Archive of Our Own ^beta

It doesn’t matter that Osamu has lived in the same place as Atsumu for the past twenty years. It never gets any easier putting up with his incessant whining and loud complaints as he searches for his belongings throughout the piles of stacked cardboard boxes within their new apartment.

It would be more bearable, perhaps, if Osamu wasn’t already in a sour mood after hours of driving and waiting while they received their keys from the housing department. As it stands, his body is exhausted from the combination of lugging all of their personal items up the stairs and the lack of sleep he’d gotten last night, and his stomach won’t stop growling. It’s been over six hours since his last meal, and he would be tempted to stop unpacking for the sole purpose of making himself a snack—if their fridge wasn’t completely empty.

It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault. It’s move-in weekend in their second year of university, and that means that Osamu—and his three other roommates—have to take up the tedious task of transforming one of the bare university-issued apartments into something that resembles a home for the next year. For Osamu, creating a home means having a full fridge, but until he can see over the sea of boxes cluttering their living room, his stomach will have to wait.

“Samu!”

“What?” Osamu snaps. He stands in the middle of their new kitchen, unfolding a box stuffed with kitchen utensils and appliances. When Gin had asked who was willing to cover the costs for kitchen machinery, Osamu had leapt at the opportunity. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the kitchen in his family home or the cramped communal one he had to share in his dorm last year as a first-year; the kitchen is Osamu’s sacred space, and he wants it to feel like his for as long as he uses it. “I already toldja I don’t know where yer box of sneakers are.”

“I can’t find them.” Atsumu spins around in the living room, connected to the kitchen through the open plan set-up. From this angle, Osamu can see beyond the counter over to the couch that sits in front of the TV stand, though they have yet to hook Kosaku’s television up. To Atsumu’s right, there’s a sturdy table, and a collection of heavy boxes fills up the rest of the empty space, waiting to be unpacked. “Do you think I forgot them at home?”

“I sure hope not.” Osamu cradles his coffee machine in hand and sets it on the counter. His caffeine obsession is a new commodity, formed after many sleepless nights his first year at university, while he figured out how to balance the impossible work-life structure of a college student. “How the hell do you expect to play volleyball then?”

“Ugh.” Atsumu drops his arms to his sides. “I don’t know where they are.”

“Maybe if you actually unpacked yer shit, you might be able to find them. Help out.”

“I agree.” Gin pokes his head out of one of the connected bedrooms in the thin hallway that runs down the right side of the kitchen. His hair is ruffled and frizzier than usual, likely from drawing up large clouds of dust while sweeping the space. “I’m sure if you start cleanin’ it all out, they’ll show up.”

“That,” Osamu mutters under his breath, “and you’ll stop gettin’ on our nerves.”

Osamu can’t figure out how he’s gotten here. He understands how he’s reached the point of sharing an apartment with Ginjima and Kosaku. The three of them had several classes together, becoming quick friends, and it had been Gin—scared and skittish Gin—that had suggested the three of them rent an apartment together for the following year. 

Unfortunately, like most other things, whatever belongs to Osamu also belongs to Atsumu. Therefore, whatever apartment Osamu rents is Atsumu’s property, too. Any semblance of peace and quiet Osamu might have hoped for at university has been shattered with their mother’s insistence that Atsumu room with them, too, and if he’s being honest, Osamu hadn’t put up much of a fight in response. 

He still remembers how many times Atsumu stopped by his dorm room without warning, often coming with dinner or a volleyball to entice Osamu out of his room. He remembers being annoyed about it at first. He also remembers how long it took him to realize that Atsumu hadn’t been pestering him for the sake of it. Atsumu had been pestering him because Atsumu was lonely—because he didn’t know what to do with himself if Osamu wasn’t around.

That’s how he’s ended up here, splitting an apartment with Osamu and two others. Osamu hadn’t been willing to leave him behind again. 

Atsumu groans. “That’s a whole lotta work. I don’t think I have that kinda time.”

“You better make the time.” Osamu unwinds the cable from around the coffee machine and plugs it into the wall socket. “I’m not livin’ in an apartment full of cardboard boxes. I can barely see into the living room.”

“Ugh.” Osamu can hear how his voice tightens. “Fine.”

“Hey,” a new voice interrupts, and Kosaku appears at the edge of the kitchen, popping up right beside Gin. He has several takeout menus gripped in his hand for nearby restaurants that deliver straight to university housing complexes. At this rate, Osamu expects that any trip to the grocery store will have to wait until tomorrow. It’s reasonable to think ahead for dinner plans. “I found a couple of these menus left in my room from our RA. What were we thinkin’ of orderin’ for tonight?” 

“Ooh!” Atsumu perks up, any thoughts of his misplaced sneakers forgotten. “Let’s get sushi.”

Gin leans against the kitchen counter. “I’m fine with that.”

Osamu hums in agreement, returning back to his box in order to draw out another item. The first thing he grabs is made of smooth glass, wrapped carefully in bubble wrap, but he notices almost immediately that something is wrong. When he carries the bowl out of the box, a large chuck has been broken off, like it was dropped too hard on the ground. 

