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“That is how I look at it; to continue, to continue, that is what is necessary.”
― Vincent van Gogh, ‘Dear Theo’
Suna crouches in front of the water fountain as his joints crack audibly, concerning but not unusual. His left knee digs into the scorching concrete while the other supports his arm and flicks of astrayed water occasionally hit his forehead, trickling along the creases that form as he squints at his phone screen in concentration. Adjusting to get a better angle, he shifts around so that his legs now rest under him and the back of his shoes bend into his lower back, toes crushed into the ground. He lifts his left hand to the screen and pinches his index finger and thumb together, flicking at the screen to zoom it in.
The water crashes into its surrounding pond, contained by a grey cement ledge, only to resurface again a few minutes later. It’s hot, the sun is blazing through the air and burning his skin. He’s sure the water would be boiling if he were to touch it, but he doesn’t. What’s captured on the screen though, feels more refreshing than anything else. The water looks more appealing when in silent motion, drops falling with only a single focus point and the blur of his surroundings show in colors of vibrant greens and muted yellows that dye the water. With the view angled as if his phone is floating in the water, he taps the screen to focus it and the small yellow square centers itself in the midst. Click.
He’s staring at the volleyball laying in the middle of the gym with something akin to a fond frustration seeping through his gaze. Suna hates staying behind to clean-up and he hadn't done so for a while, planning to keep it that way before coach insisted that he stay today. He’s alone in the gym right now, immersing himself in the familiar smell of dated sweat and mud tracked in from outside. Akagi is around here somewhere too, but not in the gym, probably grabbing something from the storage closet.
The thing is, Suna thought he’d already cleaned up all the volleyballs, so he was extremely annoyed when he returned from putting the ball-cart away only to find that he missed one. He glares at it for a while longer, hoping that maybe it’ll just disappear if he stares at it hard enough, before relenting and walking to it. Halfway through though, he notices that the lighting from where he’s standing is serene, perfect. He halts in his steps to take in the rest of his surroundings. It’s cloudy and grey outside, dimming the gym in a grey tint, yet the lights on the ceiling blaze through the air, letting shadows drape from the side of the ball.
Suna’s hands are in his pockets and he can feel the metal of his phone on his skin. He rubs the side of it for a bit while observing, a focused habit. As he gets an idea mapped out in his head, he pulls the device out and circles the ball, finding the right angle and stabilizing his hands. Click.
“You have rice on your sleeve.” Suna points out as he sits on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs back and forth. His feet occasionally hit the cabinet below him too hard and the noise echoes throughout the room, eliciting a yelp from Atsumu who’s sitting on the living room couch.
A look of confusion flashes over Osamu's face for a moment before he checks his sleeve and picks a piece of rice from it, flicking it away. When he returns his focus back to the neatly organized area, he pats at his apron and picks up a salmon slice — picking it apart for the Onigiri filling he’s prepping.
“It’s like 25 degrees out, why are you even wearing sleeves?” Suna can feel the counter's chill clashing with his palms and it barely even cools his body temperature down at all. He’s sweating and he’s has on short sleeves, wearing long sleeves in this weather feels like a death sentence. His question isn’t dignified with a response, so Suna rolls his eyes and looks back to the scene in front of him.
The salmon he’s using is a silky coral color but it holds undertones of strawberry and peach in its layers too, like those multi-colored pencils you’d buy at a book fair. Osamu's fingers pinch at the edge of a slice and rip it up bit by bit, dropping each piece into the white plastic bowl. Suna tugs at the back of Osamu’s sleeve, silently demanding an answer. Picking up another slice and not even bothering to stop while talking, the older of the two retorts with a “Why not?”
“Because you’ll overheat and die.”
“Glad ta hear ya care about me, Rin.”
Suna scoffs, “I just don't want to have to deal with Atsumu’s whinin-”
Osamu turns around and shoves a piece of salmon into Suna’s mouth before he can finish his sentence. “Try this.” Surprised, he mindlessly chews on it, reveling in the refreshing taste while his face morphs into a look of consideration and swallowing it. After a moment, he nods in approval, “It’s pretty good.”
When Osamu finishes a couple onigiri and reaches over the counter to grab some rice and make another, Suna hops down to snatch one from the serving tray. Osamu instantly turns around and gives him a look that screams ‘did you really just do that?’. He continues staring pointedly at the brunette's silence. The drop of a spoon on the counter makes them both jump, metallic clatter echoing through their ears. Osamu rests his hands behind him, a sign that he’s taking a break, and now watches as Suna takes another bite from the onigiri in his hand, just to start nodding and talking with his mouth full of food. “These are really good.”
The disbelieving expression that Osamu is wearing amplifies when Suna takes out his phone and points it at him, just to take a picture of the face he’s making and post it on Snapchat. Click.
