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Afternoon practice ends as it always does: a brief don’t forget your stretches and clean up the gym from Kita, Atsumu attempting to bully the first years into doing his chores for him before Aran gives him a pointed look, and Osamu snickering to himself when he hears an indignant I didn’t even do nothin’! not even a second later.
By the time Suna finishes changing into his uniform, Osamu is already waiting outside the locker room for him. He’s scrolling mindlessly on his phone; a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, and free hand shoved inside his pocket.
A scarf that looks suspiciously like the one Suna thought he lost last winter. He blinks. He looks at it again. Huh, so that’s where it went.
Part of him wants to tease Osamu for it. Wants to ask if he’s some sort of school girl stealing the clothes of her crush now, and that really, he should have just asked Suna out instead of doing it this way – but he’s stopped by a biting gust of wind blowing across his face just as he opens his mouth. Cursing the cold weather in his head, he grimaces and wraps his jacket tighter around himself.
Maybe he should have brought a scarf himself.
“Still can’t handle the cold, eh? I can see ya shiverin’ from here, Sunarin,” Osamu teases, his cheeks flushed red in the cold air. As he speaks, his hands travel up to his scarf and tug at it, before holding it out to Suna. “D’ya want mine? Can’t have ya freezin’ to death on the way home,” he says, not even attempting to stifle his laugh.
“Oh, shut up,” Suna scowls, feeling his eyes narrow. He grabs the scarf nonetheless.
Suna knows that Osamu isn’t the type to casually share his belongings like that – deep-rooted wariness, the result of Atsumu breaking a promise one too many times, when it was already rare enough for them to be able to consider something truly their own while growing up. He also knows that, usually, Osamu would have just said something along the lines of well, damn, yer fault for forgettin’ to bring one.
He stares at the scarf in his hands. It’s still warm, he thinks, as his thumbs absent-mindedly stroke the fabric. One word sticks out to him.
Mine. As if it hadn’t been Suna’s to begin with.
His chest feels oddly tight all of sudden, heat in his face not from the harsh air.
His back turned toward Suna, Osamu just continues on, oblivious to the fact that Suna’s attention is focused elsewhere. “But ya have to admit, yer sorry-ass would be freezin’ right now if I hadn’t been here,” he says, arms crossed behind his head. Not waiting for a reply – or to see if Suna is following –, he starts walking ahead. “‘Tsumu’s already left, said he still needed to catch one of his classmates, think he said somethin’ about a group project? D’ya really think he’s meetin’ up with someone from his class?”
Realising Osamu isn’t going to wait for him, Suna hastily wraps the scarf around his neck and hurries after him. It’s softer than he remembers it to be, some fringes already showing signs of being well worn. He takes a deep breath – and freezes, almost tripping over his own feet.
The smell is familiar. There’s cinnamon and freshly baked bread, almost overwhelming the subtle tea aroma underneath and the faint traces of deodorant – in a way, it’s comforting, he realises. Like standing in front of the vast sea, gentle breeze kissing his bare skin as he feels the sand shift beneath his feet. (He knows it’s Osamu.)
Suna pushes the thought out of his mind.
Once he has caught up to Osamu, he falls into a comfortable step next to him, their breaths coming out as white puffs in the cold air and shoulders occasionally bumping. Suna looks at him and hums. “Atsumu, actually caring about his grades for once? Mm, I think you already know the answer to that.” A short pause, then–, “Hey, wait, you still owe me some money. Don’t think I forgot about that time you practically begged me for some just because you were craving milk bread last week.”
Conveniently not hearing the last part, Osamu turns around and grins. “Do I? Thought you were the one who owes me money for letting ya copy homework yesterday.”
Suna only rolls his eyes and pushes past him, his shithead best friend’s laughter loud in his ears.
Walking home together after school wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them. Neither was studying together – well, if it could even be called studying. Their definition of ‘studying’ fell more along the lines of wasting time on their phones, the occasional nap, spontaneous trips to the konbini around the corner, or setting up the twins’ old Playstation. Never much actual studying involved.
