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On the fifth day in October, when the watchtower’s mechanical bell strikes midnight, Osamu lights birthday candles— three for him and three for his twin. In the semi-privacy and solitude of his shared broom closet Marshal Oomi dares to call a bedroom, he hums to himself and remembers past birthdays spent together.
Their mother made green tea mushi pan under the watchful eyes of her sons. Osamu watched with his pinkie extended, hovering above the bowl to taste periodically. Atsumu watched because Osamu watched. Mushi pan was simple, fast, sweet, and hard to fuck up; it always tasted the same no matter how old they got.
Osamu closes his eyes and blows out the candles, first Atsumu’s, then his own.
“Who’s that for?” Suna asks, seated at the edge of his bed. He leans forward on his elbows, bangs shielding a busted eyebrow and a bruised cheek.
Osamu gathers the candles from the slice of cheesecake he smuggled out of the kitchen and tosses them in the trash. “M’brother.”
“Sorry for your loss.”
“He’s not dead.” Osamu corrects with a grimace. “Yet.”
Suna chuckles and swings his legs onto his bed. “Seems like a lotta melodrama for not dead.”
“I s’pose.”
Suna tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling while Osamu rummages through his dresser for bandages, his black and blue knuckles soiling every pair of underwear in the process.
Whaddya need now, Samu? Atsumu would say. Ya sound like a squirrel looking for nuts.
Osamu glances over his shoulder. “Am I botherin’ ya?”
Suna cracks one eye open, examining Osamu thoughtfully while his tongue drags back and forth along his canine.
“Not until you said anything.”
“Righ’.”
On the next dive, a reel of soft, stretchy bandage rolls over Osamu’s fingertips. He squishes it between his calloused and aching fingers and triumphantly pulls it free— there’s more than enough material to patch himself up for the night.
There’s very little method to his work. He rips uneven strips with his teeth and lays them in a small pile before shakily applying them one-by-one. He tapes the fingers that got it the worst and resigns to let the rest scab over on their own time.
Suna keeps one eye open, watching. A small crease forms between his brows and his lips press into a thin, tight line. Osamu knows the expression well— judgement.
“Anythin’ I can do for ya?” Osamu grunts, not breaking focus.
Suna doesn’t respond.
“Everyone’s a critic, huh?”
Wordlessly, Suna slides off his bed and pads across the room, settling on the edge of Osamu’s. He holds out his hands, taking Osamu’s palm into them gently.
“I can fix this.”
Osamu knows a weighted offer when he hears it. “Whaddya want?”
Suna narrows his eyes, golden irises burning orange in the dim light. “Give me your brother’s half of the cheesecake.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Suna’s intensity fizzles out with a smirk and a shrug. “I tried didn’t I?”
“Gotta know yer audience. I don’t share food.”
Suna begins unfurling his shoddy work. He discards the used bits onto the floor and peels back the edge of what’s left on the roll.
He mutters, “Give me twelve hours I’ll know you more than either of us are comfortable with.”
Osamu’s hand goes limp in Suna’s as expertly taped fingers glide along his own. Suna wraps right from the reel, making even layers from base to tip of his forefinger. At the last knuckle, Suna tears the gauze with his incisors. Warm breath ghosts over Osamu’s knuckles; the soft press of Suna’s lip against his bandaged finger sends a shiver down his spine.
Suna tucks in the end and moves onto his thumb, and Osamu wonders if his hands can blush.
“Are you scared?”
“W-what?” Osamu’s voice cracks. “Ahem. I mean— scared of what?”
Suna flicks his eyes up towards Osamu’s, peering through amber lashes. “The drift. Tomorrow. Me.”
“You and I are more compatible than me and m’own brother. That’s gotta count for somethin’ right?”
It’s a sidestep. He knows it. He knows Suna knows it. But Suna doesn’t press.
In silence, he lets Suna fix the wounds he inflicted.
“There.” Suna pats ten gauzed fingers, returning Osamu’s hands to his lap.
Osamu admires his handiwork, satisfiedly flexing his fingers without shedding layers of loose gauze. “Yer pretty good at this… Guess that bodes well for me.”
“And poorly for me,” Suna adds, tossing the empty roll to him. “Will I have to bandage all your wounds from here on out?”
Would that be so bad?
Osamu laughs, hollow and nervous.
Suna grins, showing a few bright and sharp teeth. “Goodnight Osamu.” He crosses back to his bed, flopping down and dragging the covers up to his neck. “And happy birthday.”
—
Razed cities flicker by, each no more recognizable than the last. The bus rattles south along torn up streets and highways; passengers stare longingly at abandoned train tracks until they get where they’re going. Citizen travel is slow-going and uncomfortable— an experience designed to force people to hunker down wherever they are. Stationary populations can be tracked and protected, at least that’s what Oomi says.
“Where the hell are we goin’?” Osamu’s leg rocks against Suna’s repeatedly, the dull thump of his heel hitting the floor making his foot go fuzzy.
Suna peels his gaze away from the window, thumbnail in his mouth and black polish chipped down to the cuticle. “You promised.” He reminds Osamu with a crooked smirk.
Osamu presses his foot into the empty seat in front of him and scowls. “Ya already got me on the damn bus, just tell me.”
“Just enjoy the day off, jackass.” Suna teases, baring his teeth in a sneer with too many sharp canines and pink gums. He’s so close Osamu can count the folds in his scrunched nose.
“Rangers don’t take days off.” Osamu says. Although, between Oomi using it like a mantra and Aran muttering it like a prayer, the phrase has lost its punch overtime.
“God Osamu.” Suna groans, flopping back in his seat. “We’re almost there, if that helps.”
It doesn’t. Osamu’s leg continues to bounce in agitation as unfamiliar landscapes flash by.
In the three months since their first drift, Osamu can’t stop thinking. Thinking about Atsumu, holed up in Hong Kong with a supposedly compatible asshole he won’t shut up about. Thinking about Suna… thinking a lot about Suna.
Suna shuts his eyes, and Osamu stares. He takes in the sharp places of his face, his too long, too pointy nose and his short, thick lashes. A spot of faded, sallow yellow and a butterfly bandage on his temple mark a nasty knock to the head Osamu landed in training. The hollows of his cheeks are hunger-thin. The dry spot near the corner of his mouth keeps splitting, bleeding, scabbing and splitting again. His hair is just long enough to pull back in a comically tiny little ponytail that Osamu tugs on whenever Suna’s got his back turned reaching for food in the cafeteria.
“You’re staring.” Suna says, nudging Osamu’s gut with his elbow.
“Yeah.” Osamu admits.
A small dimple appears in Suna’s cheek as he smirks. “Enjoying the view?”
Osamu considers. “After eighteen years of lookin’ at Sumu’s ugly mug? Not bad.” Suna giggles— low-pitched, menacing, and somehow endearing.
It’s all Osamu can remember before he starts to doze off, a blurry burnt orange horizon eclipsed by Suna’s sharp profile.
…
“Osamu,” Suna has one knee propped up on the seat, shoulders hunched forward and head hanging low to avoid bumping the overhead storage bins. “We’re here.”
Here is a leveled countryside, no bones or cities or slums, just miles and miles of healing earth. Scorch marks have faded to dry brown, long gashes have been filed with fresh dirt— but still nothing grows. Daylight is fading fast, and the barren landscape is growing more unrecognizable by the second.