His room is dim, the only source of light being the fairy lights that are strung across one of his walls. The golden light creates shadows on the clothes that scatter his floor and desk, emphasizing the wrinkles in them. Looking at a pair of fox-patterned boxers that rest in the fibers of his chestnut colored carpet, — ‘he really should pick those up sometime,’ — his nose wrinkles in distaste and he pushes himself off his bed restlessly.
Stepping over some crumpled notebook papers, the neon blue of the lines illuminated, he plops down in the middle of his floor and crosses his legs to observe everything around him from a lower point of view. He can vaguely see a bag of empty chips peeking out from under his bed and a notebook he hadn’t used in over a year shoved between his shelf and the wall behind it.
Closing his eyes, he starts playing with the hem of his shirt and falls onto his back, letting his arms spread above his head. After a minute or so he opens his eyes and is now met with the shadowed white of his ceiling. Splashes of gold fold in the corners of the textured bumps and the right corner of his mouth turns slightly upward, imaging the scene in a photo. It’s not significant enough though, so he sits back up and places his hands on his ankles as he looks around the room. Soon enough, his eyes land on a spot in the corner of his room. A mirror sits against the right wall and blankets drape messily on the floor in front of it, as though they were thrown from his bed in the middle of the night. They probably were. Under the blankets are various pieces of notebook paper, messy scribbles and crossed out words detailing them, close to the desk he’s been sitting at earlier in the afternoon. In a way, it’s really pretty, because in the midst of chaos the lights hit one paper perfectly.
Smudged graphite paints the paper that has obvious lines creasing it, detailing a history of frustrated crumpling and calm moments that entail him smoothing out the paper and continuing. Soft fabrics of blankets partially overlap at its corners, though not enough to cover what its writing holds. On the paper, in layers of erased words and eraser stains, accompanied by various colors of highlighter ink and hand-bolded letters, is a quote:
“What am I in the eyes of most people — a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person — somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then — even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart. That is my ambition, based less on resentment than on love in spite of everything, based more on a feeling of serenity than on passion. Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum.”
― Vincent Van Gogh
Click.
Flowers and grass peek out from the sides of his grey leather combat boots and the golden brown metal buckles have condensation dripping from their corners. The soft fuzz of his shoes rub against the sharp blades of grass that will most definitely leave a stain on them and yellow flakes of dandelion remnants stick to their sides and he stands, looking down at the scene through his phone.
His brown Moss Esq pants flow down his legs with their ends tucked into his boots and his white collared shirt peeks into the frame just slightly. He can feel the morning dew seeping into his shoes, the chill biting at the fabric of his pants, yet he just stands and observes for a while. When he feels a chill in the wind, he takes a shaking breath and sucks in air as best as he can while trying to ignore the way it burns his throat, and taps the screen to focus the frame.
The shoes center the view but half his body hides in the bottom of the frame too. He feels like the grass he knows is crushed under his boots. He knows when he steps away that the grass will either be dead, his soles having cut off their circulation, or will spring back up eventually. Either way, a cloud passes overhead and lets a few rays of sun peek through, just enough to shine in the spot where he stands. Click.
The book is soft, Suna can feel its worn out edges as he rubs his thumb along its spine. His skin momentarily fills it’s cracks and his fingers brush across its cover in ease. It’s red, gold lettering decorates its front and side, and sits on a library table ready for use in his project. He crumples his right hand into a fist, clenching on its cover and knuckles digging into the fabric-esc medium, and eventually unclenches it while starting to splay his fingers out. His palm rests flat on the red now, fingers stretched as far as possible and his skin folds just slightly where his index finger and thumb connect. His bones tense and he can feel his skin pulling at his joints as they strain against the block, surely leaving a temporary imprint in the cover, but the pressure is nice.
His phone rests on the other side of his body, near his left arm, and he pulls his other hand from his lap and unlocks it with ease. The slam of a book coming from the aisle next to him takes his attention away for a moment. He hears a sigh and shuffling amongst the shelves. A distinct metal noise makes him cringe and he assumes the librarian is restocking books.
Ripping his attention away from the scene and back to his phone, he swipes up to the camera app and continues to keep his hand flexed as he maneuvers the camera so that his hand’s now in view. He angles it softly, the book's spine is in view with his thumb being the closest to the lens and his other fingers a blur in the distance. You can see faint spots of ink soaked into the cells of his skin, notes and reminders washed away yet still imprinted temporarily. The tip of his thumb is the focal point, wrinkles in his knuckles not too far behind, and his black painted thumbnail adds a complimentary pop in the midst. Click.