Osamu stares at the broken piece, turning it around in his hand. “Atsumu,” he says in a voice of deadly calm. 

Atsumu stops scanning one of the menus long enough to regard Osamu with a look. “Yeah?”

“You’re the one that brought up this box, weren’t you?”

“Uh, maybe?” Atsumu shrugs. “I can’t remember.”

Osamu can. He remembers, because he handed it off to Atsumu with a warning, Be careful with that one. Of course, any caution he’d given had gone ignored, and all Osamu has to show for it is a perfectly fine bowl that has been broken beyond use. Osamu lifts his head to meet Atsumu’s wary gaze. 

His features smooth out, his lines flattening into a tight line. “I’m gonna kill you,” he says.

To his credit, Atsumu heeds this warning. He dashes off while Osamu sets the shards down onto the counter, and he stands on the opposite side of the couch as Osamu storms towards him, using the furniture as a makeshift blockade. 

“Wait,” Gin calls out, his voice strangled. “Wait. It ain’t that big of a deal. Osamu, we’ll buy ya a new bowl! We’ll buy ya a hundred bowls!”

“Speak for yourself,” Kosaku says beside him. “Let them fight this one out.”

Osamu grips the cushions of the couch as he heaves himself over to close the distance. Atsumu squeals and leaps out of range, aiming to put enough distance between them before Osamu can tackle him to the ground.

“I’m sorry, Samu!” Atsumu says. “I didn’t realize it was a special bowl!”

“It ain’t about the bowl, prick,” Osamu snaps. He swings his leg out from under Atsumu’s foot, and Atsumu topples to the floor, his knees banging against the hardwood. “It’s about you not respectin’ me.”

“Then you shoulda put a big fuckin’ caution tape around it or somethin’!”

“I warned you,” Osamu says, gripping Atsumu’s shirt in tight fistfuls to haul him upwards. “I toldja to be careful. Didja listen to me? No.”

“You two,” Gin says, attempting to settle the argument before either of them risk further damage. “It’s fine. You’ll get hurt!”

“Jeez,” an unfamiliar voice rings through. “You’re all loud as fuck, and it’s day one.”

All at once, four pairs of eyes swing towards the open door, left propped open while they brought all of the boxes inside. In the end, none of them remembered to shut it after the last box had arrived, and within the wooden frame stands a complete stranger, sipping on a can of lemonade from the downstairs vending machine. 

Although his pointed features cut the perfect picture of complete disinterest and boredom, his eyes scan their apartment with far more intrigue than Osamu feels comfortable with. His dark hair splits in a middle part, reaching past his ears on either side, and his black T-shirt fits in a way that seems too loose, exposing his sharp collarbones. 

He releases his hold on Atsumu’s shirt and stumbles to his feet, and Atsumu follows suit, grumbling while patting down the front of his clothes. 

“Uh,” Gin stammers. “Hi.”

The stranger takes a long sip of his drink, smacking his lips when he drags his mouth away from the metal. “Hi.”

“I’m Gin.” Gin steps forward to make the awkward introductions, although Osamu is tempted to tell him not to bother. Judging by the look on this guy’s face, he doesn’t give a shit who they are. “This is Kosaku.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, where Kosaku offers a mock salute. He saves the twins for last, gesturing over to them. “And Osamu and Atsumu. Atsumu’s the one with blonde hair—”

“Yeah,” the stranger cuts him off. “I don’t really care.” He takes another slurp of his drink, and the noises that leave his mouth are so obnoxious that they have to be purposeful. “I live in the apartment next door.” He inclines his head to the right. “I was just wondering what all the noise was about. Is this going to be a usual thing?”

“No,” Osamu says, putting Gin out of his misery. “It won’t. We’ll be on our best behavior from now on.”

This is what Osamu does. It’s what he’s always done. He’s always made up for Atsumu’s brattiness and rudeness by being well-mannered in all the ways he is not. This will never change. If he has to put off any gripes he has with his twin for the sake of not getting into more trouble, then he’ll do it.

“Hm.” His eyes slide past Osamu, and it’s infuriating how that simple gesture manages to irk Osamu. He’s talking, so this guy should at least give him the courtesy of acting like he cares, right? “Whatever.”

Then, to Osamu’s complete shock, he walks further into their apartment and drops his now-empty can into their trash—without asking for permission or anything. His jaw drops, and all he can do is stare as the stranger aims for the exit, taking long strides that assure everyone he’s in no rush. He stops briefly at the threshold between the hall and their apartment, and he looks back over his shoulder once with a smirk. 

“I’m Suna,” he says. “Suna Rintarou. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other from here on out.”

Just like that, he’s gone, his absence leaving a noticeable hole in which none of them works up the courage to question what just happened. Osamu is caught somewhere between relief that they weren’t in actual trouble to irritation that Suna barely addressed any of them with any amount of respect. 

This means that he’s the first to break the silence that falls over them: “Who—the fuck—is that?”

Suna’s promise that they would see him again comes to fruition the first weekend back at university. This time, Osamu is the one to seek him out. 

