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Osamu leans against the lamp post, grateful to have something to keep him upright after two long days without any sleep. As the air turns cool under the darkening sky, he would hardly be able to keep his eyes open if it weren’t for the air turning cool under the darkening sky biting at his face and hands.
The city deputized 2 new recruits within the last week, but that still hasn't been enough to keep the streets of the city safe. Yesterday it was a drunk cowboy riding his goddamn horse into the Horseshoe Saloon. This morning it was a cowboy still drunk after a long night of gambling ranting and raving about how the whole game is rigged.
He blinks rapidly and rubs at his eyes in a vain attempt to wake up his foggy brain. But the effect it has on actually waking him up is nothing compared to the jolt of adrenaline he gets a moment later when a shout and a distant gunshot pierce the air. He’s off the lamp post and running not a second later.
He isn’t surprised when it turns out to be the damn Horseshoe Saloon again. It’s the third time in a week that a fight that began inside it’s crudely constructed walls grew until it threatened to spill out onto the streets. He dashes inside, past the patrons fleeing the scene, and careful not to get carried away but the crowd.
There are two guys in the middle of the room. One of them has a six-shooter drawn and the other is standing with his hands up, fear written into every feature on his face.
“I warned ya,” the man with the six-shooter says. “That if one more person made so much as a peep about my new shirt, then there would be hell to pay. And what did ya go and do?”
The man with his hands up gulps. “I said it looked good, Johnny. I didn’t know that counted or I wouldn’t have said it, I swear.”
“A likely story.”
“It’s the truth!”
Osamu takes this as his cue to step into the limelight.
“What seems to be the problem here, folks?” he hates how he sounds to his own ears. Rote. Memorized. But it works. They both stop. The one with the gun hesitates, and Osamu breathes a small sigh of relief that the gun isn’t pointed at the unarmed man any longer. But Osamu knows that a nervous man is far more dangerous than any other.
“There’s no problem,” the one with the gun says. “No need to be alarmed.”
Dealing with this shit is like dealing with a child. Every time they look at him with the eyes of a six year old who got caught in the act with their hand in the cookie jar.
“I’m not alarmed,” Osamu says, hands tucked into the waistband of his slacks. It’s a half truth. “Trust me, you’d know if I was alarmed.”
The man squints at him, seeking any sign of a lie. Whatever he does find must be reassuring because he relaxes. The gun drops lower, nearly pointed at the floor now.
“But—” Osamu takes a step closer. Slow. He doesn’t want to spook anyone. That never ends well. “—even if I’m not alarmed, that doesn’t mean I don’t have some concerns about the current situation.”
“Concerns?” asks the man with the gun.
“Yeah,” he says as he takes another step. “Just a few. Nothin’ crazy, so don’t worry. It’s no big deal so ya don’t need to panic. Just want to cross my t’s and dot my i’s. That kinda thing.”
“Yer makin’ fun of me.” He gun arms snaps up, gun pointed at Osamu himself now. “I said, anyone else who makes fun of my shirt is gettin’ it.”
“Nah,” Osamu shakes his head. “Cross my heart and hope t’ die, I ain’t makin’ fun of ya. I just don’t want to see such a fine shirt as that, on such a fine, upstandin’ man, sullied with a bit of silly violence. But if ya put that gun back into yer belt, then that’s somethin’ neither of us have to worry about.”
“Am I just supposed to stand here and let people insult me and my shirt? To let ‘em try to make a fool out of me to my face?”
Osamu wants to tell the man that he’s doing a damn fine job of making a fool out of himself all on his own. If the man were Atsumu and not some random jackass with a pistol in his hand, then he’d have no issue saying so. But he’s supposed to deescalate the situation, not make it worse. There’s a reason why they’re called peace officers after all.
“No sir,” Osamu says instead. “I believe you should always stand up for yerself. However, I’m just not so sure that yer pistol needs to get involved too. I don’t think I need to remind ya, but just because they call this a lawless town, doesn’t mean ya can get away with whatever ya want. No matter how justified yer actions seem now, you’ll have to answer for them. Now tell me—”
Osamu takes another step closer. If he can just one more step in then he’ll be close enough to grab the gun from the man if he’s quick and careful. “—is a shirt worth those consequences?”
