his facade.
"Ya agree with him, don't ya?" They stop at a painting that Suna is sure can't belong to Bokuto. He doesn't know the man, but everything else in his apartment looks like it was bought on a midnight shopping spree at Target. This clearly doesn't match. Maybe it was a gift.
Again, Suna doesn't say anything - a bad habit he's formed by now - even though maybe he should. Instead, he stares at the abstract painting. Blotchy red and black, melting with accents of white and gray - the color of the great in-between - stare back at him. Whatever meaning is supposed to hide in its strokes is lost on him. Finding the deeper meaning has never been his strong suit and Suna likes it that way. If most things in his life are surface level, he's okay with that. It's better than digging deeper and coming face to face with a shitty answer, he thinks.
The silence between them is heavy, the distance he'd recently closed between them taking a physical form as Osamu turns away from him. Suna hadn't known before this moment that nothing could have an emotion attributed to it, but this nothing, this quiet, this space is sad. Suna decides that this lies as one of the many things he doesn't like, and the few that he hates.
"Ya guys look at me like I'm already gone," And maybe Suna has, he realizes then, staring at the crevices and valleys of the image before him, where red curls with white, a brief moment of a brighter, sweeter color making itself known. But if he has, it's only for his own good. Is it easier not to miss someone if stop treating them like they're there in the first place? He wonders. He gets no answer. "Like seriously! Ya look at me like I'm 'bouta drop stone-cold dead at any second."
"Aren't ya?"
It's a confession of guilt. You're already dead, might as well save ourselves the mourning process. Suna decides he wants to forget this memory as soon as possible. He doesn't look at Osamu. He doesn't want to.
"I'm not dead yet, Suna," Suna's too scared to, or doesn't, notice that Osamu is suddenly beside him, shoulder to shoulder with the middle blocker so he can lace their fingers gently. The contact isn't half as insistent as Suna as used to - Osamu's fingers gentle against his, more like a question, can I hold your hand? And Suna stops breathing. "I'm still here."
A new favorite memory of an allowable moment pieces itself together in his mind. Suna will hold this one closely. The painting changes its meaning, as if on cue - the point where red melts against white is no longer a bleeding heart staining its surroundings, but a tangling of two auras, vibrant and subdued. This time he doesn't mind how the slinky of time stretches out.
But it snaps suddenly, Suna, for the first time, not expecting it, not anticipating how it abruptly fractures with a cough. He waits a moment in silence, watching the colors in front of him twist in an ugly way, oxygen seemingly out of grasp. Another dry cough fills the silence, muffled this time, but still punctuating, like a staccato. And Suna's mind turns into white noise.
"'Samu," He says. He doesn't get an answer - or, more he does, but it's in the form of Osamu's knees hitting the ground beside him as his chest shakes with coughs. Osamu's hand drops from his and an ache fills its absence as Osamu pushes to his feet to run down the hall toward the bathroom.
Suna follows him in a trance, feet moving to keep up with Osamu. The slinky unfurls, the rubber band stretches as Suna drags his feet through molasses, thoughts incoherent and scattered. The tangible feeling of fear is present. When the time comes for this to morph into a memory, a past-tense, a lived experience, Suna will dispose of it as quickly as possible.
The bathroom lights cast a warm glow as Osamu slams his hand against the switches, causing every detail to come into view as Suna watches his best friend crumple. A cough, and then another and another, dry and scratchy, like he's suffocating with every breath. He's falling apart, Suna realizes belatedly.
And then there's blood and Suna feels dizzy as he watches the crimson red stain pretty white petals. In his mind, Suna is standing in front of the painting once more, watching the single blotch of red in a sea of white morphing itself into blood, trickling through the folds of white rose petals - white roses mean innocence, right? He wonders morbidly. And briefly, Suna thinks back to a time when things were much easier than they are now. And he closes his eyes, and he tries to be anywhere else, selfish man that he is.
The end comes as quick as the onset, and Osamu is washing the evidence of his crime down the drain of the sink muttering, "This can't be good for his pipes...Oh whatever he's a pro athlete. He makes bank." His words are muted to Suna's ears. A trail of blood sticks stubborn to the side of the porcelain bowl and Osamu rubs at it with his thumb. Suna knows the memory of a noise, the squeaking of Osamu's finger against the ceramic - everyone knows that sounds like - but he can't hear it.
