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The first time Osamu had landed a well-deserved blow at his twin’s court jester of a face in front of their grandma, she had pulled him aside and scolded him for hurting Atsumu. Your brother is yer best friend, Osamu-chan. Yer best friend is the only angel you’ll find on earth, she had whispered as she wiped the frustrated tears from Osamu’s chubby toddler cheeks.
Looking back on it now, Osamu contemplated the chances of his grandma being an only child because siblings were a menace. His scrub of a brother was a devil spawn and nowhere near an angel’s halo, and was proof enough for Osamu’s observation to be proven a fact.
Osamu shuddered violently and shook himself out of sleep as he felt something cold tickle the back of his neck. He sat up and his bleary eyes settled on the row of futons laid out and occupied by bundled-up figures coupled with the occasional roll of deep snores. His brain struggled to clutch on to the tresses of reality as he tried to remember why the hell wasn’t he sleeping on his bed as he wasn’t greeted with the familiar sight of the underside of the top bunk.
Oh right. They were in Tokyo for the Spring Interhigh.
And all of Inarizaki’s volleyball team, a bunch of too tall teenage athletes, were cramped together in their too small room of the inn they were staying at.
Osamu turned to his left where another futon was laid out awkwardly against the wall decorated with an ugly yellow wallpaper, but the most of it had peeled away over time and all that remained were glaring voids of dull grey concrete, and sprawled on top of it was the human epitome of an asswipe.
Atsumu flashed a sleazy grin at his brother and raised a hand to wave at him. His big head was propped up on one closed fist and a bottle of water was nestled in the crook of his arm. The realization hit him instantly as the cool dampness of a liquid stuck to his shoulder bones through his thin t-shirt.
“Ya piece of shit,” Osamu lowered his voice to a whisper so as to not wake up his teammates (read: Kita-san), “didja just pour water on me?”
“Trying times, Samu, trying times.” Atsumu had the nerve to never let his Cheshire grin waver. “I tried wakin’ ya up the normal way but it’s not my problem that ya sleep like a log.”
After throwing another look of caution across him to where Kita and Aran were sleeping, Osamu glared daggers at Atsumu, and his fury only escalated when he was met with a lazy shrug. Just as his regrettable twin opened his mouth to spew whatever garbage was on his mind, the low buzz of a notification startled the two.
Atsumu scooped his phone from under the scratchy blanket given by the innkeeper faster than Barry Allen could sprint, and checked whatever message he had received at godforsaken o’clock. But what made Osamu raise his eyebrows in surprise was when a soft smile played on Atsumu’s lips and a layer of unbridled fond dusted across his face, now lit a frosty blue from the screen light.
Disgusting.
“Who’re ya texting? A stupid crush?”
The reaction he received was hilarious enough to almost force a laugh out of him. (but there was no way Osamu was going to risk that)
The cell phone dropped from Atsumu’s hand and landed soundlessly on the tangled mess of blanket and futon, and the orange glow of the streetlight on the road scattering through the curtains, picked up the harsh rouge staining his cheeks. His brother’s eyes widened like a bad cartoon character’s, and Osamu knew what was going to happen next.
He scrambled towards Atsumu and clamped his palm tightly to his mouth, effectively muffling the gasp. Unfortunately, one of the twins had to inherit the dramatics of the Miya family. At least, it wasn’t Osamu.
“Alright, shut up. Don’t say it then, geez,” his words brought Atsumu down from hundred back to zero as he visibly relaxed. “At this rate, yer gonna get both of us killed. What were ya doin’ anyway? Staying up this late, we’ve match tomorrow.” He paused and channelled all the irritation of being forced to wake up into a fixed stare.
When he caught the quiet shudder run up Atsumu’s back, Osamu gave himself a phantom pat on the back.
“Is there any reason why you woke me up at ass-crack AM, Tsumu.”
Atsumu gaped in silent horror at the clear absence of the questioning lilt to the whispered statement. It was a clear cue for him to not mess around further and say or do something he’d regret.
“Uh, well,” Atsumu’s tone was a verbal rendition of a man treading around a field of landmines as he placed each word with care. “I wanted ya to get me a peach Fanta from the vending machine near the entrance.”
