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“A nice underhand receive brings the ball back up- wow, that was a tough one to dig, wasn’t it?”
“It was indeed. The liberos in this match are displaying some tremendous skill.”
“That’s not all that’s happening on the court, though. Setter Iizuna passes the ball beautifully to his spiker, and there it goes, across the net-”
“But it’s received, again, by libero Komori Motoya! The ball flies straight back into the Hornets’ court!”
“The ball’s back in the air very quickly, and there they are, positioned for a quick attack, and- oh- he’s been shut out! The crowd is going insane!”
“Game, set and match, to the EJP Raijin. What a satisfying block up the middle, effectively shutting out the Hornets to win them the game!”
“It was a well-executed block indeed. And – do correct me if I’m wrong – was that last spike stopped by middle blocker Suna Rintarou?”
“You’re absolutely correct. He and fellow middle blocker Washio Tatsuki have been in top form this season, completing their blocks cleanly and quickly. Well played, folks, very well played.”
“The commenters are being pretty nice today, aren’t they,” Komori says, hands on his knees as he catches his breath.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not complaining,” Rintarou pants, adrenalin thrumming through his veins as he turns around. “Holy shit.”
-
The EJP Raijin’s match against the DESEO Hornets marks the mid-point in the season. If this were a video game, Rintarou thinks, a checkpoint would be sorely needed. As much as he loves being gainfully employed, his thoughts occasionally wander towards how nice it would be to go home for a bit, because his fingers are starting to sting from all the accumulated hits and he’d really, really like to have an excuse to lie down and do nothing for a while, maybe.
Ha, he snickers to himself. His captain would smack him if he knew.
Thankfully, his captain’s preoccupied with circling around and slapping them hard on their backs as they disperse after exchanging formalities and handshakes with the opposing team. “Good game, boys!” he says cheerfully, winding Rintarou with a loud, satisfying smack. “I knew that our shrine visit would give us good luck!”
Rintarou liked the early morning shrine visit, but not because he figured it’d help them win the game. “Thanks, captain.”
As he walks to the side, water bottle in hand, his eyes flicker instinctively to the stands. He quickly realises that it’s a useless exercise, because they’re in Kumamoto this week and there’s literally nobody he knows here who would come and watch him play.
Stupid habit, he thinks as he glances away, but Komori catches the slight movement from the corner of his eye and takes the opportunity to nudge his shoulder. “What,” he teases, “looking for someone?”
Rintarou, who knows better than to reward him with a response, stares back at him. Komori puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he says, cheer undamped. “You were on fire today, you and - where is he - ah, Washio-san!” At the sound of his name, the other middle blocker turns to them with interest. “Washio-san, nice blocks today!”
Washio flashes them a thumbs-up, which they return in unison. Two years of being teammates does that to you.
“Anyway, drinks on me tonight?” Komori’s still grinning as he checks his phone which goes off with a ping! “I just won 2,000 yen.”
“2,000 yen won’t pay for drinks,” Rintarou says, but he nods anyway. “Your choice, then. What did you do to amass such a fortune, anyway?”
“Made a bet with my cousin. He said I wouldn’t be able to dig half of Iizuna-san’s serves.”
Rintarou scoffs. “Sakusa thinks too lowly of you.”
“Or too highly of Iizuna-san.”
Komori types in a message and sends it with a flourish of his thumb before patting him on the back.
“Anyway, don’t look so lonely, Suna; we’ll keep you company for the time being. You’ll see him again soon.”
As Komori bounds off to chat with his former captain across the net, his last words ring in Rintarou’s ears. See who? Did he look lonely? He’s not lonely. It’s hard to be lonely with this many people around, right?
Mind still buzzing in the aftermath of the game, his gaze absentmindedly trails back to the stands, now half-empty, observing the crowds making their way down before he catches himself and realises that he’s doing it again. He’s searching.
“Suna-san!” He tears his gaze away to meet that of two girls standing close by, eager smiles on their faces. “Could we have your autograph, please?”
Although his mind lingers elsewhere, his face breaks into an easy smile for the people in the present. “Sure,” he says. “Thanks for the support. What’re your names?”
They tell him, and he takes their marker as they point at where they’d like him to sign on their board. It’s interesting, the fact that he gets to do this surprisingly often when they play matches. Thanks for coming today, Reiko-chan, he writes, pausing to glance up at said Reiko-chan who blushes a little and smiles at him. It’s flattering, somewhat.
What, you don’t want my signature?
‘Course not. Not when I can have you.
His mind conjures the image of someone else altogether, and he looks back down hurriedly, completing his signature with a loop.
Oh, he realises belatedly, as he twists the marker closed. It was Osamu he was looking for.
--
The thought of Osamu continues to linger even as he sits with Komori and Washio in the corner booth at the nearby bar, two hours later.
“Y’know, for one second I really thought we were gonna lose that set-”
Rintarou smooths his fingers over his beer bottle idly, feeling the condensation drip onto his fingers as the noise of the Izakaya fades into the background. It’s not really good for him to start zoning out and thinking of familiar faces again when they’re only halfway through the season. Osamu’s busy with the store this winter and he doesn’t actually know when he’ll get to see him again.