“I suppose ya might have a point.” He looks between Osamu and the other man, still frozen with his hands up. “Keep yer mouth shut,” he spits at the man. “I’ll see ya for Sunday dinner.”
Osamu blinks as the man shoves the gun into the back of his pants and stalks out of the saloon. With all the patrons cleared out in the face of the ruckus, only the bartender and the other man remain in the room. The bartender shoots him a grateful smile before returning to his work. There may not be anyone here now, but it will take no time at all for the place to fill back up now that the danger has passed.
Osamu nods and with a quick farewell he heads back out into the evening. This one might be done but they’ll be another. There is always another.
Osamu nods and the bartender sends another glass down flying down the thin board moonlighting as a saloon bar. He lifts the glass to his lips, grateful for the cool glass against too warm skin. The whisky burns on its way down but he’s grateful for it. It’s the burn of a decent whisky on his lips, tongue, and throat helps make him feel a little less like a corn-husk of a person after so many days with little sleep.
“Rough week?” the bartender asks.
Osamu shrugs. “They’re all rough.”
The bartender huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I suppose yer right. Rarely a day of peace around here. Still, I don’t usually see ya in here. Not unless it’s to break up a fight at some ungodly hour of night.”
It’s true. Osamu isn’t a big drinker on principle. He’s seen too many things go south with liquor furthering the flames. Like most rules however, there are exceptions. There are other days where he understands exactly why so many people crowd into saloons morning, noon, and night. After all, there are only so many ways to forget your troubles. Even if it only lasts for a few hours at most, he’ll take peace where he can find it. And today it’s in cheap caramel colored liquor.
Next to him, a chair scrapes against the floor. Someone falls into the sea next to Osamu with a huff rattling the entire bar. Osamu gives it another two days before the board finally kicks the bucket, and the saloon owner has to invest in something sturdier, or more likely, another weak slab of wood that’ll last a month before it too snaps. With all the ruckus, it’s even less likely to make it beyond the week.
Osamu side eyes the stranger but finds him already looking back at him, a sly, all-knowing smirk pulling at his lips. Osamu wanted to drink alone. There’s at least half a dozen empty stools along the bar. Why is it necessary to sit right next to him?
“Mr. Lawman,” the stranger says, and he tips his hat toward Osamu.
Osamu nods back but doesn’t say anything.
“Suna,” he says, holding out a hand. “Suna Rintarou.”
“Osamu—” he takes the offered hand. “Nice to meet ya.”
The stranger, Suna, drops the smirk, a wide smile taking its place. “Can I buy you a drink, Mr. Lawman?”
Osamu leans back to consider the offer. He has a feeling this is about more than a drink. It almost always is. Unlike all the other times, Osamu tilts his head to the side and responds with a noncommittal shrug. Sure. He’ll have a drink. It’s what he was going to do anyways.
They don’t speak. Not over the first drink. Osamu isn’t complaining. The shirt shootout the night before was the last straw. The regulars at these saloons will fight and brawl over anything. Seriously, who in their right mind is willing to whip out a gun over a goddamn shirt, insult or not? With the week he’s had, Osamu is grateful for the drink and for the moment of silence to enjoy it.
It isn’t until they’re on their second drink together that Suna finally turns to face him again. Osamu doesn’t mind. A glass of whisky in, and he’s able to breathe a little easier. The last few days don’t weigh quite as heavily on him, muted by the burn only the cheapest whisky can cause.
“That sure was something,” Suna says, and Osamu has no idea what he’s talking about. “That fight.”
Osamu’s face scrunches up in confusion. He breaks up a lot of fights. A lot. And he wouldn’t describe many of them as something. Maybe something stupid. Something ridiculous. Something batshit insane.
“Last night,” Suna adds.
“Huh? Ya mean the one over the fucking shirt? You saw that?”
Suna nods.
Osamu throws his head back and laughs. The idea that breaking up that fight was some show of his skill as a lawman is comical. “Then ya saw how fuckin’ stupid it was, right? Who the fuck gets that worked up over a shirt?”
Suna smirks. “Can you really blame people?” Suna says like he’s letting Osamu in on a secret that’s just between the two of them. “That shirt was awful. If he’d asked me what I thought of it, I couldn’t lie.”
Osamu shakes his head. “And for what, to get that jackass’ pistol pointed at ya?”
“But I wouldn’t need to worry about that,” Suna says as he leans closer. “Do I?”
