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Rintarou watches the phone ring. It’s sitting two feet away from him at the other end of the table, buzzing against the surface. All he needs to do is reach out and answer.
He keeps staring.
There’s a lump that wells up in his throat. He doesn’t even realize he’s been gripping the edge of the table to stop himself from grabbing the phone until his knuckles start to ache.
Answer it. Just fucking answer it. It’s right there, he’s right there.
Rintarou finds his eyes wandering and they land on a note. The stickiness of the blue note has long since faded and he’s kept it stuck onto the fridge with a magnet that looks like a fish he got from Shinsuke. From his place at the kitchen table he can just barely make out the scribbly handwriting, finding solace in each semi-deliberate loop.
‘I believe in you Rin,’ it reads, ‘I love you aho.’
Rintarou closes his eyes and he can see Osamu’s name signed off at the bottom like it was carved against his eyelids. It lingers until another ring has his eyes opening again. He counts the rings. Every time, he counts the rings. It takes seven rings before his phone goes to voicemail and his bored voice — slightly tinny through the phone speakers — asks the caller to leave a message.
It’s on the fourth ring now.
Ignoring calls has never been hard for Rintarou; he’d call himself a natural. Then he got offered a spot on EJP Raijin. Ever since moving to Tokyo, phone calls have made Rintarou feel like his world was tilting on its axis and he hadn’t gotten proper footing on the ground yet. He had convinced himself, harping at his instincts in the mirror of his parent’s bathroom, that this wouldn’t change anything. Hell, he’d lived in Tokyo for nearly thirteen years before moving to Hyogo. Moving back would be like getting on a bike after a while; muscle memory.
He didn’t account for the fact that he would be living in an apartment by himself, not taking up nearly enough of the already small space. Two weeks in and homesickness had made an appearance. Laid out in bed, staring at a ceiling with no cracks from accidentally tossing a ball too high over and over, it burrowed holes in Rintarou’s skin and flooded his blood with poison. Loneliness was one hell of an affliction and Rintarou wasn’t sure he knew where to find a cure.
So he ignored calls. His excuse was if he answered there would be no doubt he’d be found out. He doesn’t dare allow himself to appear weak or needy.
Fifth ring.
Rintarou abruptly stands from the chair, legs scraping against the ground in a jarring sound to rival the ringing. He paces the length of his tiny kitchen, thumb coming up to his mouth. A mindless habit has Rintarou pinching the skin beside his nail between his teeth and tearing. The skin there is tough from repeating chewing and the skin doesn’t rip until his second go at it. He feels extremely claustrophobic.
With every back and forth his eyes flicker over to the note on his fridge. There’s two more in his bedroom, pinned to a cork board. One stuck to his bathroom mirror with tape. A polaroid he has framed in the living room has a hidden note on the back that Rintarou finds himself pulling out and running his fingers over from time to time.
Stupid.
That’s what was happening. Rintarou was being stupid and stubborn and ridiculous. Atsumu would try to take a swipe at him if he was here and Rintarou shudders at the thought of the worse twin being currently in his presence instead of his boyfriend. In fact he had received a slightly heated text that went somewhat along the lines of, ‘call my brother back, dickwad. he’s fuckin insufferable when he talks about ya.’
To say Rintarou felt ashamed was an understatement.
The sixth ring is slightly jarring.
Rintarou jumps at the noise — what, you weren’t expecting it? — and glares daggers at his phone when his thumb drags out of his mouth a bit too harshly and leaves him with a small line of blood trickling down his finger. He sticks the whole digit in his mouth to suck at while rummaging through drawers to find a bandaid.
He wipes his thumb against the side of his shirt and haphazardly wraps the bandaid around his wound, sighing up at the ceiling and closing his eyes against the lights. He wills himself to get it together. The lump in his throat feels like it’ll crawl out of his mouth at his attempt to swallow. He opens his eyes and his mind supplies him with the forbidden thought that he misses Osamu.
Seven-
Before the seventh ring even gets halfway through, Rintarou lunges for his phone and swipes it off the table, mashing the answer button and pulling the phone to his ear. He cradles it against the side of his head so he doesn’t miss a single second of Osamu’s voice.
“I’m so sorry,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting.
“Finally, I was startin’ t' think ya died without tellin’ me.” Rintarou can hear a teasing grin despite the genuine worry edging Osamu’s tone. The guilt takes him all over again.
“I didn’t mean to stop answering, I just-“
“Rin.” Osamu cuts him off. Rintarou glances at his socked feet, lifting one and pressing the tops of his toes against the floor, curling until he feels a crack or two. His breathing is heavier than he realizes. “I’m not mad at ya. In fact I think I get it, despite what ya might think. I just missed hearin’ about yer day. Hearin’ yer voice.”
Rintarou knocks the back of his head against the fridge and the fish magnet perfectly hits the soft part of his skull. “Fuck,” Rintarou hisses, and cradles his head. Tears prick at his eyes. He screws his eyes shut on reflex.
“What was that, are ya okay?” Osamu sounds a bit frantic, Rintarou can imagine his eyes darting around in his skull in search of what ails him.
“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Rintarou speaks through gritted teeth and slides down to sit on the tiles, back against the fridge. He sighs. “Don’t fuckin’ tell anyone, but I missed you too. Actually I-“
Osamu waits. He waits with bated breath and — damn him — Rintarou can sense the tenderness in his eyes.
Rintarou runs his tongue along his teeth, then his bottom lip, then sinks his teeth into the shiny skin. His eyes are still closed. “I miss home,” comes out as a whisper.
And that’s all it takes.
A whispered confession on the floor of his too tiny kitchen in his empty, way too small apartment, littered with notes from Osamu — from home. Just a few words and his voice cracks at the end and it chips away at the dam. He opens his eyes and before he even registers, Rintarou has tears falling down his cheeks and making small dark spots on the hem of his blue EJP sweatshirt. Rintarou hasn’t cried since moving to Hyogo. Rintarou hasn’t cried in front of someone since he can remember.
“Rintarou,” that someone hums, calling him back to the real world, “listen t’ me.” Rintarou rubs the heel on a hand across his face.
Rintarou doesn’t say anything, just finds it in him to make a quiet noise. A whine.
“C’mon, tell me yer listenin’ or this ain’t gonna work.”
The thought that he should slam his head back against the fridge and knock himself out seems appealing. Instead, he clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m listening.”
“I love you,” Osamu says, drawn out and slow. Rintarou swallows and feels another wave of tears that he can’t stop. He wishes he could see Osamu, be held in his arms while he whispers those words into his ear. He wants so badly but he cannot have. “It’s gonna be okay, I swear t’ya. Yer one of the strongest people I know, Rin. Badass, ruthless on the court. That smile where ya show off yer canines? God, how people don’t throw themselves at you while shittin’ themselves, I don’t know.”
Rintarou actually finds it in him to chuckle. He breathes out and lets himself laugh. “You’re so annoying.”
Osamu hums in affirmation, and there’s an all too knowing twinge. “But that smile’s on yer face now. I’m right, right?”
“Whatever,” Rintarou shoots back with an unseen eye roll and a palpable sniffle. He swipes the cuff of his sleeve over tear tracks until his skin is a little raw. “You’re so stupid, I can’t stand you, I hope you know.”
“Mm, ya love me though, so I can’t see a problem here.”
If Osamu was in front of Rintarou, kneeling just inches away from him with that self-assured yet comforting smile, Rintarou would entertain the idea of trying to break that grin off his face. Maybe with a head butt or diving at his midsection. He knows, despite all of that, he would give anything to just hold Osamu’s face and stare at that stupid, beautiful grin before kissing it off.
“Hey ‘Samu. Can I tell you something?”
“You know you always can,” Osamu supplies, voice slipping back into that fondness that makes Rintarou feel like this might not be the end of the world.
“I didn’t answer your calls because I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t do it. I didn’t wanna be homesick and I thought that if I talked to you it would all come out… well it did all come out, so I was right.” Rintarou sighs to force himself to slow down. “I’m not used to this.”
Rintarou lets his feet slide down until his legs are outstretched in front of him. He listens to Osamu breathing over the line and finds himself subconsciously matching the rhythm. He bends his thumb and it aches against the pressure of the bandaid. The soft part of his skull still stings and his ass has started to go numb from how long he’s been sitting.
It all serves to ground him.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Osamu starts while Rintarou tucks a piece of hair behind his ear. “Ya answer my calls from now on, no matter what, and I’ll find time t' come visit ya this month and I’ll bring whatever from home that’ll help, yeah?”
Fuck Osamu. Fuck Miya Osamu and his gorgeous fucking smile and his sweet, fond voice and his focused eyes and his ability to be the most perfect boyfriend in the whole world. Fuck everything he stands for.
“Please,” Rintarou begs, helpless.
“Now,” Osamu laughs a bit, and Rintarou hears the crackle of a gas stove being lit. He closes his eyes and lets himself be swept up in the image of Osamu in his too tiny kitchen, draped over his shoulders while he cooks. “Tell me about what you’ve been doin’.”