“Shut up.” Suna interrupts, pressing two fingers flat against Osamu’s mouth before he can state the obvious. “I know what this looks like.”
“It looks like ya brough’ me t’tha middle’a fuckin’ nowhere.” Osamu mumbles through them.
Suna uses his free hand to rummage through his backpack. He produces a piece of sketch paper, bent at the corners and wrinkled. His fingers leave Osamu’s lips, the skin colder where they were.
“Here.”
Roughly sketched but hauntingly familiar, is a small city. Up on the farthest hill is a home overlooking a few acres of farmland, which descends into a smatter of more residences, a few shops, and more small farms. To the west is a small, long abandoned and destroyed ruin of a shrine— so old no one could say what god it once paid devotion to.
“Why didja bring me here, Suna?” Osamu asks.
Suna steps off the road, onto the scorched field. “I keep seeing this place.” He points to the paper, holding it aloft until the city’s outline overlaps with the horizon. “But it’s not my memory, it's yours.”
He returns the photo to his bag and pulls out a blanket— all Osamu can do is stand still and watch. It’s been so long since he’s been here — since it was home — that it feels like it’s not even his memory. Like Suna, it’s all terribly familiar but so, so distant.
“Are we havin’ a fuckin’ picnic where my childhood home got burned to the ground?” Osamu asks, suddenly remembering the onigiri Suna’d asked him to prepare.
“C’mon.” The smell of rice, well salted and still a little warm, fills his nose. Suna waves it in Osamu’s direction, amber eyes half-shut and bottom lip stuck out— which is as close to begging as Suna gets.
The comforting smell of homemade onigiri and Suna’s cucumber melon hand sanitizer abates Osamu’s initial shock. With one hand stuffed in the big pocket of his sweatshirt and the other reaching out for the offered onigiri, he sits cross-legged on the other half of the blanket. He sinks his teeth into the triangle shaped rice ball, pleased that Suna remembered which of the onigiri we’re tuna mayo (Osamu’s) and which were umeboshi (Suna’s.)
“Compliments to the chef,” Suna says, smiling and wiping a red splatter of umeboshi from his bottom lip and licking it off. Osamu nods, silently and impassively enjoying his own meal.
“This place feels nice. Felt nice.” Suna finally says, swallowing his final bite and promptly picking up his second serving. “At least in your head it always does.”
“How d’ya say stuff like that?” Osamu wonders aloud.
The tips of Suna’s bangs flutter against his jaw. He takes another small bite, chews and swallows thickly without breaking eye contact. “Why can’t you?”
It’s not right.
Suna’s expression remains unchanged. “What is it? Modesty?”
“S’not modesty.” Osamu explains, eyes falling to his lap. “S’nothing wrong with you, Suna. I trust ya.”
“Osamu.” He meets Suna’s gaze, and he’s met with gentleness.
He sighs. “It shouldn’t be like this.”
Suna is so sharp, so intelligent, so willing, so much of everything Osamu just doesn’t deserve and never wanted.
“Your brother—”
“— has nuthin’ t’do with it. We weren’t compatible, and that’s fine.” Wind brushes against his pinked cheeks as Osamu sinks into the collar of his sweatshirt. “I was ready to do somethin’ else. Anythin’ else. Then I got pulled into Oomi’s office, said he said they found someone that was perfect for me.”
Suna tucks his knees to his chest and frowns. “Me.”
“Yeah, you.” Osamu shifts to face him, setting his dinner aside. “I didn’t wanna just quit on ya. Not with the way Tokyo’s been goin’ the past few years. Not with everythin’ at stake right now.”
“So that’s the question, huh?” Suna asks from behind folded arms. “Do you even wanna be here?”
“I think so.” Osamu admits. “Every day ya make me a little more sure. Most of it was for show, at first, but… I dunno. Ya make it all seem so much better.”
“We’re all putting on a show.” Suna offers— a bit cliche but the sentiment is nice enough.
Osamu scoffs. “If this is yer way of tellin’ me yer a little shit don’t worry, I already know.”
Suna grins, eyes scrunching into devilish little yellow crescents. He looks like a house cat— full of misery and mischief and beauty.
“Now it’s yer turn. Spill.”
Feigning innocence, Suna burrows his head deeper into his arms and raises his eyebrows. Me? I have no secrets, he says.
“C’mon,” Osamu lifts a leg up to prod him in the shin. “Why didja drag me out here?”
Hesitation simmers like tv static over Suna’s face— Osamu could nearly punch him. Lips fall open and snap shut, socked feet shift back and forth across the woven blanket.
“Feelin’ shy all the sudden?” Osamu mocks, revelling in the just visible pink flush over Suna’s nose.
Suna releases his legs, sweeping one long limb across the blanket to shove their backpacks off to the side. He lays down, leaning back onto his elbows.
Osamu follows suit, sighing as his aching back finally meets the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the rise and fall of Suna’s chest, steady yet shallow.
“It’s weird. I left home… a while ago. I don’t miss it.” Taciturn aversion tugs at his features, jaw clenched shut and lips pressed tight. “I’m fine with that.”
(He doesn’t look fine with that.)
“But, there’s something about here… for you… and now for me.” Suna sighs, exasperated and too vulnerable for his liking. “God it sounds insane. I can’t miss a place I've never been to and people that I’ve never met, and yet.”
Osamu understands. Home feels like being eighteen again, feels like bloody noses, feels like kicking shins under the table, and still, he misses it more than anything in the world.
“Careful there Suna, yer in danger of makin’ me pity ya, no one deserves to miss Tsumu.”
Suna shakes his head, a chuckle on his lips. “You make me homesick, Osamu. And I hate you for it.”
Osamu’s skin flushes with warmth. That’s an ‘I love ya, idiot’ if he’s ever heard one, it’s the only way his family ever taught him.
“You’ll get over it.” Osamu assures him with a smile.
He lets his hand move closer to Suna’s. Their knuckles brush against each other— bruise to bruise. He slides his hand under Suna’s wrist, guides Suna’s fingers to slot between his. There’s no reason for the fluttering feeling in Osamu’s chest, it’s just friendly comfort.
Maybe because he would never think or want to comfort anyone else like this.
Suna takes a long, unsteady breath. “I haven’t wanted to go home in years. I owed it to myself to chase at least one,” He holds up his forefinger, “just one rabbit.”
Osamu reaches for his onigiri and bites down, now a bit lukewarm for his liking but satisfying all the same. “So ya bringin’ m’here had absolutely nuthin’ t’do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you.” Suna says, taking a small nibble off his own. “You’re focused on the wrong thing, though.”
“What’s the righ’ thing?”
Suna turns to rest his cheek on the blanket, the tips of their noses just inches apart. Their hands still lay loosely held together between them. He brings up his thumb and wipes it along the corner of Osamu’s mouth, collecting a smear of tuna mayo.
“It’s my birthday,” Suna brings his thumb up to his mouth and sucks it clean. “Which means it ain’t about ya.”
“Gross.” Osamu scrunches up his face— secondhand lukewarm tuna mayo isn’t exactly his idea of a turn on. Which is fine. Because it’s not a turn on. Or a come on. It’s just tuna mayo.
“Fuck off,” Suna giggles, rolling onto his back. “Actually? I just thought you’d like a day off, a little fresh air.”
Osamu flips onto his back too, wriggling up next to Suna until their shoulders bump into one another. “Despite the seven or so hour bus ride we’ll be takin’ back god knows when, the fresh air is kinda nice I s’pose.”