“What do ya mean?”
“I don’t need to worry if you’re there to stop ‘em before they pull the trigger.”
It’s a ridiculous line of thought. For every fight Osamu manages to stop with words alone, there’s another where he isn’t so lucky. Where guns aren’t just drawn, they’re fired. Luckily, people who are brawling openly in the streets are rarely sober and therefore rarely a good shot. More often than not, that works in his favor, but not always. People do get hit. People do die over senseless things like damn ugly shirts. And it’s Osamu who has to take down their names and bring in the guy that did it.
Suna leans closer. “Right. You’d protect me.”
“Yes,” Osamu says without thinking. Because he would. He would protect Suna, or at least try to. Just like he would with anyone else in the city. But Osamu isn’t stupid and he knows that isn’t what Suna meant. Osamu isn’t sure he knows exactly what Suna meant but he kind of wants to find out.
Osamu expects that to be it. The city might not be that big compared to cities in the east or further in the west like in California, but it’s big enough and there’s enough new people arriving everyday that Osamu doesn’t expect to see Suna again. At least, he doesn’t expect to see him the next day.
It’s been a quiet day, and although he’s still on the job, he’s able to sit down for his dinner two nights in a row. The same as the night before, no longer than ten minutes after Osamu sat down himself, Suna is falling into the chair next to him.
The bartender sets two tin plates down in front of them. Osamu wrinkles his nose. “Mmm. Squirrel pie again.”
Suna snorts and shoves a bite into his mouth. “‘S lot better than what we eat on the trail. I’ll give it that much.”
“Food ought to be good ‘s all I think.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?”
Osamu hasn’t ever been much of a cook, preferring instead to get his meals from the closest saloon or restaurant. It’s easy. It’s quick. It’s cheap. But it sure as hell isn’t good. But after the conversation with Suna, Osamu stops off at the general store the following morning and stocks up on the basics. Food ought to be good. And if that means he has to learn to cook himself then so be it.
Suna, or rather dinner with Suna, becomes a routine. As much of a routine as any other.
In the morning he wakes. He eats a hunk of too dry bread then tugs on his boots and heads out into the sweltering sun. Osamu spends the days doling out fines to the cowboys when they ride their horses into saloons or wander over the tracks and into the respectable part of town after too many drinks with the gang.
Then, when the day is done and the sun is waning and he’s settled in with a cheap whisky of his own, Suna Rintarou finds him. Doesn’t matter if it's at the Horseshoe Saloon or any other, Suna will be there, dropping into the seat next to him not 10 minutes after Osamu sat down.
It’s a routine. They eat. Sometimes they have a drink. Osamu tells him about all the ridiculous bullshit he spent his day breaking up.
“Ya wouldn’t believe the audacity of these stagecoach robbers,” he says over a dinner of pork and beans.
“Compared to other? Stagecoach robbers?”
“Yeah, these assholes rob the stagecoach, make out with $900 from the passengers. Then, once they’ve got them all tied up, they give each of ‘em $5 “for their troubles.”
A grin breaks across Suna’s face. He huffs a laugh. “Well, ya gotta admit, they have a sense of humor.”
Osamu shakes his head. “I suppose I can give ‘em that.”
“Did they catch ‘em yet?”
“Nah, my brother is on it. Left town this mornin’.”
“Brother?”
“What do ya mean, brother?”
A crease forms between Suna’s brows. “I didn’t know ya had a brother.”
Osamu nearly chokes laughing. “Sorry, sorry,” he says with a wave of the hand. “It’s just, the Miya twins are supposed to be well known around here. Not that I care about that. I’m surprised is all. Usually people know about my reputation in conjunction with my brother long before they know anythin’ else about me.”
“Oh. Are you worried about him?”
“Nah,” Osamu says leaning back in his chair. “He’ll be fine. He’s got two others with him. And Atsumu’s one of the best in the business. He knows what he’s doin’.”
Sometimes they have a laugh. Sometimes Suna sits in silence with him as he lets the burn of the alcohol erase the things he witnessed that day. No matter how long he’s been at the job, no matter the violence, the injuries, the deaths he’s seen, there are some things that make him want to curl up in a ball in the dark with only a bottle of whatever’s cheapest to keep him company.