Then he washes out his mouth with water, again and again until it runs clear of any trace of red, before he lets his head dip between his shoulders. But Suna still doesn't breathe, doesn't move, stuck against a door he doesn't remember closing. He can't see Osamu's expression, but he's not sure he wants to as he asks,
"Who is it, 'Samu?"
Osamu sighs as if he's asked the question a million times. Suna will keep asking. His hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles blanching. Suna feels like he can't breathe. His words are stuck in his throat and he thinks, could I die like this? Stuck between speaking up and falling to pieces. Maybe he's doing both, silently. Suna does most things silently. Why would this be any different?
Osamu doesn't look at him, nor does he make any attempt to direct his words. He doesn't need to. Right now, it's just them in their bubble, just like Osamu had wanted, just like Suna had submitted to. He often finds himself wishing on impulse for a time when he didn't know Osamu had Hanahaki. But then he thinks about every moment he watched Osamu suffer, every dry cough, and he thinks selfishly, I can't live through that again.
"Will it really matter all that much if I tell ya? I'm gonna die no matter what," Stop saying you're going to die. He means, stop telling me the truth. Literally and metaphorically it hurts.
"Yes, it matters."
"Why?"
"Osamu, who is it?" He doesn't like this game, the way the universe is toying with him. He's cursed with a hailstorm of foreign emotions he doesn't physically express, and he keeps them all locked away. It's like everything is telling him, here, let's see how long it takes you to break.
Suna is selfish first and foremost - who is it that you love? Why can't it be me? - and then he is heartless, his outward appearance not quite keeping up with his head. After that he is cold, because even if Osamu tells him, he won't know what to say. He never does, each time wondering how he got stuck this way. But under all that he is immature, a scared little boy.
Then Osamu flips his position in regards to the sink, leaning his hands on the edge of it so he can look at Suna. And Suna remembers everything at once. He remembers sticky hands and red forearms and bleeding knees and stories about aliens. And he remembers whispering across a small divide between houses that felt like a grand canyon separating him and his childhood crush. He remembers grubby hands and graduation and he thinks about a world without all those allowable moments.
Suna cries. Not big and loud - there is nothing theatrical about Suna Rintarou - but small tears.
"It's you."
Suna can't breathe.
I had a million opportunities, and I didn't take a single one of them.
Suna remembers a lot of things. Every moment of his life flicks through his brain like he's watching a movie. The hours he spent having sleepy conversations with his starry-eyed neighbor a window away. He could've told him then. I like you, he might've whispered. He remembers sitting in the coffee shop near their high school on rainy days while Osamu talked adamantly about the new dish he wanted to try making for his family. I might have feelings for you, he could've said softly.
He remembers specifically not-cleaning the gym after practice in their jerseys, Osamu instead teaching Suna to slow dance so he could properly attend his cousin's bar mitzvah. I have a crush on you, he would've told him as he dropped his head to the crook of Osamu's neck. He remembers seeing Osamu off at the train station, arms wrapped around each other, Osamu crying though he was trying to hide it, remembers the shaking of Osamu's chest against his. I really, really like you. I want you to stay, he could've sighed against his skin.
He remembers standing under the fluorescent lights of a movie theater bathroom, watching Osamu's teary eyes in the reflection of the mirror, red and swollen. I love you, he could've said. Should have said. But he didn't. Just like every other chance he'd been given, he willingly threw it away with excuse after excuse. He's too good at it.
Osamu slumps down against the opposite wall, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands finding purchase in his hair.
"It's you, okay?" He dares a glance at Suna, who is still staring at the place where Osamu used to be. A ghost. "Guess the secret's out then." "Wouldn't you like to know, Mr. Nosy." "Ya guys look at me like I'm already gone." Suna likes to think he's good at keeping a straight face, but Osamu can see through the cracks. "God, see? Ya look so guilty now. Why'd ya think I didn't tell ya? It's not yer-"
"I love you," This isn't going to be another wasted chance.
