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“I dropped it,” blurts Osamu, in lieu of a proper greeting.
Atsumu squints blearily from the other end of the video call. One eye sits half-closed, and there’s drool at the corner of his mouth. He stares silently at Osamu longer than necessary.
“What?” Atsumu finally mutters. When he blinks at Osamu, one eye lags behind the other. “Just kick it under the fridge or something.”
“This ain’t one of yer ice cubes, ‘Tsumu!” cries Osamu, a bit hysterically. “It’s Rin’s teapot. It’s—I...”
Osamu’s frantic stammering putters out to a pathetic silence. Unable to speak the rest of his shame, he angles the camera to show it instead.
Atsumu’s reaction is immediate. “You broke it?” he screeches, and Osamu winces. “The same teapot that Suna’s had ever since he moved out of Aichi?”
“Well—”
“The one he’s had since before the two of ya even got together?” Atsumu continues, fueling Osamu’s growing horror. “The one that he never lets anyone touch because he loves it that much—that teapot?”
Osamu presses a hand to his face and releases a groan. “I fucked up,” he sighs.
“I mean. Yeah,” agrees Atsumu easily.
Maybe calling Atsumu was a mistake.
Osamu risks a glance at the disastrous pile of shattered ceramic before ripping his gaze away with a grimace.
He thinks he understands now how Suna must feel every time he’s caught in an equally compromising state.
Like when Osamu comes home to find him standing over the stove with the burnt remnants of his fancy new pan, or in the laundry room with the tattered remains of his custom, hang-dry only apron, or even—on one astounding occasion—in the bathroom with the broken faucet of their shower and Suna’s phone open to a video titled How to Save on the Water Bill in Three Easy Steps.
But this is different. There’s no easy fix for this.
Osamu can’t just order a new teapot like he can with his pots and aprons. He can’t call up a past-Suna and have him repaint the misshapen fox in a field of rainbow flowers. He can’t pour a decade’s worth of sentimentality into factory-produced ceramic.
He can’t make it better.
“He’s gonna forgive ya, ‘Samu,” Atsumu says quietly.
Osamu knows that. It’s not a matter of forgiveness. It’s… the fact that Rin is going to hurt at all, just because of Osamu’s carelessness in his cleaning routine.
“I can hear ya thinkin’.”
Osamu frowns at his phone. “Twin telepathy is not real.”
“I mean, it’s written all over yer face.” Atsumu levels him with an unimpressed look. “Just go out and buy him flowers or something. He can’t stay mad at you. Ya know that, right?”
Osamu releases a tight sigh and presses his fingers to his temple to soothe the incoming headache. He supposes that’s a start, since Suna hardly splurges on himself anymore.
The man won’t even go out to buy a new phone, despite the fact that his screen only works half the time. Considering the amount of time the man spends on his phone, it must be torture for him.
Osamu wonders if it’s because of how often Suna has been treating him to fancy dinners and outings lately—all of that must add up, right? Suna doesn’t even let him look at the check half the time.
They even have a dinner reservation this weekend. It makes Osamu a little nervous because of the high-end reputation behind the name and the fact that money is a little tight with the fast-approaching opening of Onigiri Miya, but Suna insisted that they need to celebrate properly for all of Osamu’s hard work.
And of course, the day before they’re meant to go, Osamu manages to destroy the one thing that Suna holds with sentimental value.
“Osamu—” starts Atsumu, oddly serious, right as a key fits into the lock of the front door.
Osamu sputters. He thumbs frantically at his phone to end the call before he throws it somewhere in the vicinity of the couch.
Then, he quickly drops to his knees to sweep the shattered ceramic into a neater pile, as if that makes it look any less horrifying.
The door swings open with a momentum that worries Osamu until a familiar foot hooks it to a stop.
Suna steps in wielding an armful of paper bags from the high-end bakery from the next train stop over. The man can’t tolerate too many sweets, so they must be for Osamu—again, he notes guiltily.
Suna’s eyes sweep over the apartment. He doesn’t register Osamu on the ground until he hastily rises to his feet, shielding the teapot remains behind him.
“What are you doing on the floor?” asks Suna, an amused smile tugging at his lips. He dumps the bags onto the kitchen counter as Osamu rounds the corner.
Suna pulls him in the rest of the way to press a greeting kiss to his lips, and Osamu reciprocates the best he can with the guilt burning at the back of his throat.
But Osamu is reminded, as Suna pushes closer, that one of the best things in life is the feeling of the man’s lips brushing gently against his—still pursed in a soft smile, still full of love and warmth that presses into him again and again.
For a moment, he forgets that he’s the scum of the earth and the worst boyfriend to ever exist.
But even the feeling of Suna’s lips can’t distract Osamu for long.
Suna pulls back with a frown. “Something wrong?” He thumbs at the corner of Osamu’s lip.
Osamu hesitates. “Yer gonna be upset,” he murmurs.
