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Miya Osamu’s Instagram page is, by Atsumu’s standards, awful.
Osamu posts irregularly and on impulse. There’s no theme to his photos; one day it’s a photo of food, the next day, an unfiltered selfie. Not to mention that his bio simply states “the better twin” which is insulting on two levels: first to his person and second to his spirit, because what’s the point of a hundred and fifty characters if you’re just gonna use fifteen? Osamu could do much better.
Atsumu’s, on the other hand, is polished, or so he would like everyone to believe. His bio is neat; it contains just enough information about him to appear personable but not vulnerable. His photos are a healthy mix of volleyball, selfies and group photos — each masterfully edited with subtle filters — and he has a healthy following composed of schoolmates, friends and fans.
His profile picture is a nice, clear photo taken with the cherry blossoms when they visited Kyoto one spring. In the photo, he’s standing in front of a cluster of sakura trees and a flowing river, one hand on the railing of the bridge while the other hand sits on his hips, easy smile on his face. A good photo, if he may say so himself. Unpictured is Osamu, the designated cameraman, and their parents behind him who are the only reason Osamu doesn’t decide to reverse the camera and take a selfie in that instant instead.
(Ya owe me, Osamu had said after, tossing petals in his face.)
Well, whatever. Osamu’s profile picture is a slightly blurred photo of the two of them at Kita’s farm, so, yeah. Atsumu officially claims the title of superior twin.
But Atsumu, one might say, isn’t that being a little biased? You two share the same face. Osamu sometimes gets more likes- uh, nope. Atsumu doesn’t have time to listen to haters. In fact, now that Osamu’s quit volleyball, maybe some of those likes will migrate to him instead. After all, his photos are objectively better.
(To date, he’s paid seven hundred yen for VSCO Cam filters. He’s allowed to say that his photos look better.
One night he tells this to Osamu, who rolls his eyes and tells him to dye his hair bright green instead.)
———
Life with Osamu is not a competition, their mother likes to say. Life with Osamu is a blessing. Well, fine. It’s not stopping him from ridiculing the terrible state of his Instagram profile.
The thing is, Osamu is not his competition in the realm of social media, not really. His brother’s gain is his. They’re stronger together even.
No, his rival is the popular girl from class 3, maybe also Kyoto University’s mini-idol mirin_89430, heck, maybe it’s even fucking 222na_tarou, and it’s definitely—
“sks_kiyoooooomi,” Osamu squints as he reads the username aloud. “That’s a lotta ‘O’s.”
“Well screw him for having a popular name,” Atsumu mutters as he scrolls through the profile. “What the fuck, this guy doesn’t even have ten photos and he’s got-” he glances up at the part stating the number of followers. “-he’s got my count!”
“Wrong.” Osamu holds his phone up. “He’s still got six more followers than you.”
Atsumu stares blankly at the screen. “Huh?”
Sure enough, the figure on his profile is six less than Mr. Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Atsumu curses under his breath. That’s unfair. Sakusa doesn’t put in effort into his account like he does, doesn’t have a nice bio like he has. He’ll acknowledge his profile picture is nice, though — it’s from a panel in a previous feature by Volleyball Monthly, a side-profile with a volleyball in hand, stadium in the distance. Damn him.
How is he styling his hair with the front curl barely touching his forehead?
Come to think of it, maybe his hairstyle is due for a major revamp. Perhaps he needs a lighter hair tone so that Osamu will stop saying that he dons the better colour. Not that Osamu’s correct, of course — Osamu has poor judgment and that’s reflected in his extended (and highly inefficient) journey to court one Suna Rintarou.
He huffs a few loose strands out of his face. “Fluke,” he scoffs, pushing Osamu’s phone out of his face.
“Nah.” His brother has the audacity to smirk. “Sorry, Tsumu, maybe ya just ain’t that handsome.”
“Why, you-”
Osamu doges his swipe easily and rolls onto his back. “What?” he says, grinning. “Who gives a shit, ‘Tsumu? Appalled that you’ve been beaten by a boy eating an egg sandwich?”
Sakusa’s first photo is one of him delicately eating an egg sandwich. It has a thousand likes. How.
“No!” Atsumu sputters. “It’s just- how-”
“I dunno.” Osamu shrugs, slowly losing interest as he switches to his feed. “He’s a Tokyo kid. And he’s ranked the top ace, after all. Guess ya can’t beat that, huh.”
Guess ya can’t beat that, huh runs through his mind for two days straight, and Atsumu thinks, okay, I don’t care. I don’t really care.
It's only when his mother comments over dinner, “Say, have ya heard of Sakusa Kiyoomi? He's on the cover of this month’s Volleyball Monthly. Handsome boy-” which makes Osamu promptly choke on his rice, that Atsumu decides that it’s the last straw.