“Huh? Why should I?”
His twin twisted his lips in the likeness of the mountain-infesting yokai their mother used to warn them about when they were kids. His eyes darted towards the Kita-shaped mound across him and he leaned towards Osamu.
“Come on Samu!” his exclamation came out in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t break yer big brother’s heart.”
“Yer not my fuckin–”
“I heard yer blackhole grumble when ya were sleeping, dumbass. Get something ta much on and get me the damn soda.”
Given Osamu’s larger than usual appetite, Atsumu had taken to dub his ability to stomach almost everything ‘the blackhole effect’. And he never showed the indication to stop. But true to his words, Osamu was hungry, just a tiny bit though. The celebratory katsudon Coach Kurosu had bought for the team after their first win of the competition had evaporated long ago.
“Quit yer whining, I’ll get you the Cola,” Osamu grumbled under his breath as he rose up from the futon.
“A Fanta, Samu. Don’t forget the peach one.”
“Yeah whatever. Now cough up.” He stretched out his hand at Atsumu.
The idiot gaped at him in shock. “What the fuck, we’re from the same house! I’m yer twin, ya trash.”
But at Osamu’s insistent glare, Atsumu scowled and extracted a few coins from the side of his bag and gave it to the other, but not without mumbling a few choice words under his breath.
(a part of him tried to convince himself that he had bent to his brother’s words to stop him from sulking and ruining the team’s morale the next morning, and not because of his stomach’s rumble)
The night stretched out longer than Osamu had thought.
< >
The ryokan the team was housing in had two floors. On the top floor, all the boys were merged in one room while their coaches shared another room beside theirs. The other rooms were reportedly accommodated by four different families.
Downstairs, a generous amount of space was given for occupants to use as a lounge. Right now, the only ones sitting on the chairs were a trio of seniors who gathered in a tight-knit circle around a coffee table as they played cards, with a sprinkle of pleasant conversation and wheezing laughter. The sight made him smile.
The man who had greeted them when they entered the inn blinked at Osamu, no doubt wondering why he was awake. Osamu ducked his head in silent greeting and quickly stepped out through the main entrance door.
A gust of chilly wind wrapped around him and forced a shiver out of him. He had forgotten to wear a jacket to shield against the numbing night-hours of January; he silently reprimanded himself as an array of goosebumps dotted his arms and neck like a second layer of skin.
Osamu ignored the cold the best he could and stopped in front of the vending machine which was positioned right next to the door. The LEDs on its interior washed the black of his t-shirt a watery grey. As usual, his eyes were entranced by the bright hues of the cans, packets and bottles of the items stacked neatly inside the machine. His gaze caught onto the light pink sticker of the bottle of carbonated and artificial peach-flavoured monstrosity Atsumu had demanded.
As he reached to pull the money out of his pocket, he vaguely considered switching the peach Fanta for the ume one, which Atsumu hated with passion. Just as he reached out his pointer finger to press the button, his attention was snagged by a telltale shift of breath coming from past the corner of where Osamu was standing. Frowning, he tilted his head and spotted a silhouette resting against the hard wood exterior of the ryokan.
For a second, he was almost convinced that the interrupter was probably a stray cat, but the figure was too large to be qualified for a feline. It was when he noticed the pronounceable slouch and the saturated glint of a phone screen that it hit him: he knew who the silhouette belonged to.
“Hey, Suna, what ‘re ya doing here?”
To the untrained eye, it would like the sudden interjection addressed into the quiet of the night never fazed Suna. But Osamu, who arguably knew him better than the boy in question himself did, saw the rigid set of his torso which no doubt reflected Suna’s surprise. He relaxed back into his default shitty posture as he tipped his head and spotted Osamu leaning against the cold metal of the vending machine.
Instead of answering, Suna asked in the languid tone customary to him, “I could ask the same to you.” A ghost of a smirk pulled on his lips and the amber from the overhead streetlamp shining down on them, illuminated the greens of Suna’s eyes (very much like the wild cats which Osamu had once seen on Nat Geo, lurking around the unruly grasslands of savannah with only the moon to witness their actions.)