“Why would I be upset?” Suna stares at him, utterly bewildered. His eyes narrow, suspicious, before they snap wide open. “Did you throw out Kuromi-chan?”
He races to check, but Osamu catches him by the waist before he can make a mess of the newly-cleaned bedroom.
“I didn’t,” Osamu insists, despite the fact that the sizable plush definitely needs to be put through a wash cycle or two. Suna slumps in relief. “Kuromi-chan is on thin ice, though.”
“You’re just jealous because she’s cuter than you,” Suna replies. His hands, which had braced against Osamu’s forearms, travel upwards to paw at his biceps like a glutton.
Osamu lets him indulge himself for a moment, even when his hands come up to squish his cheeks together.
“All right, maybe you’re just as cute,” decides Suna. He presses forward with another kiss, and another, and another until he’s peppering Osamu’s face with obnoxious smacking sounds.
It pulls an admittedly embarrassing sound from Osamu’s lips. He manages another short moment under siege before he has to loop his arms around the man and crush him to his chest to stop the barrage of ticklish kisses.
Suna goes willingly with a wheeze of a laugh, wrapping his arms around him equally as tight.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” he murmurs, once the mirth has faded.
Osamu can’t help the way his stomach drops out once more. He chews on his lip.
There’s nothing else to do except own up to his mistake and succumb to his shame. It’s best to get it over with quickly, so he can start making it up to Suna immediately.
It takes a moment before Osamu is able to pull back. Suna regards him worriedly, even more so when Osamu places a hand on his shoulder.
Then, after a small hesitation, Osamu turns him.
Suna goes willingly, despite his confusion. “What am I looking—”
He goes still.
Stock-still.
He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
Osamu swallows thickly. He manages a weak, “Rin?”
Suna unfreezes with a few jerky steps forward. He stops only when he reaches the pile of teapot fragments, and then his knees hit the floor with a sound that has Osamu startling forward.
He drops to his knees beside him, unsure where to touch, if he’s allowed to touch. “I’m sorry,” he croaks lamely.
Suna says nothing as his hands hover—tremble—over the pile. Osamu watches, horrified, as the man reaches in.
“Hey, be careful!” gasps Osamu. He captures Suna’s wrist as gently as he can, stilling the man’s hand before it can sink too deeply into the pile.
But Suna’s eyes are focused on the crumpled heap with single-minded determination. He digs through the shattered remains for something, Osamu doesn’t know what, but there’s nothing worth saving in there.
He’s already tried to piece it together. The teapot only crumbled into smaller and smaller pieces.
“Rin—hey... Rin.”
It’s only when Osamu cups Suna’s face in his palms that the man finally tears his eyes away from the destruction.
The stress in his features, stricken and panicked, makes Osamu’s heart ache in his chest.
“It’s broken,” rasps Osamu. “I’m sorry…”
The words seem to finally pierce through Suna’s skull. He slumps back with a shaky breath.
“It’s okay,” Suna murmurs, his voice raw.
Osamu doesn’t understand how he can say that with the obvious stress pinching at his features. With the evidence of Osamu’s carelessness two inches from them.
And yet, still, Suna presses his hands to Osamu’s in reassurance, as if they didn’t destroy the last remaining keepsake of his childhood.
“It’s okay,” Suna says again, his eyes roaming over Osamu’s face. He doesn’t look angry, which Osamu doesn’t understand. “Okay?”
Osamu bites back the pathetic attempts at reconciliation that want to slip from his lips.
Suna seems to lose himself in thought again, his eyes distant, but he’s no less aware of Osamu’s building concern. His thumb continues to swipe gently over the back of Osamu’s hand.
After an excruciatingly long moment of stillness, Osamu needs to break the silence.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Osamu murmurs. “Please.”
Suna looks to the pile again, his lips twisting in a frown. Then he sighs and forces his gaze elsewhere. “I’m just—”
His words falter as his eyes lock onto something behind Osamu.
“You just…?”
Suna pulls away to move past him, crawling on his knees until he reaches the couch. Then, he slips a hand into the crevice underneath.
Osamu watches in tense confusion, itching to pull the man back in.
When Suna retracts his hand, he collapses back against the couch with a shaky exhale. Presses a fist against his eyes. “Fuck,” he breathes.
Osamu isn’t quite sure how to discern that emotion. He inches towards Suna until their knees touch, and Suna finally blinks his eyes open to look at him.
It startles Osamu to see that Suna’s eyes are wet, but he doesn’t look upset—he looks strangely relieved.
Osamu reaches forward to gently thumb away the wetness clinging to his bottom lashes. He only realizes, when he tries to take Suna’s hands again, that there’s something clutched underneath his fingers.
“What…” Osamu’s eyebrows furrow. “What is that?”
Suna reels in a deep breath, and then releases a shaky exhale, half a laugh.
“I know you’ve never been one for grand gestures,” he murmurs, his gaze falling to his clenched fist, “and I wanted to give you so much more when I asked this. I wanted it to be special.”