It’s like Suna took their inability to control the noise levels in their apartment as a personal challenge and decided to turn the tables on them. On Saturday evening, Osamu had plans to organize his syllabi and fill out his calendar for the upcoming semester. Unfortunately, any hope of being able to focus disintegrates as the loud pop music and thundering chatter comes through their shared walls, and after ten minutes of staring at the sheets of paper in front of him, his brain refuses to cooperate. 

With a snarl, Osamu whips out his phone and sends a text message to their apartment group chat.

Miya Osamu

are you guys HEARING this shit rn

it’s so fucking loud

Kosaku Yuto

Dude don’t even mention it

I’ve given up trying to do anything

I think I’m gonna go over to Riseki’s

Ginjima Hitoshi

What are you guys talking about

Miya Atsumu

the dickheads from next door are hosting a party

it would be fine if they FUCKING INVITED US

            Miya Osamu

is that what you’re mad about????

i’m pissed bc that suna kid made it such a big deal when we were making noise

now he does this????

what a hypocritical bitch

Ginjima Hitoshi

Noted 

I will not be coming home for the next couple of hours then

Kosaku Yuto

Yeah I’m getting out of here

Miya Atsumu 

cowards 

come on samu let’s go check it out

Miya Osamu

no

Miya Atsumu

oh COME ON

it sounds like they’re having so much fun :(

Miya Osamu

            we weren’t even invited

Miya Atsumu

well we’ve only introduced ourselves to suna so far

That could barely be called an introduction to begin with. But Osamu decides to let it slide. 

Miya Osamu

no

Miya Atsumu

come on

come on

come on

let’s go say hiiiiiii

samuuuuuuuu

SAMUUUUUUUU

Kosaku Yuto

Oi Osamu just say yes he’s blowing up all of our phones

Miya Osamu

ugh

Ginjima Hitoshi

It’s for a good cause

Miya Osamu

UGH

Before Osamu can even type out a follow-up response, the door to his bedroom bangs open, and Atsumu pops his head inside. It’s like he already knows what Osamu’s answer is going to be, judging by the fact that he’s ditched his worn sweatpants for a new pair of jeans. He’s even put on a clean sweatshirt, as if they’re going to be invited to stay longer than their cursory introduction, and Osamu almost pities him. 

“What part of ‘I don’t wanna’ didja not understand?” Osamu asks, shoving his syllabi to the back end of his desk. Even if Atsumu doesn’t manage to convince him to follow, he knows that any chance he had of getting on top of his coursework tonight has vanished out the window. 

“C’mon,” Atsumu insists. He bounces in place, resembling a whiny toddler, and it’s enough to make Osamu roll his eyes. “Don’tcha wanna know who we’re livin’ next door to?”

Not really. He’s met the RAs that live on all four floors of the building, and he thinks that’s more than enough. He knows his roommates and his brother, and he doesn’t need to acquaint himself with the neighbors who have no regards for anyone living around them. He especially doesn’t want to cross paths with Suna again, who struck a nerve the one and only time Osamu ever saw him. 

“Nah,” Osamu says. “I’m good.”

“Samu.”

“No.”

“Aren’tcha a teensy bit bummed we weren’t invited?”

“No.” Osamu stretches his arms high above his head, listening for the distinctive crack in his back that comes from sitting for too long. “I don’t care.”

Right as he says that, the volume of the music from next door increases, and Osamu swears that his eardrums are ringing. Through gritted teeth, he gets off his chair and shoves it beneath his desk. Ignoring Atsumu’s inquisitive stare, he snatches his phone from on top of his papers and drops it into his pocket. 

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go see what they’re all about.”

As expected, Atsumu beams. He starts to lead the way, only looking back once to scan Osamu from head to toe. “You’re not gonna change?”

“No.” Unlike Atsumu, he doesn’t care about the perfect first impression. He likes wearing what he feels comfortable in, and as a college student rushing between classes on a hectic schedule, he finds comfort in baggy sweats. 

“But there’s a stain on the elbow—”

“Tsumu. I’m not changin’. If you want me to come with ya next door, it’s now or never.”

Atsumu takes this warning seriously, and he exits their apartment first. While Osamu grabs his keys, the music from next door becomes more intense with the open door between them. At this rate, he’s shocked that their RA—the serious and level-headed Kita Shinsuke—hasn’t come to shut them down yet. He might not be in his room right now, otherwise Osamu doubts that his neighbors would get away with this level of commotion. 

When the pair steps out into the hall, it becomes glaringly obvious that the party has lost any amount of control it might have had. Several stragglers roam the halls, chatting over open beers, and the door to 210 is wide open. Upon their first steps inside, his eyes are bombarded in every direction. People crowd in every corner, bobbing their heads to the music that has been raised to a deafening level, and the smell of hard liquor infiltrates his senses. 

“Are you happy?” Osamu asks, bringing his mouth to Atsumu’s ears to ensure that nothing is lost over the music. “How didja expect to find our neighbors when you don’t even know what they look like, stupid?”

“I—” Atsumu’s mouth clamps shut, like he didn’t let himself think that far ahead. 

“Are you at least gonna grab a drink or do we plan on standin’ here like fuckin’ idiots?”

“I’m workin’ on it,” Atsumu snaps, his face flushed. 

He takes a few steps further into the apartment, and Osamu follows along. It’s hard to compare when there are far more people blocking his complete vision, but he’s sure that their apartments have the same layout, only mirrored. The bedrooms appear to be towards the right, judging by the glimpse of the hall that leads down the kitchen. 

Osamu watches as Atsumu picks up a bottle of whisky and pours himself a solid amount into an empty coffee mug resting on the counter. It says ‘Memento Mori’ on the side, and Osamu almost warns Atsumu not to drink from it. Something about having the saying ‘Remember that you will die’ on a glass that you plan to sip from doesn’t bode well, but Atsumu slurps it down before he gets the chance. 

“Ah,” Atsumu says with a pinched expression. “That—that’s not great.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say about someone else’s whisky,” a voice interjects. Osamu glances up to find a tall student around their age standing on the other side of the island, his pinched expression matching Atsumu’s. He’s even taller than the both of them, a welcome surprise considering Osamu and Atsumu are considered tall compared with other people, and his mop of black curls falls over one side of his forehead. It’s hard to tell if he’s irritated or not—since a black mask covers the lower half of his face. “Especially when you drink from their mug without asking.”

“Oh.” Atsumu’s eyes drop to the mug gripped in his hand. “Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Atsumu seems to debate whether he should dump the rest of the contents out and wash it. His inner turmoil is obvious enough that the guy takes pity on him.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Just finish it.”

Atsumu drains the last of the alcohol before holding it out. “I can wash it if you want—”

The stranger’s eyes narrow. He takes the mug out of Atsumu’s grasp and cradles it close to him. “No.” 

“Okay,” Atsumu says, looking a little dazed. Osamu resists the urge to sigh. Atsumu wanted to come over here to make a decent first impression, and he managed to piss off the first person he met. It’s not out of the ordinary for him, but Osamu does have to hold back his laughter—for both of their sakes. “So, uh, you live here?”

“What makes you think that?” 

“Uh, who brings a mug to a college party?”

That’s—a good point. Osamu blinks and scans the stranger over again. He supposes it’s not a stretch for him to be Suna’s roommate. They both have the same enigmatic quality to them, as well as the brusque tone of voice. Still, one factor doesn’t add up. Osamu doesn’t understand how someone as standoffish as this person has been credited with hosting a party loud enough to rattle the walls of the building. 

“Yeah,” the stranger says, albeit reluctantly. “I do live here.”

“Oh, nice!” At once, Atsumu’s mood lifts, despite the fact that the stranger has yet to show any level of interest in this conversation. Osamu can only stand back and watch the inevitable disaster. “I’m Miya Atsumu. I live next door in 211. I just wanted to come over and say hi. Uh, hi.”

The neighbor’s eyes slide over to Osamu, acknowledging the fact that Atsumu made no effort to introduce him.

Osamu nudges Atsumu with an elbow. “Am I invisible to you?”

“Oh,” Atsumu says, like he completely forgot Osamu was there. “This is Osamu. My twin brother.” Atsumu gestures between their faces like it’s possible for anyone to take one look at them and not realize instantly that they’re identical. “He lives next door, too. So, uh, what’s yer name?”

His shoulders sag, as though he’s come to the conclusion himself that there’s no wriggling out of this conversation. Osamu almost pities him. “Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he says, his voice level. His gaze settles on the pair of them, and while it’s not quite like Kita’s had been, intimidating and stern all at once, it gives Osamu the same unsettling sensation in his stomach. “So you’re the twins Suna mentioned.”

“He mentioned us?”

“Kinda.” Sakusa’s lips flatten. “He mentioned—uh, well, he said there was a dumb and dumber pair of loud twins next door.”

Osamu’s nails bite into his palms as his hands clench into fists. The wave of anger that rushes over him is so swift that he can’t hold it at bay. He doesn’t know what Suna’s problem is, but the last thing he wants is an asshole with a superiority complex acting like he has any idea who the Miyas are. He can’t complain about them based on a ten-second introduction. It’s not fair. 

It’s especially aggravating because Suna has fabricated this false image of Osamu to literal strangers. People who have never met the Miyas in their life have this depiction of them as being snot-nosed brats—and, fine, maybe that applies a bit for Atsumu. But considering Suna is the one hosting a loud party obvious to everyone else on the floor, Osamu doesn’t think he has the room to talk. If he wants to talk shit about Osamu, he can do it to Osamu’s face. 

Osamu is calm and controlled in all the ways Atsumu is not. He hates ever appearing as less than that.

Unlike Osamu, Atsumu doesn’t contain his fury at Suna’s nickname for them. “Huh? Where the fuck is Sunarin then? I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind.”

“You called?”

Osamu jolts in place, partly because of the unexpected timing, partly because Suna’s voice is far too close for his liking. He stands on Osamu’s other side, his forearms braced against the island, his face more flushed than it looked the last time Osamu saw him. His hair is a bit more disheveled, strands falling into his face, but he isn’t any more dressed up for the occasion than Osamu, clad in a maroon T-shirt. 

To his credit, Atsumu isn’t fazed by Suna’s impromptu appearance. “Yeah, I called,” he says. “What’s this aboutcha callin’ Samu and I dumb and dumber?”

Suna’s head lolls forward a little. “Am I wrong?”

“‘Course you’re fuckin’ wrong! You don’t even know us.”

“First impressions say a lot.” Suna’s eyes flick over to Sakusa, who looks increasingly more uncomfortable the more this conversation escalates. “Hey, Sakusa. What do you think of the blonde dye job?”

Sakusa frowns into his empty mug, and although his mouth moves through the fabric of his mask, he speaks too quietly for any of them to pick up on anything he says. 

“See,” Suna says, like Sakusa’s inability to answer says it all. “Even Sakusa agrees.”

“He didn’t agree to shit!”

Suna bumps into Osamu’s arm, and Osamu straightens on reflex. “Well, your brother isn’t complaining,” Suna says. “It’s a joke. You should take it as one.”

“Who said Samu’s cool with it?” Atsumu demands. His head whips around towards Osamu, his eyes compelling him to speak up. 

Osamu wants to. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life, other than the time he knew that it was Atsumu who ate the last of his pudding from the fridge. He wants to open his mouth and tell Suna Rintarou how he really feels. But then the other part of him—the voice that demands to flit along without stirring up unnecessary trouble—calls for him to remain quiet. Osamu presses his lips into a taut line—and he shrugs.

“Samu!”

“Ah.” Suna’s lips curve even more. “I was right. You’re being too overdramatic.”

“I am not!” Atsumu’s hand slaps onto the surface of the island, sending all of the glass bottles shaking in place. Sakusa’s eyes widen, but after a brief second, they stand still once more, and he visibly relaxes. “It’s fuckin’ rude. You don’t even know us.”

“Who said I want to?”

Atsumu snarls. “Fine. We’re leavin’.” His fingers wrap around Osamu’s wrist and yank him forward. “C’mon, Samu.”

Osamu doesn’t put up any protests, because he’s reaching his limit as well. Sooner or later, his patience will run out, and he’ll wind up snapping. It’ll be worse than Atsumu’s loud outbursts. Osamu keeps his emotions bottled up as much as possible—at least in comparison to Atsumu—but when they overflow, the consequences are catastrophic. He recalls all the physical fights he’s started with Atsumu over the years. He still has the scars to prove it. 

He didn’t want to come here in the first place. If Atsumu is ready to go, then he is in full agreement.

“Really? But we were just starting to have fun.” Suna twists around so that his back presses into the island and his elbows rest against the surface. That smile of his hasn’t faltered since Atsumu’s initial outcry, and it confirms what Osamu already suspected: Suna Rintarou is an asshole. “There’s no need to get mad about it.” He looks over his shoulder. “Sakusa. Tell them they can stay.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Sakusa says to Suna. But then he regards the twins. It’s a more polite look than Suna’s, that’s for sure. “You can stay if you’d like. Don’t let Suna bother you. That’s how he is.”

“Yeah, well—” Atsumu’s grip around Osamu’s wrist loosens, like he’s actually considering staying behind because of Sakusa’s interference. Osamu glares at him, and Atsumu summons his resolve all over again. “No. We’re goin’. Good night.”

It isn’t enough, because Suna takes their departure as an excuse to walk them to the exit. He follows after them at an easy pace, but because Atsumu’s in front, anything Suna says is directed towards Osamu first. 

“What’s wrong?” Suna asks, an impish gleam in his eyes. “You’re not going to yell at me like your brother? Feel free to do so.”

“No,” Osamu says. Although his chest tightens, he forces himself to calm down. There’s no reason to get irritated at this point. He’s leaving. “I don’t care.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s lame.” Suna purses his lips. “Is that it?”

Osamu nods, though it takes a considerable amount of effort not to respond with more. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Suna tilts his head to the side as they reach the threshold out into the hall. Atsumu doesn’t slow down, shoving past a few students clogging the exit. “What’s your name again?”

“Depends if I’m dumb or dumber, I guess.”

A huff of surprise leaves Suna. He blinks. 

“That’s—” Suna starts. 

But before he can finish his response, Atsumu hauls Osamu down the hall, away from Suna’s searching gaze and harsh taunts, and he can’t deny his relief when the door to their apartment is locked behind them. The problem is that the music doesn’t stop, and when Osamu returns back to his bedroom, he isn’t any more able to focus than he was before. 

As it turns out, his second impression of Suna Rintarou isn’t any better than his first. 

The coffee machine whistles in the background as Osamu chops the banana into equal slices, dropping each one into his bowl of yogurt. Behind him, Kosaku sits at the island, scrolling through his phone while munching on cereal, and Atsumu has his head pressed to the counter as he dozes on and off. Gin stands at the counter next to Osamu, waiting for the machine to warm so that he can pour himself his own coffee. Unlike Osamu, Gin prefers his with a generous serving of milk and sugar. 

It’s the middle of the week, and everyone moves slower today than usual. Osamu doesn’t have a class until noon, and he’s content with taking his time, allowing his body to adjust and brush off the remnants of fatigue that cling to him. He especially savors the mornings when he gets to make himself a proper meal, one that isn’t a rushed bowl of cereal or a piece of bread bought from the convenience store across the street. It’s almost therapeutic to calm his mind with the simple art of cooking before his brain has to readjust to the workings of a university class. 

It’s become something like a routine to him these past couple of weeks. 

It’s jarring when something happens to disrupt the routine.

But the loud banging against their front door happens to do exactly that.

Osamu pauses, his hands stilling as he lets the last slice of banana drop into the bowl, and he slides his gaze sideways over to Gin. “Are you expectin’ anyone?”

Gin’s eyebrows are furrowed. “No.”

The two of them look over their shoulders, but Kosaku merely stares at the door, looking as confused as the rest of them, and Atsumu isn’t alert enough to give a proper answer. He does lift his head at the sound of the knocking, but he doesn’t move to answer it straight away.

The banging doesn’t stop, and when no one comes to answer immediately, a voice comes through the wall. “Hello?” Osamu stiffens. He recognizes that voice. He hears it occasionally—a distant sound down the hall or through the walls. “Is anyone home?”

“Ugh.” Osamu drops the peel into the trash and smacks his palms together. “It’s Suna.”

“Our neighbor, Suna?” Gin’s eyebrows flick upward as he taps the button for the coffee machine to start up. It whistles again, humming for a few long seconds while processing Gin’s commands. “What does he want?”

“Hell if I know.” 

“Hello? Jeez. You guys are slow.”

Osamu holds back his groan and strides over to the door when it becomes apparent no one else is willing to respond. He twists the knob and swings it open to find Suna waiting on the other side, a glass bowl clutched between his hands. It’s only upon further inspection that Osamu realizes it is full of wheat cereal. Even though his voice had been demanding through the wall, as soon as Osamu meets his gaze, all he finds is Suna’s usual aloof expression fixed in place.

“It’s about time,” Suna says by way of greeting. “What took you so long?”

Osamu’s eyes narrow. “What are you doin’ here?”

“What? I’m not allowed to come over?”

Atsumu peels his face off the island and squints in Suna’s direction. The shadows beneath his eyes are noticeable, and he’s paler than usual from sleep deprivation. But he still manages to sit up to tell Suna, “Hell no. The last time I saw you, you said Samu and I were dumbasses.”

“I didn’t say that.” Suna’s eyes slide past Osamu to land on Atsumu. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“What do you want?” Osamu asks, drawing Suna’s focus back to him. He has breakfast waiting for him, and although his class isn’t for another few hours, any disruption is unwelcome. He wants to be able to relax this morning and catch up on future assignments. He can’t do that when Suna demands his attention. “Seriously.”

His eyebrows lift once. “Touchy.” His eyes flick between Atsumu and Osamu. “So you’re Samu? You never did tell me your name.”

“Osamu.” There’s no way he’s letting Suna call him by his childhood nickname. “What does it matter?”

Suna shrugs. “It doesn’t.” He holds out his bowl, and Osamu blinks in response. “I need milk.”

“You need—what?” Gin asks from his position by the counter. By now, his coffee is warm and ready, and steam rises from his mug as he pours some of the milk in. 

“Milk.”

“What, you don’t have milk at yer apartment?” Osamu demands.

“Nah,” Suna says. “We ran out.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“So can I have some?” Suna thrusts the bowl forward, firm and insistent. Osamu draws in a calming breath. If Suna hadn’t already spotted Gin pouring himself some milk for his coffee, he might have been tempted to lie. But there’s no getting out of this now.

“Fine,” Osamu says. He strides further into the apartment, not waiting to see Suna’s reaction, and he picks up the milk from where Gin set it down. Ignoring Gin’s wide-eyed stare, he returns to the front door, where Suna still holds out the bowl. “Here.”

Instead of handing the container to Suna, Osamu undoes the cap himself, and he pours a measly amount of milk into the bowl. When he holds the container back, he meets Suna’s eyes with a flat stare of his own, his eyebrows raised, almost daring Suna to object.

Of course, Suna does. “Is that it?” Suna peers into the bowl with a frown. “That’s barely anything.” When he lifts his head, there’s a hint of a smirk pulling at his features. “I think I deserve a bit more than that.”

Osamu would like to tell Suna how little he deserves, but he’s in no place to lower himself to Suna’s level. He pours a little more, but only a little more. The cereal-to-milk ratio is still poor, and he relishes in the dissatisfied noise Suna makes when Osamu takes the container back this time.

“More,” Suna demands. 

“You’re greedy.”

“Come on,” Suna says. “This is barely anything.”

“You should be grateful I’m givin’ ya anythin’ at all.” 

“Come on, Osamu,” Suna coos, and there’s a lilt to his voice that wasn’t as apparent before. “Just a little more.”

Wordlessly, Osamu complies. He pours the last of the milk in the bottle—until all that comes out of the container are small droplets. 

“Mmm,” Suna hums, dropping a spoon into the bowl. “Perfect.” He looks past Osamu’s shoulders into the apartment, meeting everyone’s stares. “Nice to see you all again. Bye, everyone.”

“Bye,” Gin and Kosaku say in unison, a bit hesitant. 

“Piss off, Sunarin,” Atsumu says, his head falling forward onto the counter.

Suna’s gaze lands on Osamu last, and it remains there, like he’s waiting for something. Osamu can’t tell what that is, but he has nothing left to offer. Nothing left to give. He’s responded back to each demand, letting Suna get his way, even though every nerve in his body screamed in protest. He hasn’t let his anger show, because if he did, it feels like he would be losing. That is the last thing he wants. 

Suna’s shoulders lower a little, and he purses his lips. It’s a strange sight to see because it deviates from the image of Suna as effortlessly assured and confident in everything he says and does. It’s distracting, and Osamu finds himself tracing the shape of Suna’s mouth with his eyes as he pouts. It’s more than distracting, he decides. It’s disorienting.

But then Suna’s features smooth out, replaced with the same arrogant individual Osamu knows. 

“Bye, Osamu,” Suna says. He lifts his bowl up in farewell. “Thanks for the milk.”

Suna disappears back down the hall, and Osamu waits until he’s out of sight before shutting the door and letting his head knock against it. 

“You know,” Kosaku remarks, crunching his own cereal loudly between his teeth. “That was weirdly tense. What’s the beef with Suna Rintarou?”

Gin brings his mug up to his lips and blows to cool it faster. “I think Suna made some kind of snide comment about them. If I’m rememberin’ right? That’s what you said, right, Atsumu?”

Atsumu bobs his head without lifting it from the table. “Yeah. He’s just a massive dick.”

“You shoulda just given him the rest instead of havin’ that weird face-off,” Gin says. “That woulda made things a little easier.”

Osamu doesn’t know how to explain to Gin that nothing is easy with Suna. If he responds to Suna’s taunts, he loses. If he refrains from responding, he still loses. It’s a lose-lose situation, and Osamu wishes there was some way around it. There is no outcome in which he is victorious.

He doesn’t even know how Suna manages to rattle him every time. It’s not like they run in the same social circles or that they ever see each other besides the occasional sighting in the hall. He has no reason to dwell on Suna like this. He certainly doesn’t have the energy to keep up with these ploys.

But he can’t deny that Suna is one of the only people Osamu’s ever met that finds a way to irritate him each time without fail. 

“Yeah,” Osamu says, standing up straight and returning to his bowl of yogurt, dropping the empty bottle of milk into the recycling bin on his way. “Whatever. I’ll do that next time.”

“Next time?”

“He’s definitely gonna do it again,” Atsumu says. “He probably had milk. He just wanted to get on our nerves.”

“That seems kinda petty,” Kosaku comments.

“It is.”

“Okay,” Gin says. “Who’s goin’ grocery shoppin’ next?”

Osamu looks over at the calendar posted on the front of the fridge that details their individual chores around the apartment and when they’re expected to do them. When he finds their next scheduled grocery trip, his name is written next to it. He lets out the groan he’d suppressed during Suna’s visit and resists the urge to bury his face into his breakfast.

University students commit crimes all the time. Osamu is aware of this. It’s part of their nature. But he still believes that the worst crime of all is to take someone’s laundry out of the machine before it’s done. He understands if that person hasn’t come to retrieve their clothes in a few hours. He thinks that reaches a point of which it’s acceptable to switch out the loads, and he’s sympathetic in that regard.

But when other students take out his laundry before it’s even done washing or drying, it’s a surefire way of pissing him off. When he leaves his load of colors in the dryer, he sets his timer to return in fifty minutes, but when he descends down to the ground floor and enters the laundry room again fifty minutes later, his clothes are arranged in a pile on the only table in the cramped space, still wet and soaked to the touch. 

Osamu whips around to confront the only other person in the laundry room—the only person putting their wet laundry into one of the dryers. The dryer he had been using.

But when the person straightens and Osamu realizes who it is, any resolve he had summoned evaporates within seconds. Suna doesn’t look all that surprised to see him, though he raises his brows once. His hair is a greater mess than usual, sticking in all directions like he woke up an hour ago even though it’s one in the afternoon, and he wears a faded tie-dye T-shirt that’s a little too long for him.

“Hey, Osamu,” Suna says before continuing to toss his clothes into the dryer that Osamu had been using. “What’s up?”

Osamu’s eyes flicker back and forth between his laundry and Suna—between Suna and the two other empty dryers right beside him. Suna could have easily used one of those, but no, instead, he’d purposely taken Osamu’s clothes out of the one dryer in use. 

That rush of anger sweeps through him, and Osamu clenches his teeth together so hard that his jaw aches. Instead of responding, he turns to his wet clothes and pats them, almost as if to reassure himself that his first impression was correct.

“Oh, sorry,” Suna says, speaking up again. “Were those your clothes? This is my favorite dryer, so I wanted to use it.”

When Osamu twists back around, Suna stares back, expressionless and distant as always. But that expectation is there, too, like he’s waiting. Osamu eases his teeth from their taut tension, and he keeps his voice level as he murmurs, “That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Suna’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and if Osamu hadn’t been watching him so carefully, he might’ve missed it. “Really?” There’s an edge to his voice. “You really don’t mind?”