“Fuckin’ vigilantes,” he mutters into his glass. His dinner sits untouched in front of him. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to forget about what he saw that day but it’s futile. He can still hear every word. Every scream. All of it. “I—I don’t want—can ya talk about something? Anythin’? I—” He clenches his hands into fists, knuckles going white.
“Have you ever been to Texas?”
Osamu shakes his head.
“It’s sort of just like here. But also completely different.”
“How did ya end up in Texas?” Osamu asks, his eyes still squeezed shut.
Suna shrugs. “That part of the story isn’t that interesting. Until I started running cattle, Texas was the only place I’ve ever been. Born and raised. But life on the trail, now that’s interesting.”
Suna talks. Osamu listens. And somewhere along the way, the memories of earlier that day grow quieter. They’re still there. Osamu will never forget what he’s seen today. But for now, thanks to Suna, Osamu can breathe a little easier.
It’s a routine. One that Osamu doesn’t realize how much he’s come to expect and rely on until the day that Suna wasn’t there falling into the seat next to him.
Osamu, like every other night, orders his dinner and a second plate for whenever Suna shows up. Same as always. Their dinner arrives—more squirrel pie served on a tin plate. Then he waited. And he waits. He has one drink and then another before the need to know why Suna broke the unspoken tradition between them becomes too great to fight and he can’t take it anymore.
There’s one voice that tells him Suna is a grown man who owes him nothing. But there’s another, louder voice, that insists he find Suna. Afterall, Suna is a routine so that must mean Osamu is Suna’s. And people don’t break routines for no reason.
He pays the bartender and heads out into the rapidly cooling night time air with only one thought in mind: find Suna.
To his surprise, it doesn’t take long to find him. Suna is standing against the outside of another saloon—why does this town have so many fucking saloons anyway—not a block away from the one Osamu was in moments ago. He smirks when he spots Osamu walking up.
“I wondered how long it would take for you to start looking.”
If Osamu’s face grows a little red, that’s nothing to do with Suna. Nothing anyone can prove anyway.
“I gotta say, I thought you’d last longer than that though.”
“Ya almost sound unhappy that I came to find ya. Be careful or you’ll give a guy the wrong idea. I’d be more than happy to head back, finish my dinner alone. Get some peace and quiet for once.”
Suna throws his head back and laughs. “You hate peace and quiet.”
It’s not true. Osamu takes as much peace and quiet as he can get. It’s a rare luxury. But that’s not what Suna means. Suna knows as well as Osamu does that the only reason he’s still in this business is for the thrill of it all. When you never know peace, you take it where you can get it. But if he only knew peace, he’d be bored out of his mind.
Nothing with Suna is boring.
“Don’t get all pouty,” Suna says, looping an arm around his waist.
“I’m not poutin’.”
“Nah, I suppose you’re not. But you do have that little crease between your eyebrows that says you’re thinking way too hard about something.”
“Since when are ya so all knowing?”
Suna shrugs and drags Osamu toward him with the arm looped around his waist. It’s light enough that Osamu could resist the pull if he wanted to. He lets Suna reel him in. He hasn’t known Suna for longer than a month. There’s no reason someone he’s been getting dinner and drinks with should be able to see through him so easily, but Suna is here to prove him wrong at every turn.
It keeps him on his toes in a way that’s good. That’s nothing like the eggshells he walks on all day long at work.
Distantly, it occurs to Osamu that he’s in deep. That this has crossed the line between something casual and fun into something much bigger than he’s willing to admit. But Suna is tilting his head and cupping Osamu’s jaw with one hand. And it’s warm and it’s tender when it has no right to be. They’re 2 unlikely friends. Nothing more.
Suna kisses Osamu under the setting sun, and Osamu pushes every last thought far out of his mind. They’re friends. Nothing more. Surely, he’s thinking too much about it anyway. There was probably nothing to think about in the first place.
Osamu follows Suna home. Stopping only to kiss and be kissed by Suna. Under the dark cover of an alley. In the doorway to Suna’s room at the boarding house. He kisses him as Suna’s hands grope at the front of his shirt, deft fingers flicking open the buttons on his waistcoat, slipping it off once free. He groans when Suna grabs him by the collar of his shirt and shoves him against the wall.
In the morning, as the sun rises, spilling bright light through the tiny window, Osamu dresses hastily and runs out long before Suna is awake.
This is another routine they add to the list.