His bedroom is something Suna never intends to show anyone. Not because he’s strict on privacy, no, but because of his bed. His bed that currently lays neatly made from that morning. The bed that he throws his backpack and himself face first into after school. The same bed that holds space print bed sheets that he actually quite enjoys, but would never let anyone into his room for that specific reason. The bed. He doesn’t plan on letting anyone ever see it, in his personal life that is.
His bedsheets are laid out nicely, tucked in smoothly at the spots it should be and his comforter hangs off the edge of the bed in a neat manner. Their base color is a dark navy blue with various spaceships and planets decorating across the comforter blanket. On top of the fabric lays socks at the foot of his bed, his backpack in the top right corner, and his pillows that are white with a green stuffed fox on top of them — it’s one he’s had since he was little. His bed is pushed up horizontally against the beige wall next to it and various pictures are taped up, some that he took himself and others of his team during volleyball games.
What lays in the center of his bed, a corner of the elastic fabric draping off the edge, is his binder. A smooth black chest binder that has some remnants of washed out doodles that Atsumu drew on it with a white gel pen one time. The memory of Atsumu sitting cross legged holding his phone flashlight in his left hand as he sticks his tongue out and focuses on doodling with his right hand late at night during one of their training camps still fresh in his mind as one of the first, and only, times someone has ever seen his binder. It’s a rarity of sorts. He’s not extremely closeted but most people don't know that hes transgender and they dont need to, so he doesn’t go around showing off his binder. For him, that would be the equivalent of showing off his underwear and would just be unnecessary anyways.
The scene in front of him right now though is appealing in a niche way. His followers follow him for a casual aesthetic and a distant thought tells him they would probably like this too. He doesn’t take photos for his followers though, he takes ones that are significant to himself and just finds that posting them on Tumblr is a nice way to share them without gathering too much attention in his personal life.
He squints and adjusts the scene a little bit, adding a pair of craft scissors and a pencil near the binder and moving his socks out of the way. Getting onto a knee, his back now faces his window and his body is parallel to the bed with his pillows slightly behind him. He adjusts his camera settings a bit and then zooms in just enough for the photo to be perfect. Click.
He’s standing in front of his mirror. It’s vertical but he’s tall enough that his face is out of view – thankfully – and what's left is just his body and the phone he's holding. It’s only the early afternoon and he just came home from school so he sniffs in the faint smell of food that his dad’s cooking for dinner and relishes in the small sense of familiarity. Looking down, he can see the ray of sun shining through his window landing on the side of his stomach as though it’d be piercing him if it was solid.
It’s not that he hates this body. It’s strong, tall and boyish. He looks and passes fine because he is fine, but the stretch marks that are hidden under his dress shirt could be smaller and the thighs being squeezed by his pants could be less full. It’s not that he loathes it nor is he a lost soul floating around, waiting to be transferred to a new one. It’s okay – standard – because his shoulders aren’t too narrow and his legs are longer than some of his classmates. So the body in the mirror is fine and has even improved over the years, decently.
Yet he doesn’t show it off. He hides it with a slouch that his couch yells at him about because ‘if your back stays that way you won't be able to block like that much longer’ and wears clothes a size or two bigger than he is.
That’s why this moment is different from others, because he's wearing a black dress shirt that’s actually his size and even shows off the muscles he's been training for. He’s wearing blue jeans that fit snug on his legs, drawing attention away from his hips and thighs yet still showing them off in a manageable fashion – and he's holding his phone.
He has a family dinner tonight and knows his relatives are going to have different reactions to how he looks considering he hasn’t seen some of them since fifth grade, and he's nervous. The sunlight feels like it’s burning his body now and he feels trapped in front of the mirror. He needs to go outside and get a breath of fresh air but he needs to do this first or he won't do it at all.
So, he angles the phone in front of the mirror just enough to get a clear shot of his outfit – and consequently his body – and opens the Inarizaki group chat. He’s met with multiple messages wishing him luck from his teammates and though it’s not visible in the photo, he’s smiling. Click.
“Hey Suna, ya ready for tomorrow?” The crunch of pebbles fill their paused silence as Osamu throws Suna’s bag over his shoulder, much to Suna’s dismay. (‘I can carry my own bag you know.’ ‘Yeah but that doesn't mean you should need ta, let me do somethin’ nice fer ya.’ ‘Fine.’)
Atsumu is walking to his left, semi-distracted by whatever he’s doing on his phone and Suna returns his attention to the path in front of him. “Well, yeah, it’s graduation. I’m not gonna just let the third years walk away without causing trouble on their way out.”
Osamu knocks his shoulder against Suna’s and rolls his eyes. “Or ya could just admit that you’ll miss them and want to say goodbye?”
“Where's the fun in that?” They fall back into a silence as their footsteps trample the sidewalk and their thoughts take over.