“Their serves were slightly better, but I think our blocks were a little stronger...”
Osamu unfairly occupies his mind when he’s not playing on the court. Disproportionately so, he thinks irritably. They text every day and Osamu calls him when he can. They send each other photos. Rintarou documents the better food he eats, like this evening’s grilled fish. The phone in his lap vibrates, and he glances down to see Osamu’s latest message. Eat well!
This should be enough to quell the nagging feeling in his heart. It is, regrettably, not.
“-should’ve gone for it, right, Suna?”
Rintarou blinks at the sound of his own name, the buzz of the Izakaya rushing back to him at once as he snaps his head back up. “Huh?”
Komori frowns from across the table. “You’re spacing out again,” he says, while Washio, to his right, pats his shoulder and asks him if he’s tired.
“No, I’m fine. Just thinking.” About embarrassing things that his teammates don’t need to know about.
“Well, cheer up a bit,” Komori nudges him with his foot. “You look kind of troubled.”
Rintarou glances at him in surprise. “What? I‘m not. I mean, I don’t look like that.” He squeezes his own cheek for added effect. It’s warm and his fingers are cold.
Komori points his mug at him. “You say that, but there’s tension on your brow and in your jaw that’s not from the game,” he says, like it’s obvious. It really isn’t. To his left, Washio nods. Rintarou hisses at them.
“I’m perfectly fine,” he says, because he is. They just won a match and he effectively scored the last point, which is objectively great. “I’m ecstatic.”
Rintarou’s teammates glance at each other, and then back at him.
“Well,” Washio says, “when you say it like that, it’s not very convincing.”
Washio has a point there, which Rintarou feels like he needs to rebut, but Komori steps in before he can do so. “It’s okay,” he says, glint in his eye. “You don’t even have to say it. I know what’s up.”
Komori absolutely does not know what’s up. “Fine.” Rintarou eyes him, arms crossed. “Tell me.”
“Oh, easy.” Komori shrugs as he takes a swig out of his mug. “You’re moping.”
Okay, so maybe Komori kind-of knows what’s up.
“I’m not moping,” Rintarou scoffs despite himself, opting to drink in the brief silence that follows because dammit, he’s not moping. Suna Rintarou is an adult and he doesn’t mope because he’s not a pathetic loser and this is his third season away from home and he is a professional. “I’m fine, really.”
Komori rolls his eyes at him. “Well, then, come join in the conversation and stop staring at your phone already.”
Rintarou curses under his breath as he flips his phone around, planting the screen face-down against his thigh. Damn the libero, he’s right.
Washio sighs. “Komori. He can still look at his phone.”
“Sorry, Washio-san. What I mean is-” Komori puts his mug down on the table with a soft thud. “Suna, it’s been like, four weeks since Osamu was able to come for one of our matches. You’re allowed to mope. Don’t be an idiot.”
Rintarou stares at his teammates, dumbfounded, as they stare back at him. Komori looks slightly amused, and Washio simply shrugs at him.
“If you want to talk, we’ll listen, that’s what we’re saying.”
Rintarou wants to say something like thanks for the generous offer but no, and can we talk about something that isn’t my love life already, but as he opens his mouth, his phone vibrates once more, and he picks it up instinctively to check the incoming message.
I have to check on something tonight. Promise I’ll call ya tomorrow, okay?
His chest aches with a sudden pang. Idiot, of course it’s okay, he scolds himself. His boyfriend is obviously a busy person with priorities that include running a business, he can’t get disappointed by minute things like this. It’s not Osamu’s fault he misses him so much and wants to hold his hand again, and oh, shit, wait, what?
Rintarou lets his phone fall back onto his lap as he looks up at his teammates.
“I think,” he says, eyes wide, “I think I miss him. Like, a lot.”
A silence hovers over the trio. Washio and Komori stare at him, then at each other.
“…Yup.” Komori reaches out and pats his head affectionately. “We know, bud. We know.”
---
A few matches down, and after a long, intense final rally, they lose to the Adlers. Rintarou’s arms are so, so sore. God and Ushijima are mocking him and the five pieces of tape down his right shoulder, where it’s the most tender.
“So I found this new brand of soy sauce that I really like.”
They’re midway through their second call in the week, Osamu from Osaka, Rintarou from Hiroshima. Osamu calls him when he’s halfway through a heated discussion with Komori and Washio about which high school from their era had the best basketball team, and as much as Rintarou wants to defend the glory of his alma mater, the phone call comes first.
“Are you gonna use it in the shop, then?”
“Hmm, maybe.” The receiver crackles a little. “I’ll consider it.”
Rintarou leans against the windowsill, feeling the prickly early-winter breeze against his cheek. “Tell me more about the shop.”
“Mmmm, ‘s going okay, I think,” Osamu replies. “Firmin’ up the menu a bit more. Did I tell you that Kita-san’s been testing my new recipes?”
“Oh? Has he approved anything yet?”
“Well, he seemed fine with my approach, but he didn’t like the curry rice idea…I dunno, whaddya think if I started ‘ta sell curry in Onigiri Miya?”