Osamu is dead wrong. He can and he will beat him.
------
“‘Samu.”
He has three weeks to go until he moves out of their family home and into his own apartment in downtown Osaka, and during this time, he’s going to make sure he bothers his brother as much as humanly possible.
“‘Samu, listen. This is it.”
Osamu eyes him cautiously from behind the kitchen counter.
“You’re...not planning on doing somethin’ illegal, are ya?”
Atsumu throws a tissue box at his face, which lands miserably in the space between them. “Wha- no! Whaddya take me for?”
Osamu shrugs. “Anything could happen with ya.”
Atsumu doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a proper response. “Alright, look. This is how I’m gonna dethrone Kiyoomi-kun.”
“...Oh, we’re still on that.”
“We’re gonna take some excellent fuckin’ photos, and we’re gonna make Kiyoomi-kun look like an utter fool. That’s all.”
Osamu surveys him with a flat stare, bowl of shiitake mushrooms in one hand, cup of rice in the other.
“And you’re sure he’s gonna be the one looking like a fool.”
Atsumu blinks at him. It’s a simple plan. He doesn’t know how to simplify it any further. “Uh, yeah.”
Osamu shakes his head and sighs as he sets the cup of rice down on the countertop and moves the bowl over running water, rinsing the mushrooms lightly. “Alright, do what ya wanna,” he says, nodding at him. “Pass me the strainer?”
Atsumu grumbles, but gets up from his seat to slide it across to him. Osamu catches it with ease. “I mean,” Atsumu says a little louder, “I’m just gonna do what I do best.”
“Alright, alright...”
Osamu switches the tap off and glances up at him, lips quirked upwards with mild amusement.
“What's your plan?”
------
Sakusa Kiyoomi spikes in a way that is fascinating and gruesome all at once.
Atsumu sees it during their matches together, if only for a split second. The wrist bends, ninety degrees and more, back and then forth like the crack of a whip, and the ball spins and veers into the perfect diagonal course. It’s not invincible, but the technique is beautiful, the execution neat, carried out with a degree of preciseness he can sometimes feel in his own sets—
It is as gruesome as it is stunning. The ball is spun with vicious accuracy and pierces the floor. The trajectory grazes the side of Atsumu’s cheek with a smooth try again next time, curves to the floor with seeming ease, leaves him frustrated and awed at the same time.
It’s no wonder Volleyball Monthly features his spike at page four of their Spring special.
------
“Help me out here, will ya.”
“...Tell me again why we’re here?”
Atsumu clicks his tongue. It’s Friday, they don’t have any practice to go to, and the sun’s hitting real nice. “Suna, just take a photo.”
Suna’s sitting cross-legged on the park bench across him, phone in one hand and iced coffee in the other. “Okay, but I’m obliged to tell you that your hair’s gonna look extra yellow in the sun.”
“Fuck you. I’ll edit it.” And re-dye my hair sometime—But Suna doesn’t need to know that.
“Sure, sure…” Suna straightens up and places his tumbler on the bench. “Putting in a lot of effort today, aren’t we?”
Atsumu puts his hands on his hips, frowning. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Usually you’d just stay at home and take a pic with your lunch or something, right?” Suna’s lips curl into a smirk. “So, who’re you taking this photo for?”
Atsumu hates this guy. “My followers,” he huffs, “who—by the way—enjoy my content very much.”
Suna raises a brow at him. “Uh huh,” he says, smirk still playing on his face. “Not Sakusa Kiyoomi-kun?”
Osamu. Suna knows about this because of fucking Osamu.
“Just so you know,” Atsumu says loudly, “it’s not that I care about his opinion. I just wanna make superior content.” It’s the truth, he really doesn’t care. He’s just trying to prove a point.
“Sure.” Suna gestures at him to move a few spaces to the left, to which he complies. “So this has nothing to do with him.”
“Yeah.”
Suna’s eyes narrow at him. “...Nothing...whatsoever.”
Atsumu tosses a tree branch at him.
“Sunarin, you still owe me, don’t ya forget! Now, are ya gonna make me pretty or not?”
Suna sighs deeply, but raises his phone in compliance anyway.
“Okay...pose.”
------
Photos are the windows to one's heart. Maybe. Probably.
On a superficial level, it’s apparent based on its subject matter. Osamu likes food. That’s documented in his photos, in the people he follows, of the media he likes. It’s documented in his weekly recipe post, his fortnightly restaurant recommendation, and the photos of food he’s eaten and made, for himself and for others.
On a second level, it’s quieter, based on the way the media is shot. Whether it’s carefully taken or not, where the focus is.