If Atsumu was home, they went to Suna’s house. If he wasn’t home, Osamu’s house. An unspoken routine, no words needed.
(I already have to deal with the bastard at home and during practice, ya think I wanna spend even more time around him than I absolutely have to? Osamu had muttered to Suna early in their first year, one hand gingerly pressing an ice pack against the bruise starting to form on his left cheek. Suna lifted his eyes from his half-taped fingers. Across the gym, he could see Atsumu talking to Ginjima, smug grin doing nothing to hide his busted lip.)
So this is how Suna finds himself in the living room of the Miya residence, legs tucked underneath the kotatsu and various open textbooks spread out around him and Osamu. Only twenty minutes into what was supposed to have been a study session, Osamu, however, had quickly decided that an afternoon nap was far more important than their upcoming test. Honestly, Suna couldn’t blame him, he’d also take a nap over solving math equations any day.
His phone tells him almost an hour has passed by now. Osamu – still asleep, soft snores muffled by the spare hoodie he’s using as a makeshift pillow.
If Suna’s being honest, it’s uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. They’re squeezed together underneath the kotatsu to not let any of the heat escape and it’s cramped. Long legs a tangled mess, he can feel Osamu’s heel digging into his thigh, sure to leave a bruise tomorrow.
Kicking Osamu has never before sounded more appealing than now, their current position almost bordering on painful.
And yet.
And yet.
Osamu’s legs brushing against his own leave his skin burning, the feeling of his touch barely there before it’s gone again, and Suna doesn’t know whether to cry or to laugh at how much he’s enjoying this. His nails dig into his palm, but he barely feels the pain. Part of him itches to just move, pull his legs back, get up, anything – the selfish part of him, however, decides to say fuck it and he lets himself linger in this moment, the slightest change of movement sending goosebumps up his skin until the world slows and it’s just the two of them, anchored only by the crescent-shaped marks on his hands.
Osamu’s random bursts of physical clinginess? Nothing new.
Suna acting like a lovesick fool? That one’s debatable.
It’s not rare for Osamu to drape his arms across Suna’s shoulders during lunch breaks, or to rest his head on his shoulder when he falls asleep on the bus. Sometimes, after a particularly nasty fight with Atsumu, he’ll be silent, just taking Suna’s hand and tracing mindless patterns on it. Other times, he’ll slide his freezing hands under Suna’s shirt, and then have the audacity to laugh when he can feel him flinch.
So by all means, Suna should be used to this.
His damp palms and shallow breathing, however, say otherwise; heart beating so loudly in his chest he’s confident that if Osamu was awake, he would be able to hear it.
I’m acting like a stupid shoujo character, he thinks, what the hell.
It’s embarrassing, really – he knows that if Atsumu could see him right now, he’d never hear the end of it.
Running his hands through his hair and letting out a frustrated huff, Suna turns his head toward the window; fallen leaves outside fluttering down to earth and bidding their last farewell to summer. Late September meant the twins’ birthday was coming up; maybe they could go to that one newly opened café Atsumu had been not-so-subtly mentioning lately. Oh, I’ve already been there once. I can only recommend it, Kita had told them offhandedly in the locker room a few weeks ago. Needless to say, Atsumu has made it his life mission to try some of their sweets since then. He hums, and makes a mental reminder to look it up later.
Throwing a sideways glance over his shoulder, Suna’s eyes immediately find Osamu, his steady breathing the only sound to fill the room. Light dances across exposed skin and caresses his neck, before moving up to his cheeks, and then, finally, his eyelids. Like a lover’s touch, it is tender.
And right now, curled up in the afternoon sun, mouth parted slightly open and eyelashes nearly brushing his cheekbones, Osamu looks almost… soft, his mind whispers.