He melts and lets himself do so, knees hitting the hard floor between Osamu's legs, hands resting on his shins. He wants to be closer, wants to feel Osamu's heat warming him, wants to feel his heartbeat in a gentle reminder that Osamu is there with him. So he lets himself lean over the silver-haired man beneath him, resting their foreheads together, lets himself fall.
What if this is a dream? He wonders. It wouldn't be the first. But Osamu's voice pulls him back from the edge of overthinking, from the brink of backing out at the last second like he always does.
"What?"
"I love you-"
Suna's breathy words are cut off by his lips pressing against Osamu's with a bruising impact, burning the memory of stardust against his skin. Osamu tastes at first salty and metallic, like the blood on his lips, a sharp reminder of the pain he wears beneath his cheerful exterior. But then he tastes sweet, like the silver lining of a cloud and Suna has to muffle a moan by pressing his tongue to the seam of Osamu's lips. Warmth makes itself known in every cell of his body as the man beneath him opens his mouth. Every fiber of his being melts for Osamu, only for Osamu.
Their bodies mold together, Suna's hands pressed to Osamu's muscular shoulders as if to hold him in place and keep him from running away. Osamu presses against him almost desperately, one hand on Suna's hip, the other tangling in his hair - it's nothing short of ecstasy. Oh how Suna wants to open his eyes, etch this memory into his mind and save it as his favorite - at least until he makes new ones. He's sure Osamu looks beautiful, flushed and breathless, silver starry eyes closed behind long eyelashes. But the moment is too perfect to ruin in such a way.
So he doesn't, only cracking his eyes open when Osamu releases him with a soft gasp - Suna wants that sound on repeat. He's crying, not Osamu, but Suna. Suna never cries, but he does now, only for Osamu. Vision blurry, lips still deliciously numb, Suna accepts the fate he's been given - to fall for Osamu Miya, to love him so much it hurts sometimes.
"Wait...ya love me?" Is whispered against his lips and Suna fights the urge to kiss him again. Not that he wants to, but old habits die hard. Pulling back is what he does. He doesn't this time.
"I'm sorry did I not say it enough times?" He stays close, letting his hands fall from Osamu's shoulders so they can tangle with his fingers. Is this real? Does he even care?
"Say it again, just for me," He will, even if his sarcasm sometimes gets in the way of it. Because he wants to. It's the single most amazing, exhilarating, terrifying thing he's ever said. He never wants to stop saying, never wants Osamu to stop knowing it. He has wasted time to make up for. Twenty four years of wasted time.
"Osamu Miya, I love you."
-
Suna remembers a lot of things.
He remembers sitting on the floor of Bokuto's bathroom with Osamu, limbs tangled as they talked about nothing - or maybe it was everything, Suna likes to think it could be both. He remembers falling asleep in a bed that wasn't his but felt familiar anyway, familiar because of the warm body pressed against his chest and the soft exhales of warm breath against his neck. He remembers waking up to Osamu wearing his jersey, making breakfast he was momentarily scared to eat before he remembers he had the good foresight to fall in love with a professional chef.
He remembers a visit to the hospital where Osamu griped the whole way about how he would be fine and Atsumu insisted on listening in over FaceTime. They had said he would be fine, prescribed him aspirin for the pain, told him to call if the flowers started coming back - they didn't. Suna knew they wouldn't. He remembers Osamu kissing him sweetly after he won his next game, I'm proud of you, it said. Suna's parents had never approved of his choice of careers, but Osamu never cared. "I'm prouda ya for doin' what ya love," he'd told Suna the first time he'd gotten into an argument with his parents.
He remembers their first official date a few days later that didn't feel like a date at all. It felt like them. Felt like him and Osamu.
He remembers kisses that make him shiver, their knuckles brushing when they walk turning into their fingers intertwining, hugs from behind on the rare morning that he manages to drag himself out of bed before Osamu to make coffee - it's all he knows how to cook, but neither of them mentions that fact.
These are all favorite memories, he decides.
Yes, Suna remembers a lot of things, but remembering isn't everything. And he decides to stop remembering memories and focus on making them, just for an allowable moment - one he hopes will last forever.