In each of Osamu’s meal photos, the focus is clearly on the food. It’s always neatly presented, no matter what stage of the meal he’s at. Recipes are rough in the caption, which Osamu types in as he thinks. Fresh off the top of his head and onto the feed, just like the dishes he makes, always delicately photographed and occasionally propped up by hands that aren’t his.
Hands that aren’t Osamu’s surrounding a ceramic bowl, cupping the little labour of love with a bit more love of its own to make one composite piece.
It’s different from Atsumu’s photos in a way neither of them can explain.
Suna, the miraculously popular 222na_tarou, mainly posts photos of other people, places or things, occasionally selfies, and very rarely group photos. When he does post selfies, they’re casually taken, not crafted, but sharp all the same.
That’s the vibe. Suna is casual and easygoing on social media. There’s no consistent theme to his photos, yet his space feels consistent, comfortable, almost lazy. There’s a level of curation that Atsumu isn’t quite in tune with but he understands. It’s snapshots of the everyday, life-as-it-happens, convenience store evenings and hazy sunsets.
His most recent photo is a mirror selfie with Osamu in Hankyu at Umeda, peace signs thrown up, Osamu carrying a pack of donuts with one arm, his other arm slung around Suna’s shoulder. Their tongues are stuck out, faint traces of a smile on his brother’s face.
Gross, he leaves as a comment. Get a room.
We’ll give your donut to @gin_ji_maaa instead, Osamu replies almost immediately.
Assholes, he thinks, half in exasperation, half in a strange fondness he won’t admit to. Letting their love show.
What’s in a photo? What’s in a profile?
Atsumu, on his end, doesn’t think that his profile is anything artificial. He posts what he wants to post. He showcases what he likes about himself, about the things he takes photos of.
Is it so bad wanting to show the best side of yourself?
------
The rest of the day turns into a shopping expedition with Suna, because Osamu only ends work at 4pm.
“Any one will do. Literally, they’re all the same.”
“Really?” Atsumu scrutinises the label before setting it down and looking at the product hanging to its left, and then the one next to it, and then the next. There’s just too much of a choice; maybe they shouldn’t have come to Donki.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Suna sighs and points at the ring light one row above. “That’s the one I used last year. And-” he points to another, on the far end of the aisle. “-that’s the one I have now.”
“Oh, well, which one works better?”
“Honestly? They’re kind of the same. The light I have now has a dimming function, but I don’t use it.”
“Huh.” Atsumu stares at the ring light Suna pointed at above. He can’t believe he hadn’t thought about getting a portable indoor light earlier, but, he supposes, what better time to get one than the month before he starts his professional volleyball career? “This one.”
“Okay, so I’ll just take this-”
“Wait!” Atsumu raises a hand. “It’s 1,600 yen. Is this worth 1,600 yen?”
Suna’s brow twitches, just slightly. “Atsumu,” he says slowly, “we’ve been standing in this aisle for ten minutes. We haven’t eaten lunch, it’s one-thirty in the afternoon, and I promised Osamu I’d pick up the seasonal spice he wanted to get from downstairs before it sells out, so yes, it’s worth 1,600 yen. I promise you, it’ll work.”
Atsumu’s fingers reach for the top shelf.
“Okay, but the one below is 50 yen cheaper-”
“For Christ’s sake, just-” Suna grabs the product off the shelf and dumps it in Atsumu’s shopping basket. “Take this one. Now we look for batteries, and then we go to level one. Okay? Okay.”
------
In consideration of Suna’s (semi-begrudging) accommodativeness, he lets Suna choose their lunch spot, and they end up in an udon shop, seated side-by-side at the counter.
“Oh, look.” Suna points at his phone mid-chew. “Your favourite account.”
Atsumu doesn’t even need to look to know who he’s talking about. “Gimme.”
Suna extends his arm, and Atsumu leans over — ah, mortal enemy sks_kiyoooooomi emerges with a new photo, hair better than ever. This time, his mask is on because he’s next to two other people, but what Atsumu can see of his skin is as impeccable as his hair. It’s black and glossy, the same curl making its appearance in front of his forehead without looking out of place. The same two moles appear above his brow in stark contrast.
Matriculation, the caption reads, which tells Atsumu absolutely nothing. He groans and impulsively taps the profile picture to stare at his follower count again, accompanied by Suna’s slurps.
“They’re bots, aren’t they?” he mutters, eyes trailing downwards to look at the photos and back at the page, back to today’s photo.
Suna doesn’t even bother to look at him this time. “Everyone’s followed by some bots, Atsumu,” he says, taking another mouthful. “There’re bots everywhere; it can’t be helped.”
“There’s no way- look-” He frowns and jabs, to Suna’s annoyance, at the latter’s phone screen. “That’s way too many likes.”