Suna takes Osamu’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles before twining their fingers together.
“But… every moment with you is special,” Suna confesses. His eyes rise then, pinning Osamu with a gentle look that has his breath catching in his throat. “Every moment with you feels like the first time you told me you love me.”
That had been many years ago, whispered in the dark of the night. Underneath the warm covers. Hearts pounding, hands trembling. Then warmth, radiating from his entire being.
Osamu remembers this moment with absolute clarity. The memory is always there, lingering gently in the back of his mind, because just a few moments after that, Suna had whispered the very words that Osamu continues to hold closest to his heart.
Suna seems to recall the exact memory, because he whispers again in the same tender tone and with the same openness in his eyes, “You have no idea how fast my heart races every time I see you.”
Osamu swallows. Swallows again. His throat clicks with the emotion rising from his chest. “Rintarou.”
“I love you so much,” Suna whispers, as if Osamu doesn’t already know. As if he doesn’t feel it every second of every day.
“I love you, too,” says Osamu, without hesitation.
Suna smiles at that, but it’s gone too quickly as he stumbles over his next words. “And I… I can’t imagine my life without you. I don’t—want to.”
It’s strange to see Suna at such a loss for words. He’s usually so eloquent—so quick to offer pride-shattering retorts and effortless quips that provoke a moment of silence from all present witnesses.
Osamu feels a hand press gently to his chest. It pulls his gaze down to where Suna holds out his curled hand.
It trembles slightly between them, and Osamu hurries to steady it between both of his.
“Did you hurt your hand?” asks Osamu worriedly, framing it gently.
Suna shakes his head. He takes a deep breath.
Then, he opens his palm.
Osamu—
Osamu feels all the breath in his lungs leave his body.
Because sitting in Suna’s palm is a ring.
A… a ring—gold and beautiful and gleaming gently in the light.
Osamu doesn’t know how much time passes before he’s able to lift his eyes from the ring to Suna, who’s watching him carefully.
Whatever he finds on Osamu’s face is enough for a smile to break out on his lips. It’s shaky, but sweet all the same.
Osamu has heard Suna say his name many, many times: yelled before unexpected receives in their volleyball years, sighed softly in exasperation at corner konbinis, whispered in the quiet of their room after especially hard nights—and now, with Suna’s eyes not once leaving him, a watery grin on his face, and his hands holding an oath of the strongest caliber between them—
“Miya Osamu,” says Suna, the name sounding so right, so perfect on his lips. “Will you marry me?”
Osamu crashes their lips together.
His eyes sting despite being shut, and his breath goes shaky, but he doesn’t care because—because Suna wants to marry him. He wants to be with Osamu, for the rest of his life, and Osamu… Osamu—
An arm hooks behind his neck to save them both from crashing to the floor, and Suna gasps into his mouth, laughter bubbling from his chest.
“You have to—” Suna chuckles against his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. “You have to answer—”
Osamu yields slightly, only because Suna’s laughing and smiling too widely for him to kiss properly. Even then, he redirects his lips to any place he can reach—Suna’s blush-warm cheeks, his cute nose, his sharp jaw.
Suna melts against him.
When Osamu finally pulls back, he finds Suna’s cheeks stained pink, his breath slightly uneven, and his eyes soft.
Then Osamu says, resolutely, whole-heartedly, unwaveringly, “Yes.” He seals another kiss to Suna’s lips, which press tightly together to contain the momentous impact of the single word. “Of course I’ll marry ya, I…” Osamu’s voice breaks from the sheer emotion welling up in his chest, in the desperate grasps of his hands, behind his stinging eyes.
Suna tugs gently at his hand. Osamu blinks away the wetness obscuring his vision in time to see the ring fit perfectly onto his finger.
It feels almost unreal. But Suna always had a way of being so impossibly perfect that Osamu thinks he’s dreamed him.
Suna pulls him in then, his touch and smile and love so incredibly real.
“Yer really not upset about the teapot?” Osamu murmurs, once they’ve settled properly and comfortably against the couch. He just needs to be sure. “I know it was special to ya.”
Suna hums. His fingers gently comb the wayward fringe from Osamu’s eyes before settling warm against his cheek. “It’s okay, really,” he promises. “Besides… we’ve got decades more to make other memories. Together.” He brings Osamu's hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the now-adorned knuckle.
His soft smile is enough to reignite the fondness in Osamu’s chest once more.
“That sound okay to you?” murmurs Suna.
“Sounds great,” Osamu breathes, even though it’s better than great.
It’s perfect.
Right until they hear a tinny voice coming from the seat of the couch, announcing, “Well, that was disgusting… but congrats and all that,” and Osamu is mortified.
But Suna is laughing hard enough that tears form in his eyes, and Atsumu is already trying to barter onigiri rights with his future brother-in-law, and Osamu's heart is so full that it feels like it’s going to burst.
So… maybe it’s still perfect, anyway.