“Do you like being a peace officer?” Suna says one morning. He’s got one leg tossed over Osamu’s middle and an arm draped across his torso.
“It’s fine.” He likes the thrill, that he can admit, albeit less and less everyday.
Suna hums. “I’ve never heard you talk about any part of the job you actually like.”
Osamu snorts. “Sunarin, who the fuck actually likes their job?”
“There’s plenty of jobs in a city like this though. Why stick around doing something you hate when there’s stuff you might hate a little less right down the street?”
“I’m good at it.”
“So? Are you trying to tell me that you’re only good for one thing? Is there really nothing else you could possibly be good at?”
“I’m good at plenty.”
A moment of silence passes between them.
“You’re afraid,” Suna says, eyes narrowed.
In all honesty, Osamu doesn’t know what is holding him back—why he hasn’t just turned in the badge already. Maybe he is afraid. Turning in his badge would mean uncertainty and an immediate future riddled with unknowns. Isn’t there always a bit of fear in the unknown?
It’s the same fear that holds him back from asking Suna if he’d consider staying.
Osamu doesn’t voice any of this. Instead he fixes Suna with a glare and says “yer an asshole.”
“No,” Suna says. “I’m right.”
Osamu wonders just when Suna learned to read him so well. Does Suna know what else he’s afraid of? Does he know what else he can’t find within himself to voice? Osamu doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know how to ask so instead he brings up the very thing he’s been avoiding thinking about with every fiber of his being.
“Town’s clearing out.”
Suna’s mouth twists like he’s bitten into a sour apple. Maybe Suna’s been avoiding thinking about it too.
“I guess it is.”
That’s how it goes, year after year, like clockwork. The cowboys crash into town with their cattle, wreak havoc for a couple of months, and then they head back south for the season. It’s a routine Osamu is well familiar with.
“It’ll be quieter around here,” Suna says.
Osamu hums. “Too quiet.”
Osamu’s get sat down for dinner, alone, when the door to the saloon goes flying open.
“Yer not goin’ to believe this,” Gin says as he bursts into the room, chest heaving and out of breath. He pauses and doubles over, hands on his knees and takes a couple of deep breaths before continuing. “There’s a guy holed up in that abandoned barn just outside a town.”
The panic is still woven into each of Gin’s words and it gets Osamu on his feet right away. His drink sits forgotten on the table.“Okay, what do ya m—”
Gin stands back to his full height and the look in his eyes alone is enough to shut Osamu up. “The Kirkwood Boys are after ‘im. There’s at least 8 of them swarmin’ the building and this guy is taking them on by himself. We gotta go now.”
Osamu blinks, playing back the conversation in his head. 8 of the Kirkwood Boys...against 1 man? Well, shit. They gotta go now if this guy is gonna have even a chance of making it out of there alive. He tucks his pistol into the back of his pants and hustles out of the saloon on the heels of Ginjima. He hopes that whatever sorry bastard is facing off 8 to 1 is a lucky sonofabitch, because he’s going to need all the luck he can get.
There isn’t time to ask what happened—how or why. The Kirkwoods are known for starting a fight just for a man looking their way. But once he’s there, Osamu wishes more than anything that he had asked. He should have asked who was up against the Kirkwoods—for god knows what—because then he might have been able to better prepare himself for what he finds when he bursts into the barn after the last of them have run off into the distance.
It's there that he spots the crumbled heap of Suna Rintarou on the barn floor. It's there that his vision goes white and he’s filled with more rage than he’s ever felt before in his life. But as quickly as it overtakes him, it dissipates, replaced by a desperation just as fierce. It’s terrifying to feel so much all at once. Every thought running through his mind is just Suna. Suna. Suna. Suna.
He doesn’t remember moving across the room. One moment he’s in the doorway, gaping in shock at the sight before him—Suna on the floor. His shirt soaked red. A gun laying just out of reach of his fingers—and the next he’s falling to his knees next to Suna.
Osamu has never been one for religion but, as he rakes over Suna’s body searching for any sign of life, he’s saying a thousand silent prayers, begging for Suna’s safety, to any god that will listen.
Suna turns his head to look at Osamu.
Osamu blinks.
Suna moved. He moved.
Thank god. He’s alive. It takes everything in Osamu not to cry right there.
“Suna.”
Suna groans.