Suna waves his finger away. “Could say the same about your photos.”
Atsumu slaps his shoulder. “Rude.”
“Whatever.” Suna laughs a little. “I mean objectively, it’s a good photo. You’re just jealous.”
Well, it is a good photo. And Atsumu isn’t jealous.
------
Maybe he’s a little jealous.
------
“I bet he’s buying ‘em.”
Another evening in the Miya household, another night with Osamu sitting at his bedside, glancing at him warily. “Buying what?”
“Buying followers.”
Osamu stares at him pointedly.
“Ya really think Sakusa Kiyoomi, the Sakusa Kiyoomi, would buy followers. For his Instagram account. Which he barely updates.” His brother sighs. “For what purpose, may I ask?”
Atsumu shrugs. “I dunno. To taunt me.”
Osamu pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales.
“Tsumu, my dear brother. I don’t think Sakusa-kun even knows your Instagram handle. He follows, like, eighty people max.”
Atsumu pretends not to hear that.
“How about-” Osamu sighs, rubbing his temples. “How about you just unfollow him?”
“Then?”
“Then, he’ll have one less follower.”
Atsumu stares at his brother in disbelief. “That’s just rude, Samu.” There’s etiquette to be followed, and Osamu would know this if he cared more about his profile.
Osamu gives him a long, hard look before shrugging his shoulders. “Well, whatever then,” he drawls, before hopping off the bed and pocketing his phone. “See ya later.”
“Later? Where’re ya going?”
“I dunno.” Osamu grabs the jacket hanging off the nearest chair and slings it across his shoulder. “We’ll decide when we get there.”
“Oh.” Atsumu sighs and flops onto his back. “Well, tell Suna I said hi.”
“‘Kay.” Osamu swings past the door frame and pauses in his tracks, slamming one palm on the side of the frame.
“Tsumu, look-” he says, slowly, glancing at him. “Don’t pick your brains over this. Just live your own life, right?”
-------
Yes, Atsumu’s living his own life. Yes, Atsumu has full control over his actions.
Yes, Atsumu’s choosing to look at Sakusa’s photos again, and maybe also the list of people he’s following. That’s his choice, and it’s perfectly healthy, thanks for asking—
Wait.
He freezes—mid-scroll—when he realises something.
“Bastard,” he whispers. Sakusa’s profile doesn’t indicate that he’s following him.
He scrolls a bit more and- well fuck, he doesn’t follow him back??
Atsumu almost unfollows him, there and then, but decides not to, because he’s not petty. Obsessed, maybe. Petty? Absolutely not. He's a man of morals.
He channels this energy to his next activity instead, which is to shift apps to run through his next intended post. His finger stops at the photo he’s chosen, a photo of himself using his new ring light. Suna was right, it does make his hair look softer.
He takes a deep breath. Next week, right before he moves out, he’ll switch his hair colour. See what Osamu says, then.
Atsumu’s finger lingers over the photo, and he hesitates.
The photo next to this one is one of him and his brother, both grinning after a morning hike. The sun’s rising in the distance but blocked by a heavy veil of clouds, so there’s really no scenery to speak of, and the camera’s a few centimeters too zoomed into his face than usual. Atsumu’s hand was probably slightly shaky when he took the selfie, so it’s a little blurry.
But their smiles are identical and clear as day.
He pauses, eyes widening slightly. Switches photos. Sharpens it slightly. Adds 5% Brightness. Posts with the caption, he’s a dumbass brother, but he’s MY dumbass brother. No hashtags.
He lets his hand fall away and closes his eyes as he contemplates his impulsive offering.
What’s in a profile, really?
------
Then, in a complete act of betrayal, Osamu comes back home with hair as black as it was when they were five.
“There’s really nothin’ to feel betrayed about,” he chortles, laughing at Atsumu rage-eats his onigiri. “You just thought that up yourself.”
“Bullshit!” Atsumu points at him accusingly. A few grains of rice drop on the table and Osamu cringes in disdain. “Ya could’ve waited for me!”
“Well, I dunno, I thought you wanted to look like a banana forever.”
Atsumu huffs, hauling another onigiri onto his plate. “Your sweet, sweet boyfriend’s gonna look like a banana all the damn time with that new uniform of his, so you’re one to talk.”
“Eh, it’s okay, they have alternate jerseys.” Osamu runs his fingers through his own hair absentmindedly as he speaks, which Atsumu ignores in favour of eating his dinner.
“...It’s okay, right?”
Atsumu stops mid-bite to glance at his brother, who’s looking at him now, slight crease between his brows.
I look okay, right, Osamu seems to be asking.
But, also, It’s okay that I did this without you, right?