“The bus runs back through in an hour or two, it doesn’t go much further than here.” Osamu hums in acknowledgement. “Also, call me Rintarou. Suna is so… impersonal.”
“As ya wish, Rintarou.”
Stars blaze purple and blue and white in the sky above, hidden swirls of color and light bloom as dusk fades into night. Here the sky looks alive— breathing and shifting and blinking. For a moment, Osamu ignores their station and situation, and gives into the madness of laying under the most vibrant night sky he’s ever seen with the most familiar stranger he’s ever known.
And it’s a shame. A shame that they didn’t and don’t have time on their side.
—
Osamu! Osamu!
The voice is fuzzy and distant. If not for the shard of sheet metal stabbing painfully into his thigh, he’d be certain he’s dreaming.
Osamu!
Pain shoots through his hip and down his calf, seizing the entire lower half of his body any time he flinches or shifts. All Osamu can do is squeeze his eyes shut until they water and stay horribly, painfully still.
Osamu!
Inhale, exhale… inhale… exhale…
“Osamu!” It’s right in his ear, so close it could be real. Osamu cracks one eye open, catching a blurry, fast-moving figure in gunmetal grey with daylight bouncing off the planes of his chest.
Rin. He wants to yell back. He thinks it and prays Suna can hear him. He thinks it so hard his body aches from the effort. Come and find me. Come get me. Take us home.
The gentle sound of Suna’s feet pattering across upturned Earth and debris, crunching over crumbling concrete and ringing over discarded metal, carries above the pounding in his ears. He’s getting closer, or maybe he’s getting farther? Maybe Osamu is imagining it— maybe angels of death come in familiar forms.
“Osamu!” Closer, much closer. “Osamu.” Warm, labored breaths tickle his ear and the shaved underside of his hair; a bare hand cradles his head. Five long, bony fingers grip his skull, the dirtied, pilling edges of day old tape scratching the nape of his neck. Suna, definitely Suna.
“Rin.” Osamu breathes, gut seizing on the exhale.
“Shut up, I got you.” Suna’s thumb rubs slow deliberate circles into his hair, while his other hand probes gently at the wound on Osamu’s thigh. “Christ, Osamu.”
“S’not as bad as it looks, I sw—hng,” Osamu whines as Suna’s knee grazes the scrape on his side.
“Shit,” Suna readjusts his position, dropping one knee. “Sorry.”
“S’fine, m’fine.” The words are thick in his mouth, bottom lip swollen and blue.
“Yer not fine.” Suna chides. “Don’t try and deny it, you’ll be home and better in no time.”
Osamu mumbles, “I can never deny ya Rin.” He realizes too late it’s not what Suna said nor meant, but it’s all the same. Suna asks Osamu answers— truth or lie Osamu will always answer.
“What part of shut up isn’t registering in your thick skull?” Suna asks, his voice teasing and fond.
None of it. All of it. Shit. Fuck. He really is delirious.
“Fine.”
Though Osamu’s never been thrown from a Jaeger, knocked himself unconscious on the way out, and fallen through the debris of at least a dozen buildings, the two of them and a roll of gauze is almost tradition.
At some point Suna speaks quietly into his communicator, too low for Osamu’s abused eardrums to catch. Osamu mourns the thought of taking his injuries with dignity and discretion.
A sudden and violent wind blows his bangs back. Suna’s hands aren’t on him, his voice is lost in the clamor and chaos.
Rin… Rin.
Darkness gets darker. Osamu tries to open his eyes but it’s all black, he tries to listen but it's only dull white noise. Touches become indistinguishable from another. Ten hands become one— one hand becomes formless, shapeless, and enveloping warmth.
Through it all, Osamu imagines lips, featherlight and soft, pressed to his temple— it’s the kindest dream he’s ever had.
…
On Sundays, Suna smokes. He takes a pack and his neon pink mini lighter from his sock drawer and sits out by the training field. He smokes two and finishes his third on the way in— or so he says. Osamu knows when Suna’s come back when he hears the scuffling of his sneaker grinding the butt of it into the step out front. One of them turns on American music and they light up two final cigarettes together. Osamu hates the taste and the stench and unnatural way it sits between his fingers, but he loves the enveloping and blurry haze it casts over their room and the buzz in the tips of his fingers. He loves the ritual and the regularity, loves that Suna comes back a cigarette early just to share it with him.
Death looks like their hazy, dim lit bedroom with Suna Rintarou’s dark silhouette burned into Osamu’s eyes.
“Osamu.”
Death sounds like Suna Rintarou.
“Osamu.”
His bed sinks down on one side and a hand grips his wrist, fingers bare but just as bony. Not quite death then, not yet anyways.
“Hey Rin.” Osamu finally opens his eyes.
Suna plucks out his earbud and lets it dangle from the collar of his sweatshirt, something low and jazzy barely audible. “Welcome to the land of the living.”
“Ya smell like cigarettes.”
Fingertips brush along his forehead, pushing grimy bangs back and away from his face. “I started early, sue me.”
Osamu blinks once, twice. “Ya always start early, ya just like t’pretend ya don’t.”
“Doctor says you can probably come back to the room in a couple days. You’re pretty fucked up.” Suna side-steps.
“Gettin’ tossed from yer Jaeger will do that t’ya.” Osamu contemplates trying to sit up, but the deep, sharp ache in his thigh and hip warn otherwise. He leans into Suna’s gentle touch, which has traveled down to his jaw.
“Do you remember anything?”
“You.” He admits. Everything is still murky. The moments are all there but the details are less refined. “Just you.”
Suna hums in acknowledgment, fingers brushing hair behind his ear. “Osamu—”
“Good morning, ah,” A middle aged woman with graying brown hair flips through a stack of papers stuck to her clipboard. “Miya Osamu. I’m here to deliver your medication.”
Suna stands, leaning on the small nightstand next to his bed. The nurse quickly pulls out a nasty looking syringe and wipes down the tender skin over Osamu’s inner elbow.
“Will it hurt?”
The nurse chuckles and pats his shoulder. “After all that you’re scared of a needle?”
Osamu doesn’t respond and eyes the needle warily.
She shrugs. “Frankly it doesn’t matter much, thanks to this you won’t remember it tomorrow anyways.”
She props up Osamu’s arm and painlessly slips in the needle. When she’s through she bandages the spot and shuffles out of the room— Suna contentedly takes his spot back on the bed.
“So brave,” he coos, jabbing Osamu’s chest with his finger.
Osamu grimaces, squirming away from the touch performatively. “Oh shaddup. Not all of us are so comfy with needles.”
“I just like sharp things.” Suna says, grinning.
Osamu shifts his arm up onto his stomach and cradles it close to his chest, already feeling static in the tips of his fingers. “This shit’s strong.”
For a long moment, Suna doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move— just rubs his thumb in slow circles on Osamu’s side, hand laid gingerly on his stomach.
Without ceremony, Suna leans down and presses a kiss into Osamu’s hair, thumb trailing over his cheekbone.
“Rin—”
“I’m glad you’re alive, Osamu.” Suna says, eyes and lashes wet. “You don’t have to say anything, just rest.”
You won’t remember this tomorrow anyways.
—
Age is a gift— so Aran says.
He says it every New Year’s, one arm slung around Kita’s neck and the other holding up a quarter-full mug of beer. Kita pats his bicep — lucky bastard — and pulls him back into his seat. The sappy speeches stop long enough for Kita to coax him into a kiss and sweet, sweet silence.