Osamu jutted his thumb towards the machine, “Tsumu’s slavin’ me around.”
Suna raised a single thin eyebrow. “And you agreed just like that? My, my, its gonna hail.”
“Shut yer smart mouth,” Osamu snorted and jabbed the button for Atsumu’s drink, “I was hungry, plus I wanted him to shut his fat mouth. We don’t want a repeat of 2012 Interhigh.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” Suna nodded in an omniscient manner. “But mostly you were hungry.”
There was no way Osamu was going to feed the boy’s smugness even further by giving in, so he vaguely hummed under his breath and chose to ignore Suna’s conclusion. His ears picked up on the breathy chuckle coming from his friend, and he could swear that he did not feel something twist in his stomach. It was just his imagination.
Before his traitorous brain could spiral down even further into the hole labelled ‘overthinking’, he hurried to ask, “You want anything, Suna?”
“What are you having?”
“Yakisoba-pan.”
Suna drew out a faint hmmm and tapped his cell phone against his chin. Osamu was quite used to this spectacle; wherever they went to eat, Suna was usually the one who’d take long to decide on something. Even longer than Osamu, and that was saying something. This little charade of his which played out every time they went to the conbini near school, annoyed Atsumu and Kosaku to no end. But strangely enough, Osamu found it endearing.
The rattle of the bottled soda and the plastic wrapped-bun landing inside the pick-up box synced with Suna’s answer. “I want the strawberry milk with the cute doodles on its front.”
Osamu grimaced and turned to look at Suna in horror, “That’s just a sugar bomb waitin’ to explode!”
“You asked what I wanted, I expect you to give me that,” the other boy just shrugged and unlocked his phone to continue scrolling through whatever social media app he was currently hooked to. So, he completely missed the disgusted twist of Osamu’s face.
But since he was a man of culture, Osamu pressed the button below a white carton with a strawberry avatar stamped on it. He collected all three items and trudged towards the temporary alcove Suna had invaded, and sat down with a huff. He pressed the chilled milk carton at Suna and set the Fanta beside him.
“Thanks,” Suna lowered his long legs and crossed them together so that his right knee touched the other’s thigh. Osamu decided not to dwell on it and ripped the wrapper of his yakisoba-pan open with his teeth.
“Well,” Osamu spoke in between bites, “why are ya here when yer supposed to be sleeping?”
Suna picked the carton open with his fingers after discarding the drinking straw (another habit of his; for some reason he absolutely despised straws). He inspected the content and took a tentative sip. Suna seemed satisfied and then turned his narrow eyes at Osamu. A single drop of tinted milk flickering on the fold above his upper lip, which disappeared with a dart of pink tongue. Somewhere inside his chest, Osamu’s heart tripped in its circulation.
“I don’t know. Couldn’t sleep I guess.”
Osamu brought his head down from the clouds, and managed to question, “What, yer worried about tomorrow?”
They were supposed to play Karasuno the next day. An obscure team, previously a powerhouse, Karasuno had apparently risen to its previous glory with its band of crazy freshmen. Ever since the All Youth training camp, Atsumu hadn’t stopped griping about he would beat ‘Tobio-kun’, who was apparently the rumoured genius setter from the team. Osamu could only recall the puzzled surprise which emanated from the team, like the gentle pitter of a ripple, when Aran announced a few weeks ago that underdog Karasuno had advanced to Nationals.
They beat Shiratorizawa.
But it wasn’t like Suna to worry about a match. Suna, who was serious about volleyball but not in the same way as Osamu’s brother which showed through after-hour practices and the persistent buzz of life behind each toss which would never fail to quirk the palm of each spiker’s hand. Suna, who never missed a single day of club activities but always groaned the loudest when Coach would wheedle them into running a few more laps than usual.
He sipped on his drink loudly before responding, “Nah, we’ll beat them. They’re just another team.”
Now it was Osamu’s turn to smirk. “Oh, didn’t know that ya could wear the overconfidence suit too, Sunarin.”