Rintarou huffs. “Nah, let’s not do that for now.”
“Heh. I reckon Kita-san had a fair point, too.” Osamu laughs lightly and, in a gentler tone, says, “Your match looked tiring today. Arms still hanging in there?”
Rintarou stretches out a palm, flexing his fingers. In addition to his shoulder, there’s a particularly sore spot down his middle finger. “Ushiwaka’s spikes are killer, as always. And Romero, wow,” he muses. “Don’t even get me started on Kageyama Tobio.” His boyfriend laughs. “It’s gonna take a monster crew to beat the Adlers, seriously.”
“But when ya do score against ‘em, it’s super satisfying, innit?”
He smirks. “You know the feeling.”
“Yeah.” Osamu sounds almost wistful. “Yeah, I do.”
The wind hums a low tune. Rintarou stares out into the dark sky, and inhales.
“Hey, I’ll be in Osaka in four weeks,” he mumbles. “Are you gonna be around?”
Will I see you? Will you come to watch me play? He wants to ask, but it sounds needy in his head, so he bites his tongue and swallows the thought.
“I dunno, Rin. I’ll try to be around, okay?”
“Oh.” Rintarou freezes. “What’s happening?”
“I’m not sure if I can make it, I might be outta town…”
Something uncomfortably close to panic rises in his gut. “Samu,” he falters. “I mean, okay, yeah, sure…”
“Rin.” Osamu’s voice takes control and firmly seizes him by the shoulders.“I’m goin’ out of town for a couple of days because I needa check on some things, and then I’ll be back, that’s all. Are ya okay?”
Rintarou belatedly realises that he’s clutching his earpiece like a lifeline.
“Oh, I thought…I thought you didn’t want to…” he finishes feebly.
“What?” Osamu sighs over the phone. “No, you idiot, of course I wanna see ya. Whaddya take me for?”
“…Oh.” Rintarou’s mind draws a blank. “Well, then I have no idea what’s going on.”
An exasperated but soft chuckle tickles his ears. “Babe…”
Rintarou exhales.
“Relax,” Osamu’s voice continues. “’Yer overthinking again.”
“Or maybe I’m not thinking at all,” Rintarou mumbles, leaning against the ledge. “Sorry, I’m just tired.”
Another soft laugh. He sighs into the night sky.
“Samu, I miss you.”
“Rintarou.” Osamu’s voice melts into him like warm honey. “I love you. Come home soon.”
And he hangs up, leaving Rintarou to stare out of the window like the moon has descended upon him and he, in turn, has ascended to another realm.
----
When he walks back into the common room, Komori, who’s now alone on one end of the long couch scrolling his phone, greets him with a knowing look.
“Nope.” Rintarou raises his hand and takes a step back. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“You didn’t,” The libero says, grinning as he pockets his device. “But we’re teammates and batchmates, so friendship comes as part of the package deal. Now sit down and spill.”
“Again, entirely unsolicited,” he grumbles, shaking his head, but he plops down on the couch next to him anyway and folds his legs in, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie across his fingers. Komori passes him a cup of barley tea, which he begrudgingly accepts with mumbled thanks. Komori hums in response.
The tea is warm, and fills his mouth with a mild, soothing taste. It reminds him of Osamu.
Osamu, who has the ability to say a couple of words and devastate a man’s entire life.
“He told me he loves me,” he blurts, causing Komori to glance at him in surprise. “I said, I miss you, and he said, I love you, Komori. And then he hung up.”
Komori is entirely unmoved.
“It’s been almost – what - two, three years? This can’t possibly be the first time he’s said that to you.”
“Um, no.”
“Yeah. Far from it,” Komori’s deadpan extends. “if my interactions with you guys have been any indication.”
Rintarou looks away. Are they touchy in public? They’re not touchy in public. They don’t exchange I-love-yous often, and never in front of others. They don’t hold hands often. What do people see?
Is it the way Osamu smiles at him, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle and one side of his mouth moves up just a little more than the other? Is it when their hands do touch and Rintarou finds himself leaning into it a little too much, the warm sensation of Osamu’s touch tempting his oft-cold fingers? Or is it the way they speak with each other? From when they were first friends, the casual, playful banter never did stop - only that parts of it softened, rounded, became more personal, maybe, intimate, maybe-
Oh, last month’s dinner.
“So,” Komori looks at Osamu, grinning. “What’s it that you like about Suna, anyway?”
Rintarou shoots him a warning glare, but Osamu only bursts into laughter in response. “What?” Komori shrugs at him. “It’s a proper question.”
“An’ it’s a good question!” Osamu chortles. Rintarou would’ve smacked him on the back of the head if he wasn’t already holding his hand under the table. “See, he’s grumpy in the morning. Complains about practice but goes for it anyway. Buys all his t-shirts one size too big because he’s incapable of reading clothing tags- oh, he’s a picky eater.”
“I’m not a picky eater,” he grumbles, wriggling his hand out of Osamu’s. Osamu’s fingers latch onto his wrist. “I eat everything that you cook.”
Osamu scoffs. “It’s only ‘cause I’m the one who’s cooking.”