New Year’s is a special celebration in the Tokyo Shatterdome. Everyone smuggles their own stores of alcohol and cigarettes into the cafeteria after official working hours are done to commemorate another year of survival— another year of living on the brink of impending and looming extinction.
But that’s all a bit much for Osamu. New Years means sitting crammed onto the cafeteria bench with Suna’s knee bumping into his. It’s not exactly do or die.
Osamu sips from his onigiri coffee mug— a twenty-second birthday gift from Gin. The bright ginger beer masks Suna’s heavy pour, but vodka still burns deep in the back of his throat. Suna nurses a dangerous mix of fruit punch and coconut flavored rum.
Aran might be right.
Osamu still longs for the simple joy of kicking the shit out of Atsumu during training, for his mother’s miso soup, for the bright and herbal taste of homebrewed sencha.
But now he has Suna. Suna is different.
With Suna, there’s cramming into Osamu’s single bed to watch a show on his phone, there’s tonight — giggly and tipsy and red — and tomorrow, when Osamu drags him out of bed past noon because he swears a bit of fresh air is the ultimate hangover cure. If Suna tosses his dinner during the second mile of their run, Osamu gets to help him home and coax him back to bed with a few ibuprofen and a glass of water.
The small taste of regularity and predictability is intoxicating.
Is it naive to think about getting older, about slowing down?
Suna nudges an elbow into Osamu’s arm, pulling him out of his thoughts and into the room. “Earth to Samu.”
“Mhm?” Osamu asks, as if the room isn’t spinning in ten different directions like the world’s most nauseating kaleidoscope.
Suna leans forward on his elbows, taking a long, deliberate look at Osamu, a smile playing on the edges of his lips. Osamu fixates on that smile, a trace of coconut pear chapstick glistening across pink skin.
“What time is it?” Osamu’s eyes snap up to meet Suna’s, golden and knowing.
Osamu grabs for his phone, which is slid halfway across the table. “Don’tcha have yer phone?”
Suna fishes his phone from his sweatshirt pocket and waves it, showing the little red battery on an empty black screen. “Dead.”
“It’s,” Osamu thumbs the screen on. “11:50.”
Suna folds his arms together, burying his head into them with a groan. “Do we have to do the whole fireworks, cheers, sappy bullshit this year?”
“M’afraid so.” Suna butts his head against Osamu’s arm until Osamu wraps it around his shoulders. Satisfied, he wriggles closer until their thighs, hips, and torsos are completely pressed into one another; until their feet are hooked together and Suna’s hair is tickling the underside of Osamu’s nose.
They stay that way for their allotted five minutes— before Aran is shooing them up and out of the cafeteria, ushering them outside at the border of the empty training grounds. There’s still fresh Jaeger footprints, upturned earth mixing with three days worth of relentless rain. Osamu’s sneakers slosh and sink into ankle deep mud. For Aran, Osamu reminds himself.
Once everyone’s out, uncomfortably fidgeting in place to avoid drowning their feet in muck, Suna latches onto Osamu’s arm. One sweater-covered hand grips his bicep and the other cradles his forearm.
“M’very grateful for e’vry single one’a ya.” Aran has one arm slung around Kita’s shoulders still, the other holding his now nearly empty mug against his chest. “Sometimes things get dark, we almost lost Samu earlier this year—”
Osamu nods, tight and small as eyes turn on him. Two sweater paws squeeze his arm gently.
“—but e’vry year we press on. We’re gettin’ luckier to be alive by the minute, and m’just glad to be sharin’ e’vry minute of the rest’a m’life with the lot of you.” Aran looks down to Kita, whose head is laid against his chest. “And you,” he says, much quieter. They hold eye contact for a few moments — long enough that Osamu feels like he shouldn’t be looking — before Aran raises his glass, encouraging everyone else to do the same.
“Cheers!”
Osamu raises his coffee mug, now filled with water, and knocks it against Suna’s empty plastic cup. Before Suna can fake a drink, Osamu tips a bit of his water into it.
“Cheers, Rin.”
Suna smiles over the rim of his cup, no teeth but all dimples. A New Year’s Eve miracle.
“Cheers.”
On cue, three pops sound off simultaneously— brilliant and bright explosions of shimmering color flash above them. Both their eyes snap to the sky, gold and pink and blue and green and red reflecting in them. Osamu has no idea how Aran pulls it off every year — his best guess is Aran’s winning smile and a salesperson who's a sucker for handsome Rangers — but even Osamu can admit he does put on quite a show.
Fireworks collide across the black expanse of night, and for a small moment Osamu can feel it in his bones— hope.
Some Jaegers stay in commission for twenty years, some are lucky to get two. Osamu is more than happy with the four he’s already got, but in a fleeting second of pure stupidity, he wonders if he and Suna could go for thirty, or forty.
He rests his cheek on Suna’s shoulder, who then rests his cheek on Osamu’s head.
“S’pretty don’tcha think?”
“Hm.” Suna hesitates, smacking his lips. “Was it worth missing my nap for? No, but it is nice.”
Osamu scoffs. “A nap past 8 P.M. isn’t a nap yer just goin’ t’sleep.”
“Then what do you call it when I get up at 11 and eat dinner.”
“Weird.” Suna chuckles at that, and Osamu can feel him crack a smile. “But I think I’ve seen enough of this if you’re ready to go to bed.”
“Just one more minute.”
Osamu obliges, lets Suna stay folded into him, gazing up at the glittering sky. Suna stands upright when he’s ready, giving Osamu a silent nod. The pair of them slip away from the small crowd, the sounds of their feet trekking through the muck drowned out by the cracking of fireworks.
They stay stuck together, past prying eyes, past their bedroom door— kicking off their shoes still arm in arm.
“I’m fucking exhausted,” Suna whines, releasing Osamu’s arm to crawl onto Osamu’s bed.
“Then what the fuck are ya doin’ on my bed?”
Suna’s feet dangle off the side, sitting with his back pressed against the wall. He pats the spot next to him.
Osamu slings off his jacket, climbing onto his tiny bed that is much too fragile to be holding the both of them. “What’re ya doin’?”
Suna rolls his eyes. “I’m sitting for christ’s sake, Samu.”
Osamu doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want Suna to leave, but he doesn’t understand why he’s still here (here, as in their thighs are pressed together and Osamu can’t stop noticing.)
“Have ya ever had a New Year’s kiss?”
Osamu knows Suna has — a couple actually — but sometimes he likes the novelty of asking first.
Suna picks at the peeling skin on his thumb absentmindedly. “Yeah I have. What about you?”
“Once.” Osamu admits. “Long time ago, though. Atsumu used t’throw these big parties on New Year’s.”
“Sounds fun.”
Osamu grimaces. “They were, at first. Then everythin’ sorta always got outta control. Atsumu and Aran kissed once. That was somethin’.”
“I mean, they are friends.” Suna offers.
“I—Ya don’t,” Osamu stutters, voice going thin. “Ya don’t kiss yer friends.”
“I guess not.” Suna shrugs, turning to look innocently at Osamu. “At New Year’s though, maybe.” Osamu’s eyes lock onto Suna’s lips, pink and wet, just barely parted. The entire world blurs out around them.
“Yeah.” He mumbles. “At New Year’s… I s’pose it’s fine.” He sits a little straighter. “If they wanted t’kiss they could.