A bony elbow prodded painfully at his ribs. Osamu grunted and retaliated but Suna dodged his advance with precision. The other boy quirked his mouth in amusement and took another swig of the milk. “You’re too predictable with your moves, Samu,” the teasing lilt to his voice tickled the nerve of irritation in Osamu. Apart from his twin, only Suna knew which levers he was supposed to push to annoy him.
“And no, I’m not being overconfident, only Atsumu can wear that suit. I just think that our team is great.”
“The line between overconfidence and being a grade-A jerk is blurred for Tsumu,” Osamu offered Suna the yakisoba-pan but he declined it with a shake of his head. The two of them shared a muffled bout of laughter at the expense of Atsumu. Somewhere, they heard the howls of a dog and the sound of a pop song blasting from a stereo. All in all, the atmosphere along with his Suna’s company was enough for him to relax despite the winter chills.
“They did manage to shut down Ushiwaka, though,” Osamu detected a faraway sway in Suna’s words (or it was just the lull of sleep hindering his senses), “Karasuno, I mean.”
Osamu squinted at Suna and whispered like he was an actor on a stage delivering a hushed soliloquy, “Don’t say, is Rin-kun scared?”
This time, he felt the blow of a punch land on his thigh.
Ow.
“Shut up, I’m not scared.”
They lapsed back into comfortable silence. Osamu wondered whether Atsumu was getting worked up over waiting for him as each second passed. The devil perched on his right shoulder cackled with glee at the thought, red eyes and tongue lashing fiendishly. Good, let him suffer.
His mind wandered back to the scene he had woken up to: Atsumu with his attention fixed on his phone, his face smoothed out into a picture of adoration. The image itself stuck to his throat like an icky thing and forced an ugly gag out of him.
Suna looked at him with interest, “Are you choking on your yakisoba?”
Osamu regained himself and shook his head. “No. Tsumu was texting someone before I came here, I think. He was smiling, Suna, like a lovestruck idiot.”
What surprised him wasn’t the apathetic reaction he received, but the painfully neutral, “Oh, that.”
Suna must have noticed the confused twitch of his mouth. Myriads of droning teachers harmonised with the low hum of fat cicadas, had qualified the two in the art of reading each other’s minds better than their textbooks with winding diagrams and labyrinthine flowcharts. He held out two of his fingers towards Osamu. After a few still seconds, Suna frowned and coaxed Osamu’s free hand and let it hover above his own fingers.
“Pick one.”
Sighing, Osamu touched the tip of a thin pale middle finger. The faint pink fossil of a papercut donned itself like a crown around Suna’s finger. He tried to fight off the tenderness threatening to overpower his senses (but restraining the pack of butterflies from being released in a flurry of flustered emotions was definitely harder) as Suna flashed a lazy grin towards him and made a small ‘ding’ sound. He pulled back his drawn hand and stuffed it inside his jacket and raised an eyebrow at Osamu’s bemused face.
“I’ll give you a clue. Atsumu was chatting with a guy, and you might know him,” and before Osamu could retort he continued, “his name starts with Sakusa and ends with Kiyoomi. Heard of him?”
This time he really choked on the final bite of his bread. The fit of coughs ruined any chance of a proper farewell to his nighttime snack. Suna only offered a hyena-like bark of laughter, that bastard. Osamu thumped himself on his chest and looked at the other boy through teary eyes, “Wait, do you mean Sakusa as in Itachiyama’s ace Sakusa? And how the hell do you know about this, huh?”
“Yep, Sakusa Kiyoomi, the one and only. I may or may not have sneaked a peek at Atsumu’s phone while he was texting. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is.” The last observation was punctuated with a self-satisfied glimmer in his moss eyes. Osamu wrenched himself from the magnetic gaze and tacked his eyes ahead of him, the index finger which had previously contacted with Suna’s, throbbing like heartache.
“But all Tsumu did was bitch about him non-stop ever since he came back from the All Youth camp!”
Suna hummed into his palm, effectively muffling the sound and said, “Aren’t you cold dressed like that?”
Words and their ability to catch him off-guard never failed to intrigue him. Suna’s abrupt address forced Osamu’s eyes to direct three owlish blanks at the boy. His brain tried to navigate the words like treading through quicksand. He couldn’t stop the short sputter of a question—pitched a tad bit high for his taste—from spilling out like water sloshing from the edge of an overfilled cup. But before he could dwell in the embarrassment of his little slipup, something light and fleecy collided with his face and his vision went dark for a moment.
There lying limp on the crook of his bent arm was the maroon of the Inarizaki jacket—Suna’s jacket—darkened to a deep mahogany sheen under the shadow of the building directly opposite to where they were sitting. The owner of the jacket had settled back into his previous slouch after the slight disruption of removing said jacket, and now slurped the almost empty contents of the milk box. He refused to meet Osamu’s gaze and stared on ahead at the boring white surface of the other building.
But Suna couldn’t exactly blame him for being dumbfounded. Ya never let anyone borrow your clothes, not even when Gin caught a nasty cold and you didn’t give him yer handkerchief! The voice inside his head sounded too much like Aran when he’d get worked up over the twins’ antics. Like the familiar click of the beginning of an old song in the midst of a shuffled playlist, a small voice inside his head reminded him of the one day when Atsumu had stuck his hand inside Suna’s bag for the assignment copy and Suna had practically scoured Tsumu’s hair off his head for touching his things.
(Later that evening he had handed Osamu the copy without batting an eye)
Suna wasn’t the one who shared stuff. Sure, he had let Osamu rifle through his stationery pouch for a pencil the last few times during Math but that occurrence had only made its debut in the middle of their second year.
He decided not to stress too much on it and slipped on the jacket instead, and turned to ask Suna, “Won’t it bother ya if I’ve this on me?”
Suna shook his head, the sides of his dark hair which were almost permanently upright swishing with the motion. “You’re the human air conditioner of the team, Osamu, not me.”
Osamu scoffed in a light-hearted manner, “Shut it.” Somewhere inside, his heart floundered and flapped its fins as Suna snorted out an amused huff which made him sound like a gleeful piglet after rolling around rainwet mud for the first time. It was ugly in its distorted pitch and loud grunt, but to Osamu it was like discovering a music box which played his favourite tune in an infinite loop.
Fuck.
He seemed as whipped as Tsumu looked with his stupid dopey smile and late-night chats with Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Something soft tickled his ear and forced him to peer at the epicentre of his internal turmoil. Suna was leaning in, his eyes trained on Osamu’s lips. Whatever train of thought which had been running a five hundred miles per hour, derailed and crashed into nihility and Osamu discarded any attempt to recall whatever he was about to say to revive conversation.
He inhaled sharply which caused Suna to stop short. His gaze was clouded with uncertainty and he heard the unspoken permission, Is this okay?
Osamu nodded quickly and inclined his head towards Suna.
Their lips met.
A soundless whoosh of an exhale barely lingered between them as Osamu tilted his head just a bit and brought up his hand to cradle Suna’s chin, feeling the faint pinpricks of the shadow of a stubble. Slim fingers carded through grey locks and a tremor rocked his body in harmony with the biting January zephyr when he felt the drag of dull nails against the buzz of his undercut.
Their first kiss hadn’t been something noteworthy that Osamu would sing ballads about or dedicate a separate chapter to in his non-existent memoir.
The loud growls and accompanying silver strings of rain had framed the Inarizaki volleyball court when Suna Rintarou decided it was a good idea to push his lips against Osamu’s, with both of their hands occupied with water bottles filled to the brim. That late August evening, Osamu and Suna shared their first kiss for the briefest of three seconds before something wet soaked their socks.
(Though he had dropped the bottle, Osamu was glad that none of their teammates and Tsumu asked about his flushed face and Suna’s twitchy jerks when someone called his name
Later that night, strung with Atsumu’s snores, a notification from his phone had snagged his attention.
A single text from Suna.
sorry i kissed you without any warning ☹️ )
Suna had been sitting with the twins in their room, their books open in front of them as they studied for a test, when it happened for the second time.
Atsumu had been whining repeatedly and Osamu had given up at that point. There was no way he’d pass after he had slept away most of the lectures and had treated the chemical formulae Ono-sensei had deemed important as mere lullabies. Beside him, Suna had been doodling something on his hand with his pen, leaving a bizarre tattoo of reds and blues on the back of his palm. Atsumu had retreated to the kitchen, probably to bite off their dad’s head in his frustration.