Atsumu leaves for his own apartment in Osaka in one week. They know what this means for them, as twins who have never spent more than a few days apart.
“Yeah.” Atsumu swallows and nods. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
Osamu blinks at him, before his lips curl up into a smile.
“Okay then,” he hums. “Then ya better get your hair done or you’re just gonna look even worse next to me.”
“Rude!” Atsumu flashes him the finger, but laughs all the same.
This, he will probably miss.
------
On his second last day of sharing a room with Osamu, Atsumu decides to spend the evening indoors with his beloved brother who regrettably, seems to prefer the company of his phone over him.
“‘Samu. ‘Samuuuuu.”
Atsumu prods him with his toes, which Osamu swats away with a noise of irritation.
“Go enjoy the sun or somethin’, ‘Tsumu.”
“Dude.” Atsumu scrambles to sit up on the couch. “You’re gonna miss me so much when I’m outta here.”
Osamu sighs and tosses a cushion at him. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there,” he mumbles, thumbs moving to type something on his phone. Atsumu straightens up immediately.
“Lemme see.”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
“...Still no.”
Atsumu scoots one seat closer and peers over Osamu’s shoulder, ignoring the long sigh from his brother, before catching sight of the icon of the chat. Oh, okay. “Whatcha talkin’ about.”
Osamu has long given up on elbowing him away. “I dunno, why d’you even wanna know?”
“No particular reason.” Atsumu shrugs. “I’m bored.”
“Well, if you really wanna know, the conversation’s about, uh...” Osamu squints as he scrolls upwards slightly. “Vegetables.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah.” Osamu shoves his phone into his face and sure enough, it’s a conversation with Rintarou about what vegetable tastes the best when pickled. “It may well be cucumber slices.”
“...Right.” Atsumu glances at the screen, finger moving fastest towards the chat photo, just because it’s the first thing that caught his eye earlier-
What he sees catches him off-guard, just a little.
222na_tarou has never fully smiled in any of his Instagram photos, certainly not in a laugh-out-loud way. But this photo strikes him as different. In this photo Suna is smiling in a way that Atsumu isn’t sure he’s used to seeing — it’s missing its usual snark; one corner of the lip is slightly higher than the other, teeth showing a little. His hair is slightly tousled, a few strands swept astray as his head leans on his brother’s shoulder, corners of his eyes slightly crinkled to match the loose smile he’s wearing. Half of his brother’s face is in the photo, and what half of it Atsumu sees reflects the same sentiment he processes from Suna.
Ah. Fondness.
Looking at this makes Atsumu feel more vulnerable than he’ll admit. “Bleh,” he says, making a face as Osamu finally reclaims his phone and pushes him away with his feet. “Fuck, you guys are cheesy. Gross.”
“Shut it,” Osamu grumbles, kicking Atsumu at his side as he slips his phone into the pocket of his grey hoodie. “I don't care.”
“Oh, but ya do care. That’s the point.” Atsumu folds his arms. “Face it, you’re a damn sap.”
He half expects Osamu to reach over and punch him for his teasing, but instead, his brother tilts his head as his lips slowly curve upwards into a knowing smile.
“Better than you, craving for attention,” Osamu drawls, not dropping his stare.
Atsumu narrows his eyes. Osamu continues to look at him knowingly like he’s into a secret, but there’s no secret. If Atsumu is carrying a secret, someone should hurry up and tell him already.
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“You…” Osamu observes him calmly. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.” He really doesn’t. “‘Samu, am I really that much of an attention-seeker?”
His brother deadpans. “‘Tsumu, please.”
“Well, just so ya know, I’m not.” Atsumu huffs. “I don’t need your approval, or anyone else’s. I’m not a child.”
“Then what are ya even doing?” Osamu spreads out his arms and gestures vaguely. “Your obsession with social media. Your intense desire to one-up this dude you haven’t spoken to since god-knows-when. ‘Tsumu, ya needa re-evaluate your life choices.”
“Asshole.” Atsumu pokes him once with his foot. “Tell me how.”
Osamu smiles serenely at him as he leans back on to the couch. “Figure it out yourself,” he says, whipping his phone out again, “and let me know afterwards.”
------
Oh, Atsumu realises, two days later when he’s lying in his new bed, alone and faced with his brother’s latest Instagram post. Maybe he’s just, you know, uh, lonely.
His finger stops at Osamu’s photo of two rice bowls, one with pork strips and the other with a breaded chicken cutlet, sliced and laid out neatly on top of a layer of egg and fluffy rice. There are two hands posed in the background: one thumbs-up, clearly Osamu, and one peace sign thrown up by slightly longer, thinner fingers—clearly Suna.