Rintarou sighs and pats his thigh. “Yes, yes, we all know you’re a good chef. Now stop saying bad things about me.”
Osamu’s still grinning.
“‘S not bad things,” he says, “they’re just things about you, Rin. I like them.”
Rintarou smiles and snakes his hand back into Osamu’s palm as Komori takes the opportunity to slam his glass of gin onto the table.
The memory fades as quickly as it comes, but it sends a tingle racing up Rintarou’s spine and he shudders, tiny ripples running across the tea’s surface. He remembers the look Komori shot them that night - eerily similar to Atsumu’s gross, your love is leaking expression, reserved for those moments when they’re in Atsumu’s company and Rintarou’s acutely aware of the fondness that shows on his face when Osamu smiles at him or does something gentle but he doesn’t do anything about it-
“Fuck you,” he mumbles, half to himself, fingers smoothing over the wavy surface of the sides of his cup as he tries to ignore the growing warmth of his face. “Is this about last month’s dinner?”
Komori shoots him a pointed look. It is, indeed, about last month’s dinner.
He makes up his mind. Next time, he’s inviting Washio instead. Or maybe none of them. He and Osamu are just going to have a good meal on their own.
“You guys were cute. A bit too cute. I was gonna throw my glass at you, y’know. But a man has morals.”
Rintarou clicks his tongue. The man has a stupidly good memory for unmemorable things like dinner on Fridays with him and Osamu. They both do. It’s an EJP Raijin special. “We’re not cute.”
“Please, Suna.” Komori rolls his eyes at him. “You held his hand under the table for half of it - don’t look at me like that - and at some point, you tugged at his sleeve and asked him to list the ingredients he thought went into the dish. Then he did. And you listened. It was like I was being force-fed a Starbucks frappe.” His eyes narrow. “Venti sized, Suna. All five hundred and ninety milliliters of it.”
“That’s-” He grips his cup tightly, soaking in the warmth. There’s the start of a bruise peeking out from the side of his hand which feels better the more he presses it into the ceramic. “Maybe,” he confesses. “I don’t know.”
Komori sends him a pondering look, as though he’s going to continue, but there’s probably something in Rintarou’s expression that makes him shut his mouth, sigh, and relent.
“So,” he says, tone gentler, “I’m just wondering why you look like you’re freaking out.”
Rintarou curls into himself a little, and sighs.
“Today was different,” he mumbles. “Today, I really felt it. For one second, I wanted to pack up and go home and leave everything behind.”
“...Hmmm.”
A tentative silence hangs in the air. Rintarou laughs wryly as he turns to face Komori. “Stupid, right?”
His teammate stares at him with all the practised patience of a kindergarten teacher watching his kid trying their best to push open a door with a “Pull” handle.
“Suna. That just means you really love him back.”
Alright, well then, time for him to pack his bags and walk off the edge of the earth. Suna Rintarou is officially retired.
Well, of course he loves him. Love isn’t conditional on them always being physically together. It’s not dependent on the food Osamu makes for him, or the amount of time they spend on the phone each week. Love is about people who want to spend time with each other, and they work hard to make it happen. Full-fucking-stop.
He feels the inevitable rush of emotion, and grimaces despite the warmth of it all. Love has made him unbelievably sappy, and the worst part about it is that he doesn’t actually hate it. Seventeen-year-old Rintarou would definitely make fun of him.
Well, whatever. Twenty-something year old Rintarou no longer gives a shit.
He barely registers it when Komori warily takes his cup out of his hands and sets it on the table. “Um…did I just set something off?”
“I…um.” Rintarou blinks. “No, it’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Alright.” Komori pats his back awkwardly. “’Cause, y’know, we have another match in ten days and we don’t want you to, you know, start crying in the middle of it.”
“Crying?” Rintarou scoffs. “Komori, since when have I ever - who do you even take me for?”
His teammate raises a brow. “Do you really wanna know?”
“Jesus, Komori.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine…”
The two of them sit in a comfortable silence. Eventually, Rintarou reclaims his cup of tea.
“...I don’t really know what to do.”
“I mean, you don’t have to do anything.”
Rintarou hums. “I suppose.”
“Hmm.” Komori leans back into the couch. “Just be honest about it.”
“Okay.” The tea is still warm as it touches his lips, and Rintarou smiles into his cup.
“Thanks, Komori.”
Komori grins, satisfied.
“You’re very welcome.”
----
“...Oh, by the way.”
“Hmm?”
“About softball teams, Washio-san and I discussed...”
-----
TARO
FW: KITA-SAN
I saw your match yesterday. It was well-played.
Please take care of your fingers, especially the middle-to-ring ones, as well as your shoulders.
Take proper care, Suna.
TARO
He’s telepathic
SAMU
Aww
He came over to the store today
He’s very happy to see that you’re doing well
TARO
Aw
Did he say nice things about your store today
SAMU
...Maybe
He said it was clean
TARO
Oh, wow
Huge compliment
SAMU
Ikr
Anyway stop texting me, go rest
I know those fingers ache
TARO
Fine, fine
Bye Samu
Miss you.