“Right. Of course. Fuck.” Osamu whips his head around. “Gin,” he turns to the other man who stumbled in after Osamu. “We gotta get a doctor and a wagon. I’ll stay here with Suna. Go!”
“Am I dead?” Suna says once Gin is gone. His voice is hoarse.
“Suna,” Osamu says and in that one word is equal parts reverence and disbelief. “No. No, yer not dead.”
“‘S good. Thought you were an angel.”
Osamu grins. “Nah, I’m not pretty enough to be an angel. Sorry to disappoint.”
"Could have fooled me."
"Stop talkin' and save yer strength."
With Gin gone, Osamu gives Suna a slow look over before crawling on his hands and knees to lift Suna’s head off the hard, dirt floor and into his lap. Suna blinks up at Osamu. His eyelids droop, each blink becoming longer. Slower. Osamu knows what that means. No way in hell he's about to let Suna slip away under his watch.
“Don’t even think about it,” Osamu says through gritted teeth. “I know what yer thinkin’ right now Suna Rintarou, and I’m tellin’ ya right now, it ain’t an option. Yer not dying on me. Not here in this shack, not in the wagon when Ginjima returns, and not later either. Do ya hear me?”
Suna opens his eyes with a groan. Osamu will take it.
“I mean it,” Osamu says. A tear slides off of his face and onto Suna’s cheek. Suna’s eyes snap open with a groan. He nods once. It’s good enough for Osamu.
The wound looks worse than it is. That’s what the doctor says once it’s all cleaned up. But Suna is unbelievably pale against the woolen blanket spread across the top of Osamu’s bed and he finds he can’t quite believe that what the doctor says is true. Maybe when Suna regains some color. Or maybe when he wakes and Suna can tell Osamu himself how he’s feeling.
Until then, he sits on the tiny wooden stool pulled up next to the cot and keeps watch. Like if he doesn’t take his eyes off of Suna then nothing bad can happen to him. Nothing bad can happen with Osamu here to watch out, eagle eyed and ready for anything that might try to threaten Suna.
“Do ya have someone who can help ya take care of him? Yer gonna need to get some sleep at some point. You can’t do it alone.” Osamu thinks of Atsumu and briefly imagines their undoubtedly horrified expressions if he told them that he had Suna Rintarou sleepin’ and wounded in his bed.
The doctor packs up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Won’t do ya any good to run yerself into the ground on his account.”
Osamu wants to spit back, and ask what that means, but he doesn’t have it in him. Everything he has is for watching Suna, for protecting Suna, come hell or high water.
“Ya know,” the doctor says as he starts to head for the door. “When he’s recovered, he’ll have to answer for what he did to those Cowboys.”
Osamu stands so fast that the stool knocks over onto the ground, clattering wood against wood. “It was self-defense and you know it. They were up to no good.” Osamu doesn’t know why he’s so worked up. Of the two of them, Osamu and the doctor, he knows the most about the law.
Yes, one of the men Suna was up against died this morning. But Suna didn’t have any choice but to fire back. He wasn’t aiming to kill. He was aiming to survive. It was 8 against 1 for god's sakes. Any judge or jury would surely acquit Suna of all charges. Osamu has seen it happen more than once.
The doctor shrugs. “That’s none of my business. But if I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open. And, no, that isn’t a threat. But I’ve lived in enough of these boomtowns to know how justice works around here. And yer—“ he hesitates, eyes glancing between Suna’s prone form and Osamu.
“Friend,” Osamu supplies and it's somehow both not a lie and the biggest lie he's ever told.
“Right,” the doctor says, “Yer friend is gonna be in danger. You better be prepared.”
Osamu nods as the doctor takes his leave then bolts the door as soon as he’s gone. Nothing is going to happen to Suna Rintarou. Not while he’s here.
Recovery isn’t linear. And neither is Suna’s. But he does recover, albeit slowly.
“Osamu,” Suna says one afternoon when his strength is up. He’s sitting up in bed, the first time in a week and munching on one of Osamu’s pies with a fervor that fills Osamu up with an affection and joy he isn’t used to. He's taking a liking to cooking since he first picked up a few months back. And he's even managed to make it taste good. The pies are his personal favorite.
“Osamu,” Suna says again. “Do you like making these?” He takes another bite. “The pies. Do you like making the pies?”