Osamu had touched his fingertips to his friend’s ink-marked skin. Ash eyes met green and he leaned in quickly and stilled when his lips had hovered directly over the corner of Suna’s mouth. He then guided his mouth, movements hesitant, after he received a tiny nod of affirmation. Their second kiss had lasted a few seconds longer, before they broke off hastily as they heard the loud footsteps clearly belonging to Atsumu.
The following days had been a dance the two of them had specifically choreographed for themselves. It was a dance which bordered on steep cliffs and sinking glaciers, as guilty but exciting; too much yet not enough; ambiguous and crystal clear as the two sneaked behind metaphorical (but sometimes quite literal) closed doors and shared a quick kiss or two before the thrill died down to a steady hum.
Osamu knew that the two of them had long crossed the line (or rather wrenched it off with force the moment Osamu had leaned in, with the twin’s room to bear witness) as friends were never this quick to be left alone so their palms would join, followed by sweat-dotted foreheads, then the final big event of slotting their lips together like a prayer. But somewhere between the weight of the little secret which was glued to them, and the tickle of skin with the static of brittle body hair when Suna would stand closer to Osamu during practice, the elephant in the room was left unnoticed.
When the two of them parted, Osamu was left with the remnants of the sugary giddiness of the strawberry milk and the whiff of their shared room’s lavender air freshener marked with the weak trace of sweat from Suna’s jacket lingered in the air between them.
With a start, Osamu realised the absence of hesitancy and amateurish tendencies which had previously dictated the movements of their lips when they’d kiss.
Suna rested his head, neither on Osamu’s shoulder or against the prickly wall behind them, but just in the limbo state where the shell of his ear brushed gently at the other’s cheek and when Osamu trailed his sight to the corner of his eye, he could make out the barely-there curve of Suna’s short eyelashes. His heart now thumped with an erratic energy which made him cross his toes in his sneakers, hoping that Suna would not notice the development.
“You were about to say something to me yesterday.”
Though he had phrased it like a question, Osamu knew that Suna hadn’t meant it like one. The previous day, when they had been on their way to Tokyo, the two of them sitting together at the very back of the bus, far from the chaos Atsumu and Gin were stirring. Osamu had swallowed dryly, hoping to find the courage he was in desperate need of and bit the bullet. Just as he had propositioned the graveness of his statement to Suna, Oomimi had beckoned over the middle blocker and naturally, things were left unsaid.
“I’m gonna quit volleyball after high school.”
The sentence had been tinkering inside his head akin to a broken record ever since he had come to the draining conclusion many Fridays back. Osamu loved volleyball; he loved it when the jitters in his fingertips danced to the tune of Inarizaki’s band when he’d hit the ball true, the ball set by Atsumu. He loved it when the whole team and Kurosu would bundle together for a very messy and adrenaline-fueled group hug after the winning whistle tuned to their favour.
But somewhere between the announcement of Atsumu’s acceptance to the All Japan Youth training camp and his own culinary escapades with his father lending him a reliable helping hand, Osamu realised that he may not be able to sacrifice his soul to volleyball like his twin already did—years ago at Inuhata’s volleyball class when their bodies still had room to grow and fill out.
He expected Suna to turn saucer-wide eyes at him and try to convince him to snap out of it. The folds of his knuckles riddled with nervous sweat as the thought of Suna laughing at him bloomed in his mind. What would he do?
But to his relief, Suna only nodded slowly, as if testing the substance of the decision like mulling a piece of hard candy and trying to decipher the taste which dawdled around his tastebuds teasingly. He scratched at the sliver of pale skin between the mouth of his shoe and the frayed end of his joggers and flashed an inquisitive, green tinted look at him.
“Does Atsumu know?”
“No,” then, “not yet.”
That was exactly what he had been dreading. He wasn’t sure how he’d break it to his thick-headed twin. His mother had simply smiled at him and reached to rub a tired hand at his messy hair one night when he had told her of his decision. He’ll surely understand, dear, she had said before planting a noisy kiss on his forehead and heading towards the front door, leaving the smell of hospital disinfectant in her wake.
“Hmm, well I’m not expecting him to be peachy ‘bout it–”
“Absolutely not.”
“–but,” Suna flicked Osamu’s nose sternly for interrupting him, “he’ll get over it.”
Osamu bit his lower lip and nodded. They were quite used to be doing everything in each other’s company, the twins. And the rubber string that had been snapping at the back of his neck ever since his Decision had only gotten stealthier and stronger at taming the flames of his anxiety. But he needed to learn to walk on his own two legs without the help of another pair which had been constantly tied tight to him. He had to learn to walk, and so did Atsumu.
“Yeah,” Osamu allowed himself to smile at Suna, “I guess you’re right.”
“Yes I am.” His bored drone hiccupped a wheezy giggle out of Osamu and he quickly ducked his head, mortified at the sound.
When he uttered the name of courage internally and peered at Suna again, the other boy teased in a low, almost coy voice, “You owe me one, don’t you?”
The butterflies trapped in their restraint of Osamu’s willpower rattled the bars of the cage and shrieked at him to let them out. He quelled the mini coup d'état and wiggled his nails on Suna’s knee in invisible concentric circles with an occasional poke at the protruding joint.
“Whaddya want? A date?”
He felt the sudden jolt before taking in Suna’s face washed with a deep shade of carmine. But to his credit, Suna fought down the blush and managed to relax his facial muscles into its usual slack state. He fiddled the stuck-up ends of his hair and mumbled slowly, his face turned away from Osamu, “Well, I’ll allow it if after we win tomorrow.”
Osamu couldn’t wrestle the grin which displayed his uneven teeth in his delight. He reached up and took Suna’s hand—the one tangled in his hair—and ran his thicker fingers carefully on the numerous hangnails sticking up like pastel candles on a birthday cake.
“Do ya mean tomorrow’s match or the Nationals?”
“Well, I–”
Osamu rapped his thumb against the bridge of Suna’s nose forcing a quite ‘ouch’ out of him and tutted quietly, “Wasn’t finished.”
Suna glared at him but the action held no malice, just a tinge of exasperation overlapped with fondness.
“Either way we’re gonna win. Then I’ll take ya to the best date of yer life, Sunarin.”
“I’ll be waiting for it,” his words were coated in a film of amusement and the gap between his eyebrows twitched as it always did when Osamu teased Suna and the latter played along. But his response to Osamu’s proposal was sincere in its connotation and he couldn’t be gladder.
“But first,” quick as a streak of lightning, Suna swooped in and pecked Osamu on the corner of his mouth, just a whisper away from his lips, “let’s get upstairs and not get us murdered in our beds by your brother or our captain, so that we can win in one piece.”
“I second that.”
Atsumu was fast asleep with his phone screen side down on his chest, and his arms crossed around his torso like a vampire when they hurried upstairs noiselessly. Sighing, Osamu placed the Fanta behind Atsumu’s pillow and checked his own cell.
3:03 AM.
On the other end of the room, Suna was settling into his futon and trying to lift Kosaku’s large arm from his territory. Their eyes met in the room—dark, save for the occasional glints from the streetlight. A hand waved at him, long fingers curving into themselves and then straightening up again like tentacles. Osamu waved back at Suna and mouthed a good night before the boy fell flat backwards. It was only when Osamu nestled his head in the feathery softness of his pillow he brought from home (the ones which hotels provided cramped his neck) that it occurred to him that Suna would not have seen his remark.
Before the wave of embarrassment could engulf him, his phone beeped under his arm. He picked up and opened the source of the notification.
A text from Suna.
gn samu 😴✨
The butterflies broke free of the bars of the cage they were locked in and fluttered a ringing soprano in his belly, raising his temperature inside the comforting warmth of Suna’s jacket. He settled inside the blanket and exhaled a puffy breath. The large beam on his face refused to retreat even after sleep gripped his nerves.
< >
Though the bus teemed with a group of young boys, all athletes, but at the present moment a quilt of silence enveloped them all only slipping away whenever the pitch of the coaches’ conversation picked up a higher frequency or when Riseki harrumphed a snore in his slumber.
Atsumu sat in the seat directly ahead of Osamu’s, the few locks of badly dyed blond visible between the edge of the plastic covered seatback and the open window, catching the gleam of the evening sun as he rested his head against the single metal railing. If Osamu pressed his forehead against the plastic wrapped back he would hear the tinny croons of ‘Never a clean break, no one here to save me/ you're the only thing I know like the back of my hand’ playing from his phone, which was probably pressed close to his ear. His twin most definitely had put his Sad Feeling playlist on shuffle.
Beside him Suna sat close to him, their thighs pressed together. They had taken their usual spot at the rear of the bus, and Osamu was secretly relieved that neither Aran or Akagi had made an effort to gravitate to the back and cheer up their kouhai. He was drained of the energy, the vacuum of their loss against Karasuno still sucked whatever distracting thoughts he could conjure.
About a half hour ago, before Kita announced that they would reach Daini-Shinmei Road, Osamu had felt hot tears track down his cheeks. The many times he had held back the rush of frustration at botching the last spike and his eyes were close to welling up, he’d build a dam.
But the dam had broken down in its function.
His tears were noticed only by a passing stray cat as the bus halted at a minor road disruption. And maybe Suna spotted the tears as well, because a larger palm had come to rest on top of his and fingers intertwined between the rough spaces of his left hand, lying limply on his lap. Their hands stayed clasped together even after Osamu’s tears dried out and all that was left was the scratchiness in his eyes and the previous gaping Hollow in him was filled with spring-like flowers, their fuchsia petals in full bloom.
When Osamu at last wrenched his eyes from the window after the scenery went from the bustle of the city to the familiar greens and ochres of the countryside, Suna was tapping away at his phone with one hand with expert precision. Osamu eased his head on the curve of his friend’s broad shoulder and mumbled, “What’s so interestin’?”
“Hello to you too,” Suna chuckled, “I was just seeing if there are any good movies in the theatres now.”
Osamu blinked, “Movies?”
Suna looked at him, his bottom lip twisted in scepticism. “Yeah, for the date.”
He must’ve been gaping at Suna, because the latter reached out and tipped his chin up which effectively shut his mouth. He muttered a quick apology and relaxed once again on Suna’s shoulder. Osamu counted the seconds of silence stretching out like a string, and broke out his question when he reached 12.
“But we didn’t…win.” The last syllable tasted like overcooked cabbage on his tongue.
“And you thought I wouldn’t go out with you because of that?” Osamu didn’t have to be face-to-face with Suna to know that he was raising his eyebrows at him, and an accompanying nasty spark in his eye. “Now choose a movie with me.”
Osamu slumped in his seat with relief and grinned up at Suna, “Aye, aye Sunarin.”
After fourteen more minutes of internet surfing, they settled on watching Dark Knight Rises (“But neither of us have watched the first part, huh?” “It won’t be a problem if all we’re gonna do is kiss in the cinema hall.” That had punched a barking laugh out of Osamu, and Atsumu had whipped around to violently shush the two)
The bus came to a screeching halt in front of the gates of Inarizaki High, and Kurosu hollered from the front for the boys to line up and out without pushing (he punctuated the last two words with a stern glare at Osamu and Atsumu).
That won’t be a problem Coach, Osamu thought.
He thought he picked up a mutter of “damn lovebirds” when Atsumu walked ahead, the back of his neck flushed red from travel. Well, he wasn’t exactly wrong.
Osamu looked down at his and Suna’s held hands, not having parted even once since the latter had joined them together to comfort Osamu. The late evening purple orange sky reflected and transformed Suna’s eyes a dark sage. A rare dimple, like a crinkle on crepe paper, dented its way to form a translucent crescent on the right side of his cheek as his mouth took on a muted curve.
“Lets go?”
Osamu let Suna tug his hand and lead him forward. The tail of Suna’s jacket danced a dainty number as the boys’ movements kicked up a mellow breeze, the maroon sleeves lined with black, tied and secured around Osamu’s waist.
~