Atsumu brushes his freshly-washed hair out of his forehead with a loud huff. Nobody asked Osamu to post this, this cute thing; yet here he is, posting whatever the hell he wants, and people are just letting him, huh.
He shakes his head, double-taps the photo to like it, and slams the phone down against his pillow, heaving a deep sigh. Stupid brother. Stupid Suna. Stupid me.
Midway through his expedition to rake up his follower count, Atsumu thinks that he might have lost his way a little.
------
Two weeks later, Atsumu finds himself stuck in a Mos Burger in Shizuoka with Suna. Except that he’s not stuck, he kind of asked to meet him since he was in the area, so it’s in fact Suna who’s stuck with him at one in the afternoon on a practice-free Tuesday.
“Soo.” Suna dumps a chilli packet onto his tray. “What’s got you looking so mopey?”
Mopey? Atsumu scowls. “Fuck you, I don’t look like that.”
“I’m kidding.” Suna pours a milk tab into his iced tea and starts stirring the drink with his straw, eyes focused on him. “What is it? Is it training? Or something else?”
Atsumu busies himself with the fries. “...Somethin’ else.”
“...Huh.” Suna takes a sip. “Osamu, or something else?”
“Somethin’ else.”
Suna hums, fingers inching towards the pack of fries in the middle of the table. “Alright.”
Atsumu eyes him suspiciously. “You...you’re not sayin’ anything.”
“I don’t have to.” There’s something contemplative about his expression that Atsumu doesn’t fully get, but he ignores it in favour of the food in front of him.
“We could’ve gone for somethin’ more nutritious than this, yanno.”
Suna rolls his eyes as he dips a fry in ketchup. “You chose this place.”
“Only ‘cause you were supposed to recommend me something in the first place - you live here now!”
“I generally live off Yoshinoya, the soba shop three streets down from my shitty apartment, and the katsu don store near the stadium. You can’t expect me to select a fine dining location.”
Atsumu snorts. “Guess ‘Samu didn’t teach ya how to cook well enough.”
“I can cook if I want to.” Suna tosses a fry in his direction. “I’m just lazy.”
“Eh.” Atsumu huffs and digs into his fish burger. “Cook something for me the next time I’m here.”
Suna bites into another fry, the other hand preoccupied with scrolling his phone. “Sure. ‘Samu’s recipe, or my own?”
“Ha. Yours.”
“Hmm.” Suna raises a brow as he chews. “Oh, you’d like to see this.”
“Wha-” he doesn’t get a moment to respond as Suna turns the phone screen for him to have a look. “Oh. Huh?”
Suna smirks. “Your rival. Though he really isn’t.”
Atsumu stares at the photo. It’s Sakusa—he should’ve known—with the same black hair and pale skin, in a simple t-shirt and standing on the steps of Tokyo University which he’s attending. Why does Atsumu know this piece of information, you may ask? He checked the location tag of one of Sakusa’s earlier photos, that’s why. No, Atsumu is not accepting questions at this time.
Incredibly, Sakusa’s mask is off, and though he’s not smiling he doesn’t seem pissed about the situation. Atsumu can’t help but stare. There’s a peace sign thrown by the photo-taker which emerges from the bottom, slightly blurry, though it doesn’t get in the way of the view—uh, Sakusa.
Instinctively, his eyes flit towards the caption, which is surprisingly long for a Sakusa post. Kiyoomi’s getting his higher education! Proud cousin moment! Hooray!
It’s….uncharacteristically upbeat. It’s also written and posted by one moto_moto_369. “Moto?” Whomst the fuck?
“Yes,” Suna hums, “Komori. He’s joining the EJP Raijin. You know him too, y’know. Remember Komori? Our year?” When he’s met with a blank look, he raises a brow and taps the username once, trailing his clean finger towards the profile picture sitting on the top left. “This guy? You went to Youth Camp with him?”
Oh, Komori, like Komori Motoya, best high school libero from Itachiyama? Now that he looks at the photo again, he recognizes that brown mop of hair from high school - and, oh, he’d recognize those eyebrows from a mile away. It is him. It’s just-
“Wait,” Atsumu blurts. “Komori was Sakusa’s cousin?”
“Is Sakusa’s cousin. Imagine if Sakusa had those eyebrows.” Suna wriggles his own for added effect, amused. “I kid. They’re kinda cute, like fat caterpillars. Mine are a little thin.”
“He doesn’t look anything like him,” Atsumu mumbles, fingers wavering between Komori’s profile picture and the photo of Sakusa. “How…?”
Suna shrugs. “God if I know.”
Atsumu looks up at him, frowning slightly. “I didn’t know you knew Sakusa’s cousin.”