Suna pops the last bite into his mouth and fixes Osamu with a questioning stare.
“Yeah, I do.” He likes it a lot actually.
“Have you thought about quitting to make and sell these instead?”
“No.”
Suna hums. “Maybe you should.”
Osamu looks at the pie in his hand and wonders how he missed something that should have been so obvious.
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t hurt yourself. You look like you’re thinking a little too hard.”
Osamu is thinking too hard. And not just about the pie in his hand. With Suna nearly healed, there’s a whole lot more on Osamu’s mind. Once he’s better, there’s no reason for him to stay here. There’s nothing tying him to this city. Osamu’s guts twists imagining Suna anywhere but here with him.
They haven’t talked about what they were—or what they weren’t—before Suna got hurt. Before Suna got hurt, Osamu would have insisted they were nothing more than a couple of strangers who became unlikely friends. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But Osamu’s done lying to himself. They weren’t just friends before Suna got hurt and they aren’t just friends now. Just because they were both too cowardly to say it outloud before Suna got hurt, doesn’t change the truth of the matter. And the truth of the matter is Osamu loved Suna and he loves him now and he’ll be damned if he lets Suna nearly get away without him saying it again.
“Suna, I got somethin’ to tell ya. Can I—” He gestures to the empty space next to Suna on the bed. “Can I join ya?”
Suna nods and Osamu carefully sits on the other side of the bed.
“You can relax, Osamu. You’re not going to break me.”
Intelligently, Osamu knows this. He knows that the wound in Suna’s shoulder is healed. That it was never that bad to begin with. But sometimes when Osamu looks at Suna all he can see is his crumbled form on the floor, blood seeping into his shirt, eyes unfocused and barely conscious.
Osamu exhales. “I know. I know. It’s just I—” He hesitates, he bites his lip and sucks in a deep breath like the words themselves are painful. “I didn’t—” Osamu steels himself and sits up a little taller and says, “I didn’t think I was ever gonna see ya again,” he pauses. “And then—”
He sucks in another deep breath, holding it longer this time before letting it out just as slow. “And then when I realized it was you fightin’ off the Kirkwood boys, and by yerself, I just couldn’t believe my eyes. You were supposed to leave town. And I didn’t think I was ever gonna see ya again, and I was okay with that but then to find ya bleedin’ out on the floor, alone. I just...” Osamu trails off. He has so much he needs to say and no combination of words seems right. None of them can possibly do justice to all of the feelings trying to fight their way out of his chest. “Somethin’ snapped inside me, ya know? Fuck.” He pauses and runs a hand over his face.
“Finding ya there, trying to keep it together while you were hurtin’ and dyin’ right before my eyes. Then watching you heal and get better over the next couple of months, it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
Suna smiles and it shouldn’t be possible, but Osamu’s chest grows even tighter.
“Osamu, you sure knows how to take something that should be simple and make it so very complicated. But, you know, I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
“What—what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Osamu,” Suna says, softer this time. “I love you too.”
Osamu blinks. “Ya love me?”
“Was I not meant to? Because it’s too late for that.”
“No. No, that’s good.” Osamu shakes his head. “I love ya. I’ve loved ya for a while. Before ya got hurt. I loved ya when I cradled ya on that dirt floor. And I’ve loved ya every moment since then.”
Suna elbows him in the side.
“Ow. What the—”
“Then why didn’t you say anything. All this time you’ve been sleeping on the hard floor while I took up your bed when you could have been sleeping here with me.”
The following morning Osamu wakes to sunlight streaming across his face. But instead of leaving Suna’s company at the first sight of the sun, he stretches his arms over his head and yawns. He doesn’t have anywhere to be but right where he is. He turned in his badge the week before and though that means part of his future is uncertain now, he’s not worried. Not when the most important part is steady, stable, and, best of all, only an arm’s length away.
Osamu reaches across the bed to loop an arm around Suna’s waist. He wiggles until they’re flush together, his chest to Suna’s back. Suna’s face scrunches up in his sleep and he shifts with Osamu so their bodies are slotted together perfectly. It’s almost, Osamu thinks, like they were made for each other or something equally disgustingly romantic.
Osamu buries his face into the back of Suna’s neck and sighs. Osamu thinks he wouldn’t mind making a habit out of mornings like this and, lucky for him, that future is more than guaranteed.