Without breaking eye contact, Suna swings one leg over Osamu’s lap, caging Osamu’s torso between his thighs. His eyes flick down to Osamu’s mouth, his tongue pressed against the side of his cheek. “Is this okay?”
“I’m bi.” Osamu blurts out, hands hovering over Suna’s hips.
“Yeah I know, Samu. I’ve seen the memory of you finding Atsumu kissing a boy in the school bathroom. And then you coming out to him because he looked like he was gonna cry.”
Osamu remembers all too well. “He did cry. Later. Lots t’process.”
“Osamu.” Suna asks, pinching Osamu’s chin between his forefinger and thumb. “Is this okay?”
It’s insane. It’s absolutely insane. Suna’s weight is heavy in his lap— Osamu’s arms are so numb he couldn’t push him off even if he wanted to. He nods, dizzy and dumbstruck.
“I’m gonna need you to say it.”
“I can’t.” Osamu's voice comes out hoarse, air sucked out of his lungs. Suna sits back on his calves, hand stroking through Osamu’s hair.
“Goodnight Osamu.” Suna slides off his lap, slinking back to his side of the room.
“Rin—”
“Hush,” Suna waves a dismissive hand, chin tucked against his shoulder to glance back at Osamu. “It’s just a kiss, Samu. Not like we’re in love or anything.” It’s teasing and fond and unmistakably bitter. Osamu will unwittingly write that off as drunkenness and overthinking tomorrow.
“Righ’.”
Suna flops down into his bed belly up, toeing off his socks one at a time.
“Goodnight Rin.”
Suna hums in acknowledgement before burrowing into his pillow. Osamu lays on his side, too numb and fuzzy to get up and change. He can feel his heartbeat through his feet and in his fingers— he almost kissed Suna.
You can kiss your friends on New Year’s Eve, but something in Osamu’s gut says he and Suna will never be friends.
—
The silence that falls over the cabin, over the comms, over the city feels… apocalyptic.
Silence so absolute it’s ear-splitting— though it’s entirely possible Osamu has busted both his ear drums.
The large, looming form lays utterly still, it’s massive body laid across the shoreline. Osamu’s never seen a kaiju like this, never been able to reach down and run his — their — hand over it’s tough, leathery hide.
In the moments after battle, it’s rare to have peace. Osamu almost wants it — to touch, to look, to know what such devastation and destruction feels like when it’s tamed — but Suna pulls him back, rights them both.
Sierra Atlas gives a resounding, creaking groan as they bring it to its knees among the rubble. Exposed wiring sparks and kicks weakly as the beast of a machine settles on the ground.
The pair of them, still bound tightly by their ethereal tether, glance towards each other. A massive spike of rock and earth, driven through the cabin window, blocks most of their vision but even so, their forms and figures are crystal clear in their minds. They share a soft, tired sigh.
I’m glad you’re alive.
…
Gin tosses a bundle of gauze and a handful of assorted topical ointments across the table, then slides over two glasses of water and a 4 little red pills— two for each of them.
“Ya idiots are lucky,” he remarks. “Most Jaeger’s that take on kaijus in one-on-one fisticuffs don’t live to talk ‘bout it, let alone with barely a scratch on ‘em.”
“I think I broke my wrist,” Suna mumbles, leaning in to examine the splotchy bruising closer.
“If yer head’s still attached to the rest’a ya,” Gin takes a short swing from the mug at his desk before flopping down into his chair. “I’d consider it a god-ordained miracle.” He chuckles to himself as Suna winces, using his free hand to turn over his abused wrist.
“Samu,” he whines, shoving the pile of bandages towards him with his forearm. “You can do it right? I wrapped yours a million times.”
“Rin,” Osamu exhales. He’s got no intention of trying to set Suna’s likely broken wrist, but the puppy dog eyes almost make him consider it for a second. “Yer gonna need t’go to the infirmary for that m’afraid.”
Suna groans, shoulders and head slumping onto the metal table.
“Let m’see if I can getcha a brace for now, there’s prolly not room for ya in there anyway.” From behind a swathe of dark brown hair, head buried between his arms, a single yellow eye narrows.
“Fine,” he concedes.
Osamu slides off his chair and makes for the infirmary, nursing a small limp himself.
His guess was right, the infirmary is packed wall to wall with injured pilots and even one or two civilians that got caught in the shuffle. Nurses shuffle back and forth slowly between them— at this point it seems like most of the initial hysteria has subsided.
Osamu flags down one of the staff— a tall emergency nurse with a heap of unruly black curls and a shit-eating grin carrying a bundle of soiled rags.
“Heya…?”
“Issei.” He taps the little tag on his chest. “Can I… help you with anything?” Osamu tries to ignore the way Issei’s eyes rake over him from head to toe as he asks it.
“U-uhm. I-I just need’a brace for,” Osamu absentmindedly wraps a hand around his wrist, “Aa potentially broken wrist.”
Issei hands off the towels to another nurse as they pass behind him, brushing his palms off on his thighs. “Are you sure? I can just take a look at it for them. I'm pretty good at… setting bones.” His tongue pokes against the inside of his cheek.
“No no,” Osamu shakes his head, inexplicably tomato red from head to toe. “No that’s alright. Just the brace, for now, will do jus’ fine.” Issei shrugs and wanders towards the staff area, plucking a brace from a blue bin on one of the shelves.
“Your brace, as requested.” He holds it out on a flat palm and, the second Osamu reaches for it, brings his other hand to rest on top. His fingers lay gently over Osamu’s— even though it feels like he’s trapped there. “Hope your friend feels better soon.”
In an instant he releases Osamu’s hand and waves, trodding back into the fray of patients and visitors and workers. A warm flush blooms under Osamu’s skin as he scurries out of the infirmary.
“Talk about makin’ yer skin crawl,” he mutters, tucking the brace under his armpit.
By the time he gets back to Gin’s lab, Suna’s seated cross-legged on top of the same table, phone sitting lazily in his good hand and a lollipop stuck in his mouth.
Osamu scowls, setting the brace down on the table. “Where didja get that?”
Suna shrugs, dropping his legs over the side and scooting forward. He slides his limp wrist closer to Osamu, who gingerly slips the rigid black fabric over his hand. He folds over each of the velcro straps, ignoring Suna’s grumbles.
“Ya should’a just got it set ‘n casted like I toldja.” Osamu says, which earns him a scowl in return. “S’just a little broken bone, Rin. I never took ya t’be such a baby.”
“Shaddup,” Suna mocks. He sets down his phone long enough to flick Osamu’s ear, giggling when he recoils with a grunt. “I’m allowed to be. I was this—” he pinches his thumb and forefinger together “—close to making it through the year without a broken bone.”
“Well now ya can relax for a little while. One injury in a year ain’t so bad.” Osamu takes a long, wide roll of cloth bandage and slots himself between Suna’s thighs. He takes the end and tosses the roll over his shoulder, bringing it around his side— effectively tucking his arm to his chest. “Should be clear of attacks at least until after the New Year.”
“Don’t get cocky Samu, it’s only October.” Suna teases. “Anything can happen in a few month’s time, y’know.”
Osamu’s cheeks turn nearly purple as Suna’s foot nudges his ass, eyebrows raised knowingly. Osamu sends him a warning glare before scooping Suna off the table and shoving him towards the door.
“Osamu’s right,” Gin pipes up, turning around in his chair. “After all the attacks we’ve had this year, any more would be record breakin’.”
“I dunno,” Suna says, still smug. “Anything could happen.”
—
A hip brushes against Osamu’s shoulder; Suna settles next to him on the step outside their room.
"How are you gonna cover that up?" Suna lifts a curtain of black hair with the back of his casted hand, brushing it behind Osamu's ear to reveal a purpling bruise under his jaw.
“Don’t think I have to,” Osamu admits, pulling back half of his now shoulder-length hair into a small bun. “If anyone asks I can just say ya popped me in the chin durin’ trainin’.”
Suna chuckles, pulling a sweatshirt over his head to effectively cover the splatter of purple and yellow over his shoulders and chest. He plops down next to Osamu on the steps outside their room. “Be careful, people are gonna start to think you're falling behind.”
There’s no risk of that. After Aran and Kita’s transfer to Hong Kong, he and Suna quickly took up rank as the most successful duo in Tokyo. While Hong Kong’s pilots tend to have longer, more illustrious careers, Tokyo’s stars burn bright and move on to somewhere better before they can burn out on poor equipment and bare minimum funding.
Atsumu left Osamu to become a star, Osamu stayed here to meet Suna.
“I s’pose if ya wanted to teach me how to cover it up,” Osamu leans in, bumping Suna’s calf with his socked foot. “I’d let ya.”
Suna takes Osamu’s jaw in his hand, turning him left to right, tilting his head back to get a good look at his handiwork.
“I dunno Samu,” he says, grinning with a mouthful of sharp teeth. “I kinda like it. Makes ya look sexy.”
Osamu’s skin colors red and warms under Suna’s touch. His forefinger runs over Osamu’s chin, lingering over his bottom lip.
“Ouch.” Suna pulls away and shows off a dribble of fresh blood.
“Shit.” Osamu swears, reaching up to wipe it away, before Suna stops him. “Y’know I could do without the bloody lip.”
Suna examines it closer, tongue held between his teeth. “That’s not how you felt when I was doing it.”
To be honest, Osamu was too busy trying to uncurl his toes when Suna was digging his teeth in.
He’s amazin’. Osamu thinks as Suna hooks his hand around the back of Osamu’s neck, casting glances down the hallway in both directions before leaning in to swipe his tongue across Osamu’s bleeding lip and sucking lightly.
Osamu lets out a low whistle.
Amazin’.
But the greatest thing of all is that it’s everything he’s ever needed from Rintarou — intimacy and closeness — without everything he’s ever feared would ruin them — commitment, labels, obligations, love.
They are small stars in Tokyo’s skyline who don’t wish to burn so bright. They can last as long as they like, all because they don’t want too much— just enough.
The two of them live in the same indescribable but comfortable space they always have. And Miya Osamu is not in love with Suna Rintarou. And everything is golden.
—
“Hey shithead!”
Atsumu shoulders the front door open, tramping in a four-hour flight’s worth of grime and gunk with him.
He’s barely recognizable— each of their visits Atsumu looks less like Osamu, and more like himself. A wash of dipped blonde hair is pulled up into a small bun, the crooked tilt in the smile matching the crooked bend in his nose. A small white scar runs over the corner of his lips, another down the side of his neck.
“Welcome back, aho.”
Atsumu grins, carelessly tossing his duffle into the living area and shoving his suitcase to the edge of the genkan. He kicks off his shoes and stumbles, tripping over himself to close the distance between them.
Osamu mercifully sets down the spatula and meets him halfway. “Don’t break all m’shit. Ya just got here.”
“Whatever, just hug me.” Atsumu pulls him into a bear hug, hoisting his brother right off the ground— easily.
Osamu squirms as Atsumu’s grip tightens around his torso. “Tsumu— shit, put me down fuckin’ bastard!”
Atsumu giggles, childish and mean. “Ya’ve gotten so soft Samu, it’s adorable.”
Osamu can only get his way with Atsumu the same way he always has (the same way both of them entered this world) — kicking and screaming and swearing. Blood boiling, he swings the heel of his foot into the back of Atsumu’s leg, grabbing a chunk of dark brown hair and pulling.
“Dickhead, put me down!”
They spin in dizzying circles a few times before Atsumu flips him into the couch, shoulder knocking into his gut.
Osamu’s back slams into the cushions— a loud and sickening crack rattles in their ears. He’s nearly folded in half as the couch sinks in the middle like a beach chair.
Atsumu loses his grip and rolls to the floor, shoulder bumping into the coffee table before he collapses on the ground with a thump.
Osamu takes a slow, long breath, trying to inhale the air that got knocked out of his lungs.
Rolling onto his stomach, Atsumu groans and rubs a hand over his bruising shoulder.
“M’too old for this shit,” mumbles Osamu. He lays his palm against his chest, just to make sure his heart’s still beating.
Atsumu scrambles to his feet. “Samu,” he extends a hand out to his brother. “Yer twenty-eight not eighty-eight. Always were such’a dramatic ass.”
“I think I’ve aged at least ten years since ya walked in the door.” Osamu admits, staring longingly at his wrecked couch. “I’d be mad at ya for bustin’ m’couch, but I guess ya’ll be in worse shape than me sleepin’ on it for the next two weeks, huh?”
Atsumu’s face darkens. “I’ll fix it I swear.”
“S’yer funeral!” Osamu warns, meandering towards the kitchen with a new hitch in his step.
Clamouring sounds from the living room as Atsumu’s hip bumps into a side table and nearly topples a lamp.
It’s exhausting. Osamu's forgotten what Atsumu is like in all his clumsy and brazen glory.
“Shit,” Atsumu swears, making his next thoughtful step out of the living room before jogging into the kitchen. “What’re ya makin’?”
Osamu releases a huff. “Curry. I was gonna let ya make some onigiri for the mornin’, but I would like at least m’meals to be fully intact.” He digs into the soft rice, turning it over and into itself with a spatula.
“Ha ha ha,” Atsumu mocks, crawling onto a bar stool and collapsing on the counter. “Yer a real comedian, Samu.”
“Ya think so?” Osamu asks, grinning. “If ya really wanna do somethin’, ya can take yer bags t’yer room. First door on the left.”
“You—” Atsumu tips back on his barstool to look down the hall. “You were just kiddin’ bout the couch?”
“Ya still gotta get it fixed. But I do gotta room for ya.”
Atsumu smirks, intolerably smug. He clatters down the hall with his bags, and Osamu finishes fluffing his rice before returning the lid to the pot.
Rice is certain, easy. Atsumu is less certain, but just as easy. Even after just a few minutes, it feels like Osamu never moved out, like Atsumu never left. Like Suna never even—
“Yo,” Atsumu’s head peeks out from around the corner, eyebrows raised. “Can I shower?”
“Don’t let me stand in yer way,” Osamu nods. “Jus’ down the hall.”
Atsumu frowns as a last-ditch effort to poke at his brother before disappearing down the hall. In a few minutes the shower clicks on, which gives Osamu a good thirty-five minutes of time to himself.
He begins tending to his curry chicken, turning over a spoonful of potatoes and chicken in thick, sweet, amber-colored sauce. Osamu’s best dishes are comfort food.
The smell of it wafts through the apartment. If Osamu closes his eyes, he can almost see Aran poking his head into the kitchen, sniffing out whatever smells so damn good. He can almost feel…
“Nah. Nah, nah, nah, no Omi I toldja already…” Atsumu’s voice carries over the sounds of the shower and the stove. “Darlin’—”
Osamu tunes out whatever lover’s squabble Atsumu’s gotten himself tangled into. Mercifully, the call only lasts a few minutes, before the shower clicks off and before Atsumu comes stumbling out of the steam-filled bathroom. He appears in a pair of loose fitting grey sweats with a towel draped over his head like a hood, one hand rubbing it against his hair and the other scrolling through his phone.
Darlin’. Osamu shakes his head wearily. Leave it to Atsumu to get himself involved with his partner— Osamu gives them a few weeks, a few months if Atsumu can keep his trap shut.
“How long’s all,” Osamu nods towards him. “That been going on?”
“Oh uh…” Atsumu’s face flushes pink. “Six months or so.”
“Six months?” Osamu drops his spatula into the curry, splashing a few droplets of orange sauce onto his apron and hand. He hastily wipes it clean, head spinning. “And ya didn’t think t’mention it at all?”
“Was gonna wait until dinner.” Atsumu admits, letting the towel fall around his neck. “Ya beat me to it.”
He returns to stirring, this time with feeling. He shouldn’t be upset— it’s not like he’s picking up the phone any more than Atsumu is to butt into each other’s business. He folds that regret in with a splash of sake, stirring it in with everything else that makes his chest hurt.
When dinner’s finished, Osamu sets two shallow bowls on either side of the kotatsu. Atsumu’s already seated, head in his arms flipping through channels with a pout. A tuft of dark hair tickles the edge of his nose, to which he reels back and swats at his face fruitlessly.
Osamu cracks a smile and sits across from him, contentedly shoveling a spoonful and a half of well-salted rice and chicken into his mouth. The haphazard scrolling stops on a drama show Osamu’s never seen, and Atsumu follows suit.
“So,” A pointed gaze settles onto Osamu, burning two eye-shaped holes into the top of his head. “Anything you wanna talk ‘bout?”
Their eyes meet— knowing and raging. Not all their matches end in screaming and yelling, but they all start just like this.
“No.” Osamu says, taking another large bite and chomping it noisily (purposefully.)
Atsumu swallows. “Ya sure?”
Chomp, chomp, chomp. Swallow. “No.” Osamu drags the spoon along the bottom of his bowl. “Seems like you wanna talk ‘bout somethin’.”
“Yeah.” Atsumu pushes his bowl to the center. A truce. “What happened to you an’ Sunarin?”
Laughter rings out, discordant and unmistakably bitter.
“Creative differences? Hell if I know.”
Atsumu narrows his eyes. “Liar.”
“After he got hurt, they offered him an out. He took it. I didn’t stop him.” It sounds simple, Osamu wishes it were simple.
“Didja want an out?”
Osamu’s head snaps up, dissatisfaction furrowing his brow. “No.”
His brother seems to believe him, because he nods slowly.
“Isn’t sharin’ emotions and feelin’s and memories kinda s’posed to cut out all the bullshit pinin’ and yearnin’ in the middle? What kinda idiot are you?”
Osamu ignores that.
“Pinin’? What the fuck’s that s’posed t’mean?”
Atsumu ignores that.
“Look. I dunno exactly what went on ‘tween the two of ya, but I know that yer a stubborn, bull-headed dumbass who would lose yer head if it weren’t screwed onto yer skull.”
“I think yer mixing metaphors.”
Atsumu holds up an accusatory finger. “I know what I meant an’ I meant what I said. Ya can’t see what’s right in front a’ya, ya don’t know what yer losing until it’s already long gone, and yer too damn stubborn to admit anything when the time’s right.”
Osamu frowns, pushing his bowl towards the middle of the table and crosses arms over his chest. His bluff has long been called, what’s he got to lose anyway?
“The time wasn’t ever right… s’why I never said anything. Besides, Rin always knew and he never said anything either.” He points out, his resolve faltering.
“So that makes,” Atsumu holds up two fingers, “two fuckin’ idiots.”
“Didja only come here t’call me an idiot and be a jackass? Cause if so I’ll just ship yer ass right back to Hong Kong. M’sure yer lil darlin’ will be happy t’have ya.” Osamu sneers.
Atsumu shoves a final bite of chicken, carrots, and rice into his mouth, chewing vindictively. “When didja get so damn cynical Samu? S’not a good look on you.”
Osamu feels rage burning deep in the pit of his stomach, flames licking under his skin. “The fuck d’you know?” He growls, sliding back off his seat and scrambling to his feet. “Ya run away to Hong Kong for nearly a damn decade and all the sudden yer the romance expert? I didn’t ask for the third fuckin’ degree. I just wanted t’see m’brother.”
“Well so did I. Lemme know when he shows up.” Atsumu snaps, hunching over his meal with no apparent intention of moving.
Vision red, Osamu retreats to his bedroom, slamming the door so hard the floor quivers. Instead of a wall, his fists find his pillow as he flops down onto his bed. He hates going to bed with dinner still on his plate, but he’s too scattered to do anything about it this time.
Fifteen minutes of almost silence pass, just the dull chatter of the tv on its lowest volume setting, until there’s a small knock at the door.
Half-eaten and now cold bowl of curry in hand, Atsumu pokes his head into the dim room.
“Ya still haven’t unpacked everythin’?” Two sets of eyes fall on the stack of boxes still taped shut.
Osamu tucks his chin over the edge of the blanket. “S’just sentimental stuff. Photos an’ shit.” His bed sinks down where Atsumu sits.
“I know ya don’t wanna hear it Samu,” Osamu shoots him a glare. “But ya can’t jus’ leave it like this. I don’t like seein’ ya so miserable.”
“Rin left. I didn’t make him go.”
“Ya let him, though.”
It’s frustrating, incredibly frustrating, because Atsumu’s right. While Atsumu was apparently growing up, maturing, and figuring it all out, Osamu had been dragging his feet.
Atsumu grew up going so fast no one could tell if he was flying or falling (even himself.) He was noncommittal, never slowing down enough to think twice about who got hurt in the meantime. Osamu was always reliable and safe, never changing. But that used to be a good thing.
“I hate it when yer right.” He grumbles, getting to his feet. He reaches for his jacket on the coat rack and jogs towards the door.
“Samu, Samu!” Atsumu calls out, shuffling accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps a few feet behind him. “Samu.”
Osamu turns, feet already jammed into sneakers and keys in hand. Atsumu stands at the end of the hallway, one hand leaning on the wall.
“Good luck, aho.”
Osamu rolls his eyes and points a finger at him. “This is yer fault, ya nosey sonofabitch.” He calls, slipping past the threshold and into the frosty mid-January evening.
…
Tokyo to Seoul to Hong Kong. Two planes and a train, ten hours of travel total with nothing but a text from Aran containing an address and an unanswered question. Osamu only intends to answer it one time, for someone else.
He turns down the screen brightness, conserving the ten percent of battery his phone desperately clings to.
Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one. He repeats it over and over and over again while he scans doorways. The American style, two-story apartment complex was a gift to East Asia’s troops— built to house non-active duty Rangers after retirement.
Eleven. His heart leaps staring at the ground floor apartment. His eyes flicker up towards the second floor landing. Stamped into the doorjamb is a short series of chinese characters— below it fading twenty-ones in Japanese, Korean, and English.
With 5 A.M. milky grey dawn casting a layer of haze over the massive complex, it feels like he’s at the center of the world, the eye of the everlasting storm. Fat chance Suna will be awake, which Osamu can confirm just by looking at the dark windows of the apartment, but he’s compelled to go up anyway. He jogs up the rusting metal staircase, rapping on the door before he can change his mind.