Suna seems to contemplate this for a moment, perching his head atop his hands and eyeing him with interest. “It’s Komori. And I didn’t know you’d be interested in knowing,” he says as his smile widens slightly. “Y’know, maybe you should just talk to him.”
“Who?”
Suna tilts his head. “Sakusa.”
Sakusa? “Why would I wanna talk to him?”
There’s a knowing glint in Suna’s eyes that wasn’t there before. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Atsumu.”
Atsumu stares back, confused. “There’s somethin’ I’m not picking up on here,” he says, hands reaching for his food. “There’s somethin’ and I don’t like it.”
Suna continues to survey him as he warily takes another bite out of his burger.
“Atsumu,” he says finally, with patience, “is it really that bad to want to be friends with him?”
...Huh.
Atsumu blinks at him as he slowly lowers his hands to the table, and swallows.
“...Is this what it is?” he asks, eyes widening.
His lunch companion rolls his eyes and waves a fry. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to be this obsessed,” he says simply. “Just admit that you kinda like him.”
Atsumu freezes. “I—what, I like—” he coughs. “—Okay, I don’t—”
“Not in that way,” Suna clarifies. “Or maybe not yet. I dunno. What I’m saying is, get over yourself and send him a message or something.”
It’s one thing for Suna to say it straight, another for Atsumu to digest it. Atsumu grabs onto the burger and takes another bite because it’s the only thing he can do while his mind echoes, what are you even doing with your life right now?
What has he been doing, anyway? Taking good photos to flex on a dude who doesn’t even follow him? Monitoring his follower count so that he can brag about it to maybe two, three people in his life? Who’s Sakusa going to tell about his defeat? Nobody, because Sakusa doesn’t know, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care. Nobody cares.
Maybe Atsumu shouldn’t care, either.
“I think I’ll see him in two weeks, when we play against his college,” he mumbles after a long pause, raising his head to meet Suna’s gaze.
“Good. Just talk to him next time, like a normal person.” Suna’s lips latch onto his straw and he sucks a mouthful of tea, releasing the straw as he swallows, leans back, and smirks. “Or are you gonna lurk on Instagram forever?”
------
Somewhere along the way, Atsumu thinks, he lost sight of his goal.
His original goal, he reminds himself, was to knock one Sakusa Kiyoomi out of the rankings and claim his title as top volleyball Instagrammer. His original goal was to achieve immense satisfaction out of being the top of the charts, the cream of the crop, the popular and enviable new setter of the MSBY Black Jackals, except-
When it comes down to it, none of it really matters, and he does. Not. Care.
Atsumu rolls onto his bed that night, head in hands, phone discarded on the bedside table. A few months on and what’s his goal now? To make friends?
He releases a frustrated groan into his hands. He’s ridiculous. All that effort, only to come to the realization that he’s socially deprived and wants to have meaningful human interaction. It’s shameful. He needs to dig a hole and hide in it for two months before re-emerging and pretending none of this self-realization actually happened.
------
Except now, he has a job, and that job is to play volleyball with professional teams and be a professional, not in the least at the next practice match with Tokyo University.
And like the professional he is, Atsumu is friendly with the other team, including one Sakusa Kiyoomi, dark hair, clean skin and all, at whom he raises a hand and waves when he bumps into him in the hallway.
Hi, he’s about to say. Remember me from Spring High where I handed ya your ass?
“Looking good, Sakusa-kun,” he says instead, “how ya doin’?”
Atsumu can hear it already, Osamu’s laughter from thirty miles away.
Sakusa raises a brow at him, the loop of his mask dangling from his right ear. “Is this how you greet everyone?” he asks.
“Uhh.” Atsumu ignores the warmth of his embarrassment creeping up his neck. “It depends?”
“...Right.” Sakusa turns on his heels and walks away, but not before tossing a hand in the air in a small wave. “See you on the court.”
Atsumu watches as the spiker strides away. “Okay, talk to ya later,” he says, but by the time it comes out of his mouth Sakusa’s already rounded the corner.
He slaps his cheeks firmly. No. He’s going to execute some amazing sets and impress the hell outta everyone today, and not think about talking to Sakusa Kiyoomi.
------
Talking to Sakusa Kiyoomi comes later, after the match when they’re in the locker rooms washing up and getting ready to disperse. Atsumu’s busy stuffing his bag with his towel and travel-sized shampoo bottle when he vaguely hears someone shuffle up to him from behind.
“Miya.”
He jolts up and turns around, glancing up to face none other than Sakusa, who—unsurprisingly—is fully showered and dressed, mask on, hair towel-dried and neatly combed as opposed to Atsumu, who only just put on his shirt, damp hair still dripping slightly from his recent shower.
“Sakusa-kun, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Atsumu replies cooly, pointedly ignoring the soap bottle and comb which fall from the bench next to him to the floor with a tiny clatter. Sakusa peers at the items with mild judgment.
“You did say you’d talk to me later,” he points out, matter-of-factly, to which Atsumu realizes that he did hear him from around the corner earlier when they spoke, and, well, isn’t this neat.
“Uh.” Atsumu slowly bends down to pick the fallen items up. “Well, I meant it in a generic way. But, yanno, today was fun.”
Atsumu can’t see through his mask, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Sakusa is smiling just a smidge. “Your sets were technically sound,” Sakusa says, “but you probably need to sync with your teammates a bit better.”
“Wha—” Atsumu squawks indignantly, comb in one hand and soap bottle in the other. “I literally just joined this team last month, ya can’t expect me to be fully acclimatized! An’ speak for yourself!”
Sakusa shrugs. “Just simple observations.”
“Prick.” Atsumu huffs, waving his comb at him. “You and your damn joints, putting in all those crazy spins. Ya gonna go pro when you graduate?”
“I don’t know.” Sakusa surveys him as he leans back against the lockers. “Maybe I will.”
“Sure.” Atsumu dumps the remaining items into his bag and zips it up loudly. “Terrorize us with those spins, will ya.”
As he heaves his bag onto his shoulder and turns to the door, he hesitates. Spins to look at Sakusa, who tilts his head slightly. Throws caution to the wind.
“Miya, what—”
“Can we be friends?” Atsumu blurts.
Well, fuck.
Sakusa stares at him for a long, long moment, and Atsumu can gradually feel the back of his neck and ears being consumed by the heat of his embarrassment, his fight-or-flight tendencies activating and telling him to maybe make a run for it and never play volleyball again for as long as Sakusa Kiyoomi lives and breathes—
But just as he’s about to yell to the heavens and run, Sakusa makes a noise and looks away, shoulders shaking just slightly.
He’s probably laughing. Laughing at Atsumu. Life is oh, so cruel.
“So this is how you make friends?” Sakusa says, folding his arms as he leans his weight on one side of his hip. “Stalking them on Instagram and then talking to them?”
“Huh?” Atsumu stares at him, mouth agape. “I didn’t stalk ya! Who—” He gasps and points a finger at him accusingly. “If this is from Suna Rintarou, I swear to Jesus—”
Sakusa’s shoulders shake a little more, and oh, Atsumu knows he’s actually laughing. “I don’t know,” he says nonchalantly, “I just heard from Motoya that someone was wondering how to like my photos and talk to me without, I quote him, being weird about it.”
Atsumu’s gonna kill a man. “I never said that,” he mumbles, grip tightening onto his sling as he wills for the grim reaper himself to appear in the locker room and take him already. “Dumb Suna…dumb cousin of yours...”
Sakusa raises a brow at him, watching silently as Atsumu runs his fingers through his own hair, flustered. “So?”
He freezes. “So, what?”
“You want to be friends?”
Atsumu stares at him dumbly, because, right, he did ask him that. He opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it again. “Uh,” he starts, “Ya see, I thought maybe, yanno, um—”
“Right.” Sakusa sighs, stretches his leg forward and stands upright again, turning towards the door. “I’m just saying, Miya, if you wanted to be friends, you could’ve really just asked earlier.”
And Sakusa promptly walks out of the locker room, leaving Atsumu utterly dumbfounded as his sling slowly slides off his shoulder and sends his bag to the floor.
------
“And then you-”
“Shut up, ‘Samu-”
“You asked him to be FRIENDS-”
“I’m tellin’ ya, it just came out like that-”
Osamu’s too busy laughing over the phone to listen to Atsumu’s splintered commentary. “‘Tsumu, look, you’re not just a clown, you’re the whole damn circus.”
Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But he sure as hell isn’t going to let his brother have the satisfaction of coining it. “Forget it, ‘Samu,” he groans into the receiver as he flops face-first onto his bed. “I’m a failure. A loser. I should delete all my accounts and live a life as a hermit.”
His brother’s laughter fades into quiet giggles. “You don’t hafta do anything like that, yanno,” he replies. “There’s nothin’ wrong about it. And if Sakusa wants to be friends with a loser, that’s fine by me.”
“You’re. You’re literally my twin brother.”
“I said what I said—“
At that moment, Atsumu’s phone vibrates in his hand with a loud ping. “—What was that?”
“Shaddap. I’ll call ya back.” Atsumu hangs up as his brother sputters and glances at his screen—what—a notification? Instagram, a follow and a message?
His eyes widen slowly as he reads the notification in full, and realises that maybe, just maybe, it's okay to be a bit of a loser sometimes.
sks_kiyoooooomi started following you.