Atsumu hums after what feels like a couple minutes, though it could have been less seeing as they're still near the park not too far from Inarazaki. “What’re they gonna do after?”
“I think Kita’s going to work on his family's farm.” Osamu’s voice floods Suna’s ears and he closes his eyes in comfort.
“Ah, makes sense.”
“Yeah, it’s a nice job. Fitting for him.”
Suna pipes up at the lull in the conversation, partially because he wants to stop reminiscing on things that aren’t gone just yet, and also because a small part of him doesn’t want to stop hearing Osamu’s voice. Not that he’d ever admit either of those. “I heard Aran’s going to the Red Falcons.”
Atsumu turns his head to look at Suna in something akin to both shock and admiration, “Really? Division 1?” Suna nods and shoves his hands into the waistband of his pants.
Osamu groans, “Ya've gotta stop doin’ that Rin, I doubt it’s sanitary.”
“It’s warm though. I have to keep my body heat in somehow and it's not like your offering to hold my hand.” Suna throws his hand out in suggestion and Osamu reluctantly takes his left hand out of his pocket and grabs Suna’s.
Atsumu fake gags while kicking a pebble at the two. “Gross.”
“Says the one who facetimes his boyfriend every night when i'm trying to sleep.”
The blonde leans back to look at Osamu and retort but before he can, the heel of his shoe gets caught on the crack of the sidewalk and he falls backwards. Everyone freezes for a moment to process what just happened before Osamu and Suna turn around to look at Atsumu and their eyes grow wide in realization. They quickly turn their heads to look at each other before bursting out in laughter. Suna clutches his stomach as he leans over, nose almost touching the concrete, and he wheezes out loud spurts of laughter while Atsumu whines at being laughed at.
The faux blonde tries to push himself back up, succeeding halfway in getting his feet planted on the ground and his legs bent, before he loses his balance and falls again. This only rekindles the duo’s lightened chuckles back to full blown coughs of laughter as Suna struggles to get a grip, reaching his arm out to Atsumu in an attempt to help him up. Before Atsumu can use him as support though, Suna gets an idea and quickly retracts his arm to pull out his phone and face it towards Atsumu, who is sitting on his lower back with his elbows set behind him and looking up at the brunette in frustration. Click.
He’s back in front of the fountain. It’s colder now, the mist burns his skin this time in frozen droplets rather than scorching tears. The entrance to the common area is decorated in leftover colored lights and strands of tinsel that are definitely not good for wildlife, but the holiday spirit doesn't care about that he presumes. This time the sun isn’t blazing his skin and creating open sores and blisters. Instead, it’s hiding behind some clouds, peeking through just enough to flood his skin with a blanket of warmth. He sucks in a breath, the cloud of fog his breath creates dissipating in mere seconds. The phone in his hand is new, a birthday present he got a few days ago. His case is clear with a few small photos tucked into it and a note from Atsumu in neon gel-pen and surprisingly neat handwriting, “You’re doing great.”
He can hear someone stepping up to him, four steps and a hand lands itself on his shoulder. Reassurance crawls in his skin and he doesn't realize he was tensed up until his body sags as he relaxes into the body of the person behind him. Suna looks up and his eyes meet with Kita’s, admiration prevalent in the man's eyes as he looks down at the brunette and whispers a rough “I’m proud of you.” Tears prick at the corner of Suna’s eyes and he swallows, a nod and a look ahead.
His grey boots now stained from sweat and dirt carry him to the ledge of the fountain. He sits on the concrete border and the backside of pants get damp from residue but he barely notices, or maybe he just doesn’t care. A scan of his surroundings reminds him that it’s evening, so not many people are out and not as many eyes are on him for now. He takes in another breath, the air invades his lungs and escapes just as easily when he exhales.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, thumb rubbing on the now plastic case, soft. The click of the lower button echoes in his ears as the pad of his finger touches the glass. He swipes up and is met with his screensaver, a photo of the team, his team, at finals. The corner of his lips curve ever so slightly when a wave of memories passes over him and he clicks onto the camera app. His fingernail scratches against the screen when he goes to press the reverse symbol, and as it turns yellow he’s met with a face.
Yellow-green eyes stare at him while he moves the phone from under him to infront of him, never once leaving his sight. Chocolate brown bangs drape over the face that mirrors his expression and a hand brushes them away. Water flows behind him though now instead of crashing waves there is only a soft patter of droplets in the pond. He can feel spots of wet soaking into his sleeves when excess spray lands on his body and he blinks, still looking at the screen. A sniff, holding back the urge to sneeze as the cold sets in. A smile, at the man in the camera, at him. Genuine. The face on the screen is his, and his eyes glaze with pride. Click.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore