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He’s always scowling, hunched over and sizing everyone up from behind a phone or a volleyball net; it’s a wonder, really, that he manages to be so goddamn attractive while doing it. Maybe it’s his eyes. Komori wonders about it a lot, what drew him in the first time he noticed one Suna Rintaro. Was it when he started on the EJP Raijins? Or was it before that, all the way back at Nationals in high school?
He can still remember his third year, facing down Inarizaki for the first time. It had never been his job to score points, but it wasn’t unusual for liberos to feel like they were pitted against middle blockers, especially those like Motoya who excelled at blocked ball retrievals. He can remember even now, almost five years later, looking up to meet narrowed green eyes that scrutinized him from above.
Those eyes never lost their keen edge. They still bore into friend and foe alike when there’s something Rin wants to know, something he wants to drag out of his subject of observation, but that’s not all there is to them. Komori knows intimately the way they can soften, how they warm when paired with a smile or turn scalding hot with salacious intent. He knows the fire that hides behind those jade embers and the sort of shivers they can send ricocheting up his spine.
Even when they’re closed, Rin’s eyes are beautiful. The tension in his brows eases when he sleeps and Motoya likes to reach out to trace his fingertip along their angles and curves, manicured with a level of vanity that most people probably don’t expect him capable of. Komori’s seen both sides of that vanity: the prideful side that Suna shows to others and the soft side he keeps secret for a select few, the one that wears a scrunchie headband with fox ears when he tweezes and exfoliates.
In the dim morning light filtering through their bedroom window shades, he likes to watch Rintaro sleep. Komori’s always been more of a morning person and it means he has ample opportunity for precious moments like this when he can sit against the headboard or simply lay beside his lover and let his eyes wander. Suna is pretty as a picture - especially like this, with his hair matted up on one side and his lips parted, breathing deeply. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm that’s impossibly easy to match, that lulls Motoya to sleep on turbulent nights and calms his racing head.
Chestnut eyes trace over the muscles of Rin’s chest and follow the curve of his collarbones, trailing down to the pair of pale pink scars that run along the base of each of his pectorals. They’ve been healing up over the past six months; pretty soon he’ll be able to go out in the sun without a guard on. Komori smiles, thinking of the trip they have planned for the postseason, the one he knows Suna put off so it would coincide with his birthday over the summer. He’s so cute when he’s being sentimental that Motoya won’t begrudge him his lack of subtlety.
It won’t be long until the alarm on Rin’s phone goes off, so his boyfriend takes his time and relishes the chance he has to just… look, to admire without fear of making Suna’s anxiety spike. He stays as still as he can on the pillow beside him, his own hair undoubtedly a mess, and savors the closeness, the nearness, the early-morning warmth of being in bed with the man that he loves. Suna’s peaceful expression is more captivating than a blockbuster film, more beautiful than a sunset over the ocean or a painting in a museum. He is touchably soft now, in the pale light of morning, and it’s only after drawing out the moment as long as possible that Komori gives into the urge to reach out.
Careful, gentle fingertips ghost against the plush roundness of his cheek, trace the crease of his eye where it cuts into his face and then the edge of his jaw towards the point of his chin. Everything about Suna is sharp, but when he’s laying here like this, half on his side with one arm still tucked under Komori, he is inexplicably delicate. Motoya touches down along the curve of his throat, pads of his fingers just barely making contact, and follows the dips in the other man’s collarbones. The vast plane of Suna’s chest rises and falls slowly and his lover takes it all in, cherishing every last breath.
“M’toya.”
The slurred, early-morning mumble makes his smile crack into a grin, amusement just barely suppressed.
“Hmm?” Komori replies, feigning innocence as he pets a single fingertip along the divot between Rin’s pecs.
“You promised you’d stop bein’ weird before 7am.” Suna rolls his head towards his boyfriend, still too half-asleep to open his eyes yet.
“You don’t know what time it is,” he points out, in full goblin fashion.
“Mmgh.”
Suna half-groans, half-grumbles, fighting against both consciousness and amusement, and forces himself not to smile. It’s still obvious in the way his lips twist up at the edges and furrow in the middle; Komori counts it as a win. He presses his palm to Rin’s chest and feels for his heartbeat, slow and steady, like listening for ocean waves. Rintaro hums softly at the touch, his own hand lifting to rest across the back of Motoya’s forearm. They stay like that for a while, Suna drifting on the edge of unconsciousness while Komori strokes a thumb gingerly against the swell of his muscle.
“You know how beautiful you are, Rin?” he murmurs, sudden and soft, and lets the smile press hard into his cheeks when pink blooms across Suna’s collarbones, then washes up his throat and into his face.
“Where’d that come from?” he asks and furrows his brows as he peeks one jade eye open at Komori, who gives a half-shrug against the mattress.
“It’s the truth.”
“Mmgh.”
“It is!”
“Mmmgh!” Suna groans in protest: it’s too early for this. He’s quieted by a pair of gentle fingertips sliding along the pale pink curve of one scar, tracing the reminder of a day that helped to redefine the boundary of who he is. His face relaxes from where he scrunched it up, lets his eyes crack slowly open to take in the sight of the man across from him. Motoya’s expression is poetry, soft awe warmed by a gentle sunlight smile as he admires him, and Rintaro feels something in his chest swell three sizes.
“You too,” he says, quiet, and Motoya lifts his brows slightly in question as he looks up to meet his gaze. It’s genuinely unfair, the way he looks at him, and Suna feels his stomach knot up with unavoidable embarrassment. He shifts abruptly, throws an arm around Komori and relishes the undignified squawk it earns him as he rolls them both hard into the mattress and peppers kisses up and down along the curve of Motoya’s neck.
“Rin! No fair, I was-- ah! ”
The squeak in the last syllable makes Rintaro laugh, a bright sound even muffled by Komori’s flailing. He presses his palm against his boyfriend’s back through his soft blue t-shirt and holds him close, pushing one hand up into his messy brown hair. Komori settles, even with his arms scrunched uncomfortably against Suna’s chest, and smiles into the crook of his neck.
“Dork,” he mutters, half-hearted, and Rintaro huffs a laugh against his shoulder. They both fall quiet while Motoya carefully extricates himself, snaking his arms around Suna’s waist instead so he can more comfortably plant kisses against his collarbone.
“I love you, Motoya,” Suna whispers, voice thick with sleep and soft with emotion.
“I love you too, Rin,” Komori murmurs, and means every word.