(Is he falling or flying— not even he knows.)
No response. He knocks again, three strong raps just like the first.
No response. Not so much as a groan or a snore or a shuffle can be heard from inside the apartment— only faint noises from the city, not even a mile away from the complex.
Osamu’s hand raises a third time, knocks three more times. For the third time, no response.
He tugs his phone from his sweatshirt pocket and double checks Aran’s message. He debates confirming the address but even Aran wouldn’t be awake at this hour, and he wouldn’t dare invoke Kita’s pre-sunrise wrath for waking his sleeping husband. Instead, he sits against the beige door. His head lolls back in exhaustion, eyes heavy with the weight of sleeplessness.
He’s finally hit the pavement.
One eye cracked open, Osamu sends a text to Atsumu.
> 5.22 A.M. [idiot brother] : This was a stupid idea. Why’d ya let me do this. Comin home tmw.
As expected, there’s no response on that end either. Atsumu won’t be up for at least another hour.
Osamu folds his knees to his chest and relents. A wave of overwhelming regret washes over him, settling heavy in his joints, in the soles of his feet, in the back of his head. Suna’s gonna think he’s an idiot.
“And I’ll be right.”
Osamu’s eyes snap open, registering the figure at the top of the stairs. Dark hair pulled into a small ponytail, wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a red hoodie, carrying a bag of groceries settled onto a cocked hip— Suna looks him up and down.
“It’s five in the mornin’.” Osamu says, a bit delirious.
“It is.” Suna echoes. “So, what’re ya doin’ on m’doorstep?”
Osamu smiles, small and helpless. “M’sittin’ for christ’s sake, Rin.”
A laugh, short and low-pitched follows. “You sure are.”
Suna settles on the doormat next to him.
“Yer walkin’ good.”
He nods. “A year’s worth of intensive physical therapy and medication will do that.”
“M’sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
Osamu turns his head, cheek squished against the door. Suna’s sharp and shadowed profile rests in the center of his vision. A single orange iris turns to meet his unfocused gaze.
“For missin’ it. For missin’ you.”
Suna trains his gaze back towards the middle distance. “No crime in missing. I missed you too.”
“M’also sorry for showin’ up like this. I dunno what came over me.”
“I think I do,” Suna pushes off the door, scooping up his groceries and offering a hand to Osamu. “Come inside and make me breakfast, and I won’t leave you on my doorstep.”
Suna helps him to his feet, unlocks the door and motions for him to come inside. Osamu stumbles across the threshold, kicking off his shoes clumsily. With ease, Suna removes his slides and slips past him, padding towards the kitchen.
“How do you feel about omelettes?”
…
Sching. Sching.
Osamu watches in awe as Suna sharpens his cutting knife, whisking eggs without thought. He sets the bowl down and holds his hand out as an offering. Suna shakes his head and grins, slicing down into a small stack of green onions.
“Sure is nice to have an extra set of hands in the kitchen.” He says, eyeing Osamu from the corner of his vision.
This is always how it goes. Osamu thinks. He doesn’t say what he wants to, Suna fills the emptiness with anything he can.
“Sure is nice t’see ya again.”
Suna blinks, hesitating before making another clean slice. “Yeah, it is.”
Go ahead, Suna says in his silence. Say it.
“M’glad to see yer leg’s doin’ better.” A tight, shallow sigh releases from Suna’s chest.
“Yeah, much better.” He echoes. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that at all, y’know. I’m over it now, it’s been a year.”
“I don’t.” Osamu blurts out, then thinks better of it. “Anymore. I mean, it’s like Gin said. It was a complete fluke. No one was prepared for another attack that year.”
Suna hums in agreement, letting a wave of quiet lap over them. Another invitation.
“Rin?”
“Mhm?”
Osamu’s chest tightens, his throat closes up, his heart feels like it’s taking its last, labored beat. This must be it, death at last.
“I really am sorry. For not sayin’ anythin’.” Suna stops cutting and looks up at him with a blank expression. “About how I felt.”
When Suna doesn’t respond, Osamu pours the egg into the heated and oiled pan. Suna’s eyes follow him, a disbelieving type of emptiness in them.
“I should’a told ya. But I guess I never knew where we stood… or what it would mean to—”
Love you.
"Osamu, I've been in love with you since forever.” Suna breathes, letting the knife slip from his grip and clatter lightly against the countertop. “And I always knew you always felt the same.”
"You were always better at readin' my mind than I ever was at readin' yer’s."
“We slept together for a year. I let you borrow my hair product even though you left a million little hairs in it, if you even gave it back at all. I didn’t buy a sweatshirt for seven years because I’d just wear yours. And you let me.” He shakes his head. “You’re either the densest person alive or you really are just an asshole.”
Suna circles around the counter to trap him against it, two hands planted on either side of him.
One hand raises, thumb trailing over Osamu’s shoulder, circling around the shell of his ear and down his jaw. “Samu what the hell are you doing here? Are you just here to twist the knife in? To make yourself feel better?”
“No, no,” Osamu pulls his head back, swatting Suna’s hand away. “God, I can’t think when yer lookin’ at me like that.”
A chuckle fills the kitchen, low and sweet. “Alright then, what is it you’ve been thinking so hard about?”
Osamu places an open palm on Suna’s chest, keeping him a safe arms-length away. Still he bends when Suna steps forward, closing the distance between them with a sly smile.
“I came here to tell ya somethin’. I just— I really… M’really... in…”
Eyes yellow in the fluorescent kitchen light, a glint on the tip of his nose, a smile with a tongue hooked around a sharp canine.
Osamu yelps, eyes captured by Suna’s.
“You love me?” Suna whispers, fingertips featherlight on the back of his neck. Osamu nods stupidly.
“Samu. I’m really gonna need you to say it.”
Osamu’s not screwing this up twice.
“Rin,” his hands travel up from Suna's chest and cup him by the jaw. “I… I love ya so much. I was an idiot." He quickly snakes his arms around Suna's back, loops them under his thighs and hoists him up. Suna reflexively wraps his legs around Osamu's hips. "And this is okay. It's more than okay, yer everythin' I've ever wanted n'more.”
“That’s more like it.” Suna praises, fingers tilting Osamu’s chin up, up, up. Slowly, gently, Osamu cranes his neck up to press his lips against Suna’s. The kiss is short, light, and sweet. The second is less short, less light, and much sweeter.
“Mm, Rin… Rin!” Osamu’s hand slides back across the counter to grab the panhandle. “Yer gonna burn breakfast.”
“Mm I dunno Samu.” Suna murmurs, legs wound tight around Osamu’s torso. “I think I might want something else.”
“Somethin’ else? I went through all the trouble and ya— oh.” Suna nods, nudging him up into another kiss, teeth tugging lightly on his bottom lip.
“Whaddya say? After I’ll let you buy me a chuupet as an apology. We can get married if you like.” He mutters, bubbling over with laughter.
Osamu grins, butting his forehead against Suna’s. “Yer on.” He lets Suna to the floor, hands trailing up his sides to lay flat over his broad shoulders.
The first rays of morning light peek through the dense fog— just a sliver of white gold daylight.
Now Suna smells like sleep and sweat and fresh deodorant. He’s warm to the touch, softer around the edges. Osamu could stay here wrapped up in him all day. And now that they’re out, now that they’re together— he can.
And he will.