Outside, the sky is a blend of colours, pinks and oranges playfully dancing across a blue canvas; if Suna had been outside he might have even stopped to take a picture. Still, it pales compared to the sight in front of him. Osamu’s strong jawline, his features a striking combination of soft and hard lines; grey hair framing his head as if he had been kissed by the moon.
Suna thinks he’s beautiful.
Breath hitching in his throat, he wonders what it would feel like to run his hands through Osamu’s hair.
For a second, he indulges the thought. He imagines leaning over, and tucking a few stray strands of grey hair behind Osamu’s ear; fingers trailing down the side of his face, down to his collarbones. He imagines Osamu waking up, hooded eyes staring up at him from below and a lazy smile on his face as he hooks his fingers under Suna’s shirt and pulls him closer, a breathy laugh escaping his lips.
And then, thoughts be damned–
Slowly, almost afraid this moment will be ruined if he even dares to breathe out, Suna’s hand begins to inch forward, casting shadows along the ground. It’s slow, excruciatingly so, but he doesn’t trust himself to not give in to his impatience. Closer, closer, –
Until only mere inches are separating him and Osamu, the distance between them suddenly impossibly daunting. Hesitation reaches down to touch his fingertips, and he can feel a bitter laugh wanting to claw its way out of his throat – his hand, perfectly still in the air, a reminder of just how pathetic he is. He closes his eyes and exhales. In his head, he counts to ten, each passed second mocking him more than the one before – until finally, his hand falls and he’s left with only silence again.
‘Samu, I like you.
In the silence, these four words are deafening.
He’s seen Osamu be on the receiving end of a confession before – usually some shy first year, flustered as she stood before him, a rose-colored letter signed with a kiss in her hands. Suna almost feels pity for these girls; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Osamu show interest in something that wasn’t food, volleyball, or humiliating his brother.
And when Osamu turns them down, always down – polite enough to at least seem apologetic –, part of Suna wonders if it’s ever going to be him staring into those distant eyes, confession hanging heavy in the air between them.
In a way, he’s jealous. Jealous of how easy it seems to be for everyone, when they don’t even know Osamu like he does.
(He’s jealous, and he knows it, and he hates it.)
Jealousy is a cold fire – and it’s been burning inside him for far longer than he’d like to admit.
As was tradition, Inarizaki’s annual training camps were always held in the mountains near the local Inari shrine; days consisting of gruelling volleyball practice in the mornings and afternoons, and shrine visits in the evenings. The entire team had been lying outside in the grass, everyone desperate to cool off in the shade, sweat-soaked clothes sticking to their bodies. Summer meant chirping cicadas, and humid air, and watermelon slices – as he stared up into the sky, clouds lazily drifting across infinite hues of blue, Suna thought that this is how he could die.
Grass tickled his neck, and he held one arm above his eyes to shield them from the harsh sun. Somewhere on his right, Atsumu was kicking up a fuss about something (which wasn’t saying much in his case, it could be anything), his voice drowned out by boisterous laughter. When even Kita’s quiet laughter joined in, Suna had to turn his head, wanting to see the commotion for himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Atsumu glowering at his dripping shirt, and Akagi failing to hold his laughter in, a water hose in his hands. Next to them, Osamu was throwing his head back, grinning wide as his body shook with laughter. When Atsumu tried to roughly shove his shoulder, he only sidestepped him, carefully avoiding the puddle that had formed on the ground, grin never leaving his face all the while.
Osamu with his boyish grin, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, revealing prominent tan lines. As Suna watched him run one hand through his tousled hair, memories of past trips to the beach popped into his mind, of feeling the wind in his hair as some Western indie song played on the radio.
And in that moment, Suna had a realisation, that maybe, just maybe, he’d like this moment to last forever if he could capture the warmth in his chest, blooming as it left his fingertips tingling and his mouth dry – and that maybe, just maybe, he’d like to be the reason for Osamu to laugh like he stole the sun.
Since then, he allows himself to indulge these fleeting thoughts from time to time. When Osamu’s eyes light up at the sight of Suna pulling a box of matcha flavored Pocky out of his bag, or when his feet hit the ground, breathing heavily as the sound of a ball slamming against the court resonates through the gym. But that’s all they are, fleeting thoughts, and nothing more – even if Suna sometimes wishes they were more than that.
(Selfish, his mind whispers. He almost feels inclined to agree.)
Absent-mindedly, he picks at some of his chipped nail polish, black layer coming loose. Only when there’s almost nothing left does he notice the distinct metallic taste in his mouth, so lost in reverie that he hasn’t even been aware of the lip caught between his teeth. As he brings one finger up to gently prod at it, light stirring catches his attention, followed by a raspy Suna? Wha’ time is it? and a groan.
Eyes wide open and one finger gently pressing against his lip is how he finds himself staring at Osamu. Osamu, who’s pushing himself off the floor, one hand rubbing the sleep out of his eyes before his gaze settles on Suna. Even with his mussed hair and rumpled clothing, sleep not totally shaken off yet, Suna almost blurts out You look cute.
What he actually says–
“Did you know you drool when you sleep? It’s kinda gross if you ask me, honestly.” At that, he reaches blindly behind himself for his phone and dangles it in front of his face. “You need proof?” he asks, eyebrows raised as he shoots Osamu a challenging look. It's a complete lie (but Osamu doesn’t need to know that).
Osamu accepts his challenge – and of course he does, forever competitive when his pride is at stake.
Upper body stretched as far across the kotatsu as possible, he instantly tries fumbling for the phone in Suna’s hand. What he forgets: their legs are still tangled underneath, no room for movement. What this means: one strong kick lands below Suna’s knee – accidental or on purpose, Suna doesn’t know –, and Osamu uses his momentary pause for his advantage, outstretched fingers only narrowly missing Suna’s wrist before he yelps, body meeting the ground with a thud again, his victory short-lived.
Ah, shit. That one’s gonna leave a bruise. Suna barely has the time to wince before Osamu is already trying to snatch his phone out of his hand again. Years and years of fighting Atsumu have taught him the importance of never showing even the slightest sign of weakness in front of his opponent, to always keep his guard up.
But Suna only laughs as he leans back, phone no longer in Osamu’s reach.
“Well, ‘Samu, better luck next time I guess,” he says, a teasing smile playing on his lips. At the sight of Osamu glaring at the phone still in his hand, arms crossed against his chest and the tip of his ears tinted red, he can’t help but ask, “Aww, is the widdle baby embarrassed? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
Instead of a reply, he only gets a half-heartedly thrown pillow in his direction. It’s easy enough to dodge, and it’s clear Osamu wasn’t trying to hit him.
“Shuddup, I’m older than ya, didja forget that?” Osamu grumbles. “And s’not like that. ‘Tsumu’s the one who drools, not me. Mom always loves to embarrass him ‘bout it.”
At this point, Suna likes to think he’s still listening to Osamu, almost sure he caught the words should keep old photos somewhere ‘round here just now – but with the way his gaze keeps dropping elsewhere, he might as well stop lying to himself.
Osamu’s lips, chapped, but still so, so soft. Pink, like the strawberry flavoured chapstick he always uses, and Suna wonders if they would taste just the same, just as sweet against his own. Osamu’s tongue is distracting, he decides then, as he watches him lick his lips, his eyes intently following it. He knows he should probably stop staring, knows Osamu has definitely noticed by now if his silence is any indication, but his mouth just looks so inviting and he really wants to have a taste and–
He wants this. Wants to lean in and cross the distance between them, wants to chase the last of summer with this.
And as he looks into Osamu’s eyes, both staring at each other with some sort of unspoken expectancy in their eyes, he decides to ignore the nagging voice at the back of his mind for once.
Maybe being selfish isn’t such a bad thing after all, he thinks – and leans in.