Love you.
SAMU
Rin
Come home soon, I miss you
And I love you too
------
After the Adlers, playing with the Japan Railway Warriors is easier. Just a smidge easier.
As the whistle blows and the match comes to a close, Rintarou lets out a long, sharp exhale. The Warriors’ newest middle blocker, one Hyakuzawa, is a monster to block and spike against, and if his legs didn’t feel like jelly before, they do now, stamina be damned.
Komori, cheery as usual, raises his arm for a high five. “Good game,” he says sunnily, albeit somewhat out of breath. “Close one, huh.”
“God, shut up,” he gasps, but slaps his hand anyway as they make it back to the starting line.
———
As Rintarou starts to settle into cool-down stretches, he resists the temptation to retrieve his phone, instead focusing on his stretch (today was harsh on his left torso) and the small crowd of people at the sidelines. He makes eye contact with someone who stares as his left leg shifts a perfect 180 to the right in a supine twist while his shoulders lay flat on the ground, and laughs as the man jolts and hurriedly looks away. It’s amusing. He should find a better pose to alarm onlookers after the next match.
Next to him, his teammate Sarukui laughs. “You’re too bendy to stretch in public.”
Washio nods in the middle of his butterfly stretch. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
He shrugs from the ground. “It’s fun.”
As he shifts his neck, Rintarou’s concentration is broken by a loud yell to their left. “TATSUKI!”
Like, Washio Tatsuki, Tatsuki? Rintarou glances curiously at the origin of the noise, where a blond guy stands, waving in their direction. Fukurodani alumni, Rintarou registers briefly, before he swings his leg back and switches sides, turning his neck to the opposite side. “Washio-san?”
“Yup.” Washio stands up and waves back, at which the blond guy beams and jogs closer, saying something to Washio in a quieter tone that Rintarou can’t quite make out. Washio only laughs and says, “I didn’t know you’d come today”, which makes the other man laugh, grab his arm and talk some more.
“So you think you can block Bokuto’s spikes now?”
“Since when have I not been able to?”
Rintarou glances at Sarukui, who’s left stretching with him. “Do we...say hi?”
Sarukui shrugs. “Eh. Leave them be.”
Rintarou suddenly wonders what he’d have said if Osamu suddenly showed up, and exhales loudly as he stretches his arm out to the other side.
-------
Rintarou’s fingers drum absentmindedly against his thigh as he stares into the blank space between the clock and the television. At this hour, he’d usually be scrolling his phone or chatting with someone, but his mental energy’s spent. Komori’s not here, anyway - miraculously he’s on the phone with his cousin - Gin has work the next day, Atsumu has an upcoming match tomorrow so he’s basically not available, and Osamu is busy.
Busy, again. At least they had a video call yesterday before the match, when Osamu got excited about his two-meter opponent.
“Fresh out of high school and over two meters?” He’d said enthusiastically, video vibrating. “That’s so cool!”
“Cool for everyone else, not me,” he’d replied, exasperated.
Osamu only laughed and gave him a small, reassuring smile.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m still rooting for ya.”
In real time, Rintarou curls up on the couch and sighs, burrowing into his borrowed hoodie as his arms wrap around his water bottle. Maybe he should just go to bed and call it a day, but it’s barely ten and they don’t have morning practice tomorrow. He glances down at his phone once more before leaning his head back and shutting his eyes.
He’ll admit it. He misses Osamu, like, full-on. His current wallpaper’s a photo of him, holding a box of takoyaki from their last date in Dotonbori, neon lights in the background, and he’s mature enough to accept that looking at that photo alone is enough to bring him some amount of joy. Well, sue him for being mopey. He’s embracing it now.
“Room for one more?”
Rintarou jolts and glances up in surprise.
“Washio-san. Uh, sure-”
As he shifts to the side, Washio takes a seat and glances at him expectantly, raising a mug of steaming liquid (if he can guess, chamomile tea?) to his lips.
He pauses.
“Are you gonna lecture me?”
“Hmm.” His fellow middle blocker surveys him. “What for?”
Rintarou shrugs. “I don’t know. For being distracted?”
“You were focused during the match, so, no.” Washio pauses. “But you, now? That’s another question.”
Washio is the kind of teammate that doesn’t speak up much in discussions, but when he does, he has a point. And his point is often very sharp.
“Thinking about your boyfriend again?”
Rintarou chokes on his water.
“Uh,” he coughs. “I- ye- uh, I mean, I guess?”
“I don’t mean anything by it.” Washio pats his back reassuringly. “Just, if you need to talk about it, I can handle it.”
Washio’s only one year older (in calendar years, maybe two), but at times he has the presence of a wise owl beyond his years. Rintarou can’t help but smirk at the mental image. “Washio-san, you sound experienced.”
“Oh.” His teammate actually chuckles a little. “You forget, I went to Fukurodani Academy. I’m a professional.”
Oh, right, Rintarou recalls. He’d almost forgotten. Spending three years with one Bokuto Koutarou would certainly firm you up, just like how spending three years with the twins would’ve. In addition, spending two of those three years watching Bokuto and one Akaashi Keiji would surely have produced some very, very strong-willed men.
(Catalogued in Rintarou’s head, on Fukurodani’s Bokuto-and-Akaashi, by Washio’s account:
It was akin to an albatross courtship ritual, except that the ritual lasted seven hundred days.
Literally. Seven hundred days. Komi counted.
Akaashi liked to make it seem like they were star-crossed lovers. Trust me, they were not.
Bokuto once asked me how to write a love letter. I did not help him.
Bokuto once put all the third years on a conference call to discuss his confession plan. Konoha hung up after the first hour.
I won seven thousand yen from the betting pool. Don’t ever let Akaashi know.)
Classic EJP Raijin secrets.
He remembers, too, the blond-haired man who appeared in the stadium today. Konoha, he recalls with vague interest. Konoha Akinori from Fukurodani who lost three thousand yen from the betting pool. Konoha with the million-watt grin and the loud mouth, who calls Washio by Tatsuki and Washio laughed and let Konoha grab his arm, and, oh, he’s goddamn stupid-
“You,” Rintarou’s eyes widen a little. “You, too.”
Washio eyes him with amusement. “What’s that supposed to mean,” he asks, knowing entirely well what he means.
Rintarou’s tired enough to lose some politeness as he makes an irritated noise. “Washio-san, you had a boyfriend all this time and you hid it from me?”
At this, Washio laughs. “I never hid it from you. You never asked.”
“Well-” Rintarou sputters, because it’s true, he never did ask. “How come I never noticed?”
“Well,” he replies, “maybe you weren’t paying enough attention.”
Rintarou stares in mild awe. Washio has height, authority and composure. He’s got a fanclub. He’s got a perky boyfriend who took leave to travel to Hiroshima to watch him play. Washio-senpai has it all.
“Washio-san. You’re very cool.”
Washio lifts up his cup in cheers.
“I wouldn’t blame you for not noticing, anyway. We’re much harder to spot.”
Hard to spot? Rintarou questions. Than who, us? He considers all the times Osamu’s showed up for their matches, and frowns slightly. It’s not like they hug or hold hands or kiss openly. But maybe Osamu sometimes shuffles in a bit close and smiles at him a bit too much, or maybe he grabs his arm for a bit too long and Rintarou lets him. Sometimes, Rintarou tugs the bottom hem of Osamu’s t-shirt and holds onto it like he’s used to. Sometimes Rintarou wears Osamu’s clothes after matches - like today’s hoodie, one size too big, with Osamu’s name stitched on the underside of its left sleeve.
His face flushes pink as he traces Osamu’s name inside his sleeve. Maybe Washio has a point.
“Uh.” He coughs, throat suddenly going dry. “I guess.”
Washio nods and Rintarou raises his bottle to his lips, just as Komori swings around the corner and faceplants into the cushioned seat to Washio’s left. His voice is muffled when he speaks. “Kiyoomi said that our match looked fun today.”
Washio sips his tea. “Fun.”
“Yeah.” Komori lifts his head and rolls onto his back as Washio and Rintarou shift to accommodate him, the three of them squished side-by-side on the same length of sofa. “He said, ‘maybe it’s not so horrible to play against you next time’. What the hell does that even mean?”
“Cryptic,” Rintarou mutters as he finishes his sip of water.
“Exactly. I told him that. He disagreed. I mean-” Komori blinks at him, and stops. “Sorry. I feel like I interrupted a deep conversation.”
“Not at all,” Rintarou replies, at the same time Washio says, “Suna didn’t know about Konoha.”
Huh.
Komori snickers in the near distance.
“What?” Rintarou’s head whips towards Komori in an instant, horrified. “You knew,” he says accusingly, “and you never told me?”
The culprit wiggles his brows at him. “I thought you knew, but looks like your head’s only filled with thoughts about Osamu,” he says cheekily.
Komori is no longer invited to dinner with him and Osamu. “Betrayal,” Rintarou hisses, pointing at him from across the couch. “I tell you everything and you give me morsels of information-”
“Hey, I told you about the Tokyo libero group chat-”
“Breadcrumbs, Komori-”
“-and about Kiyoomi’s private instagram-”
“-but compared to Atsumu’s collection of-”
“New rule,” Washio interrupts. “We sit here and enjoy the night in peace, because it’s past ten o’clock and it’s cold, and we’re all tired.”
Rintarou sighs, flopping back against the couch.
“Yes, boss.”
“Yessir.”
The three of them sit quietly in the aftermath of the ceasefire; Washio drinking his tea, Komori glancing at his phone, Rintarou massaging his fingers.
“No call tonight?”
Rintarou glances up at Komori, who points at his phone, time displayed on the screen. He shakes his head. “Busy,” he mumbles, fingers subconsciously sliding over his phone which sits in his sleeves.
“Oh.” Komori smiles in understanding, leaning his head on Washio’s shoulder. “We’ll keep you company, then,” he says, as Washio nods.
“Mmm.”
Rintarou shifts in his seat.
“Not, ‘get used to it’?”
“No. Since when have we ever said that to you?”
Rintarou pauses.
“You haven’t.”
“See.” Komori grins. “We’re good to you.”
Rintarou sticks his tongue out at him. But it’s true. They are.
He sighs and leans his head on Washio’s other shoulder as the three of them continue to sit in silence, sounds of rustling leaves and night traffic in the distance.
Maybe they can book a table for four when the season’s over.
--------
Eventually, the EJP make it to Osaka to face the delightfully energetic Jackals. Three weeks goes by fast. Or slow. Maybe all the jumping has addled his brain. Rintarou no longer has grasp on the concept of time as they inch into the fifth and final set of the game.
“Bokkun!”
Rintarou does all he can to try and narrow Bokuto’s shot, but the spiker’s hand swerves at the last second and his eyes widen as he realises the trajectory of the ball can’t possibly be straight. “Komori, left,” he urges, moving his arms as Bokuto swings his arm down for an inner cross shot.
“Here-” Komori dives forward and wedges his hands in the inch of space between the ball and the ground, and the ball leaps back up with a loud thnk. That had to hurt. “Damn,” Rintarou hears in the distance from the other side of the net, but barely registers it as he swings his arms to hit the rapidly falling ball back up in an emergency underhand set.
It spins to Sarukui, who smacks it down by the right, where it’s saved by Inuaki, the Jackals’ starting libero for the season. Rintarou can already see from the corner of his eye where he knows Atsumu’s going to want to park himself to set, and fuck does he want to block what’s coming.
But he knows he can’t; the angle is all wrong from where he is and he won’t reach the right spot in time. So he commits to the next best option-
“Right,” their Captain calls, and he jumps and swings, eyes dead set on the Jackals’ hitter who quickly swerves in response and aims in between him and Washio-
-right to Komori, who digs the ball with two steady arms right to their setter, who bends to get his fingertips under-
It’s over in a flash. Their Captain jumps from the middle and hits it down, just inches from Inuaki and Bokuto. Atsumu shoots him a pained grin from across the net as the whistle blows, once, twice.
Match point.
Finally, Rintarou thinks as the sound of the whistle drags, signalling the end of the match. His fingers curl slightly, pinky and ring fingers tender to the touch, and he winces as he pats his palms together.
It stings, victory fresh to the touch.
His lips curl into a grin.
--------
Atsumu’s the first hand Rintarou shakes as the match draws to a close. “Good game, Miya,” he drawls, deliberately dragging the syllables in his last word as he keeps eye contact.
Atsumu scowls. “Go suck a dick, Suna.” As the words leave his mouth, his face contorts with disgust. “Wait, no, I take that back. Don’t even think about sucking- ugh- alright, yanno what, fuck you!”
“You did this to yourself,” Rintarou says to him, and Atsumu groans.
“And with each passing day I ask myself if it was worth it, stickin’ up for ya.”
Rintarou's lips perk up with amusement. “Well, was it?”
Atsumu shakes his head fervently. “‘M not gonna answer that and give you the satisfaction.”
“Ah, but by answering like that, you already have.”
“Ergh.”
Their hands separate, and Atsumu glances at Rintarou’s team once more as turns to leave.
“Ya watch out next time,” he says, eyes gleaming. “We’re gonna get some more monsters real soon an’ we’ll beat the hell outta ya next time.”
“Oh?” Rintarou turns to Komori as Atsumu stalks away. “That’s ominous.”
Komori tilts his head. “He must be talking about Kiyoomi.”
“Ah.” That guy. “So he’s finally graduating.”
“Yep.”
“And he’s definitely joining the Jackals.”
“For sure.”
“The Jackals, with Bokuto and Atsumu and all those hot-headed folk.” His lips curve and widen. “Oh, Komori, Komori.”
Komori starts to laugh, just as Rintarou looks up to the stands, eyes flickering to the first three rows before he realises it-
Except today, a hint of black and white shows up on his radar, at row one, with a familiar look and familiar smile that he hasn’t managed to see in person in a while, and his gaze stops wandering.
“Oi, why’d you stop walking-”
“Ah,” Rintarou says under his breath, as Komori bumps into his shoulder. “Samu said he’d come.”
His teammate rubs his nose and sighs.
“Every time…” he grumbles, ushering him forward. “C’mon, you can walk over...”
Rintarou doesn’t tear his gaze away from him as he makes his way to the sidelines. Osamu’s dressed in black pants and a white Onigiri Miya t-shirt, smiling his small smile, the lazy, passive smile that he keeps when he’s content or mildly amused. His brother’s at his side, talking about something that he can’t quite hear until he gets closer.
“-can’t believe your dumb ass didn’t make it in time to apply for a license,” Atsumu says, slapping his shoulder. “Yer so stupid, Samu.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Osamu says, ignoring the surrounding whispers of Is that Atsumu-san’s brother? and Oh shit, there’s two of them??. “I’ll make it next time.”
“So, no onigiri today?” Rintarou asks casually, sidling up to the twins. “I’m disappointed, I thought there’d be catering at the match today…”
Osamu’s eyes light up as they meet each other’s gaze, but he merely tilts his head and smiles. “You can always just come by the shop,” he says, teasing.
“Yeah, but I’m hungry now...” Rintarou catches his eye, and breaks into a smile. “Hi.”
Atsumu promptly pats their backs and turns on his heels. “Alright. Gross. I’m gettin’ the fuck outta here.”
“Suit yourself,” Osamu calls after him, not breaking his gaze. “Hi, Rin.”
If anything, he feels his smile widen a little. “You came.”
Osamu’s gaze softens.
“Told ya I was gonna come,” he says. “Rescheduled my stuff. Wasn’t in time to get a license for the stall today, though.”
“You didn’t have to,” he hears himself saying, but he already knows the answer deep down.
“I did.” Osamu leans towards him and flicks his forehead affectionately. “Silly,” he says, and Rintarou doesn’t stop smiling.
“What’re you doing here?” he asks dumbly, moving one step closer, the rest of the stadium a blur.
“Ain’t it obvious? I’m here to see ya.”
Atsumu, from twenty meters away, suddenly spins around and glares into Osamu’s back. Rintarou laughs.
“Not your dear twin brother?”
“Oh, yeah, him, too.”
Osamu chuckles, and Rintarou exhales slowly. He missed it, the sound of his voice in such close proximity, the comfort of being close to him, which makes him almost forget that he’s still in the stadium, audience to players, reporters and spectators who haven’t a clue about his growing urge to lean forward and rest his head in the crook of his shoulder, where it’s the most comfortable, where it belongs.
He blinks, and Osamu’s still looking at him, smiling idly, arms reaching towards him.
“Your hands.” Osamu slips his hands under one of his and raises it, examining the little creases and bruises on his palm. “They’re always so battered towards the end of a season.”
“It can’t be helped,” Rintarou says, nerves tingling as Osamu’s hands roam across his palm and towards the tips, massaging his hand gently. “What’s this, now?”
“I learnt it on the job,” Osamu murmurs, a smile playing on his lips as he drops Rintarou’s left hand and reaches for his right. “Ya don’t wash rice everyday without learning how to treat it well.”
He feels it, the same care that goes into the grains, the same care that goes into the moulding of his craft. The same care is rubbed into his hand by the smooth stroking of a thumb, up and down the length of each of his fingers like they hold up the world.
If actions could speak, this one would be in hushed tones. Soft, like the brushes over his knuckles and creases, quiet, like the movement of his joints as they are maneuvered by skillful hands - nothing like the bright lights of the stadium and noise of the not-so-distant crowd.
Slowly, Osamu's motions still, and he tilts his head up to gaze at Rintarou.
“I missed you,” Osamu says, quietly, the warmth of his hands enveloping Rintarou’s heart.
Rintarou's breath hitches, midway through his throat.
“I love you,” he replies, voice cracking.
The corners of Osamu’s eyes crinkle as his face breaks into a soft, soft smile, and Rintarou caves, bringing his free hand to cup his face. Osamu leans into the touch so that Rintarou’s fingertips reach into his hair, and Rintarou openly ignores the gasp he hears from behind him (might be Komori, might be a fan) as he strokes his cheek with his thumb. It’s warm and smooth and Rintarou thinks that he might be smiling a little bit, too.
Well, this might be the most he's ever touched Osamu in broad daylight in a stadium. So be it.
“I kinda wanna kiss ya,” Osamu mumbles, lopsided grin forming on his face. “Like, right here and now.”
“Only kinda?”
“Uh huh.” Osamu tilts his head and discreetly presses his lips to Rintarou’s thumb. “Kinda wanna do other things, too.”
Heat floods Rintarou’s chest, rising up his neck and into his cheeks. “I have to maintain my reputation, y’know,” he says, but he continues to stroke his cheek anyway, knowing fair well that it doesn’t really matter, anyway, since this was never something he needed or really wanted to hide.
Osamu’s grin only widens. “Come home, then,” he says softly, hands still holding his, thumbs stroking his left knuckle. “Where there’s nobody to judge.”
Rintarou lets go of Osamu’s cheek to flick his forehead. “Later,” he says. “I’ll go home with you.” They have time in Osaka.
Osamu hums. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Come home to me.”
Osamu, home.
Osamu, is, home.
“Yeah,” Rintarou says, a little breathlessly. “Yeah, okay.”
Thoughts of home are suddenly interrupted by a kick to his shin that makes him jolt. “Debrief,” Komori says to him as he passes his side, before glancing at Osamu and grinning. “You can reunite later.”
Osamu laughs and lets go of Rintarou’s hand. “Well, off ya go.”
Rintarou turns as Komori tugs at his sleeve and pulls him away. “Wait for me,” he says, as Osamu smiles and waves him away, walking back towards the stands.
Home, he thinks. He doesn’t know much about taking root and having a home, but maybe eating with Osamu is home. Talking with Osamu is home. Being with Osamu is home. Osamu, home.
“The two of you,” Komori mutters as he drags him along, “are so dramatic. I love you guys, but holy shit, Suna.”
“Whatever,” Rintarou slaps his hand away and walks on his own. But he’s smiling. He’s home and he knows it, now.
“...Wanna have dinner with us tomorrow?”