“No,” Osamu says, letting the tight coil in his stomach unwind itself with his words. He won’t let Suna win. He’s not going to prove him right. “I don’t mind. I’ll use one of the others.”

With that, Osamu pries open the door to one of the empty dryers, ignoring Suna’s stare burning against the side of his head while he adjusts the settings. Suna falls back into the process of throwing his clothes inside, and when he’s done, he kicks the door shut, setting the timer to start.

Meanwhile, Osamu mimics him, tossing his clothes into the new dryer in handfuls. He remembers to remove the leftover lint and discards it in one of the empty trash cans to the right. He arranges his timer almost at the same time as Suna’s, though he comforts himself with the reminder that his clothes need only half the time to finish drying. 

When he straightens, he finds that Suna hasn’t moved. He stands off to the side, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes narrowed while watching Osamu.

“What?” Osamu asks. Suna’s stare has always been unnerving, but its force worsens when he knows he’s the target of it. Its intensity burns against his skull. 

Suna doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his words come out with less confidence than he usually holds himself with. “Most people would be pissed to find that their clothes have been taken out of the machine.”

“I know.” Usually, Osamu is most people.

“Yeah. I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of nasty remarks because of that.”

“Why?” Osamu looks back at the dryer through the glass as his laundry is tossed through the air. “You do this often?”

“Yeah,” Suna says, the word blunt. “I do it all the time.”

“Because you wanna use yer favorite dryer.”

“Sure.” Suna shrugs. He tugs at the collar of his T-shirt, and against all reason, Osamu traces the movement. Somehow, Suna suits the color yellow—against all odds. 

Osamu has to actively resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Good to know you get on everyone’s nerves.”

“Well.” Suna drops his hand. The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re a special case, Osamu.”

Osamu freezes in the middle of turning back around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Suna shrugs again. He kicks his empty laundry basket beneath the table. “What do you think it means?” 

How is he meant to respond to a cryptic answer like that? Osamu doesn’t do riddles. He likes things to be straightforward and to-the-point. He doesn’t have the time or the energy to dwell on these mind games Suna likes to play. He has a ton of course reading waiting upstairs for him, and he’s going to be even more behind because of Suna’s fuckery. 

Still, Osamu meets Suna’s gaze on his way out, and with a straight face and a level voice, he says, “I think it means you’re a prick.”

Although he doesn’t stick around, leaving the laundry room as soon as the statement leaves his mouth, he’s almost certain he noticed Suna’s eyes gleam, and he can’t help but feel like he’s played into Suna’s hands somehow. 

Ginjima Hitoshi

Oh my god did you guys know Suna has a six pack

Kosaku Yuto

A six pack of what?

Beer?

Ginjima Hitoshi

NO on his stomach lol

Miya Atsumu

why the hell do you know about sunarin’s abs 

Ginjima Hitoshi

He was at the gym

He does these mad core workouts

And he saw me and came over to talk

He’s actually pretty cool! 

I like him

Miya Osamu

traitor 

Miya Atsumu

YOU WENT TO THE GYM WITHOUT ME????

Ginjima Hitoshi

Dude you were passed out in bed

I was only there for like an hour anyway

But he actually seems pretty nice!

He’s still very straight-faced a lot of the time

But we talked during our breaks and he seems like a stand-up guy

Miya Osamu

dude

yesterday he came over to ask for one single egg

one. fucking. egg.

Kosaku Yuto

If it bothers you so much you should just say so

Miya Atsumu

yeah samu

i don’t think you have much room to talk 

ur the one that clams up whenever he does something annoying

Ginjima Hitoshi

He actually asked me about you Osamu

Miya Atsumu

really?

what did he ask

Ginjima Hitoshi

Uh I can’t really remember

He wanted to know if you’re always that quiet i think

Miya Osamu

oh 

Ginjima Hitoshi

I think if you told him how much it bothers you he would back off

Osamu?

Osamu sets his phone aside. As sound as Gin’s advice is, he can’t bring himself to follow it. It feels like it would be giving in somehow. As annoying as Suna’s antics are, Osamu thinks he can bear with them a little longer. At some point, Suna will get bored of him. He’ll move on, he’ll become too busy to mess with Osamu, and this will be over.

Suna has already gotten bored of irritating the others already. He makes polite conversation with Gin and Kosaku in the hall, and other than the occasional snide remark, he doesn’t pick fights with Atsumu anymore. Osamu is the only one he still targets for reasons Osamu doesn’t understand.

But if Suna isn’t willing to extend an olive branch of his own, Osamu can’t imagine himself meeting Suna halfway. 

It’s rare that Osamu seeks out Atsumu’s company during the day, but after receiving his first exam back from his introductory statistics class, his first instinct is to send a text and demand that Atsumu meet up with him for lunch. The initial responses that come into his inbox run along the lines of no and leave me alone, i’m busy, until Osamu sends a simple please that makes Atsumu agree within seconds. 

He spots Atsumu approaching from some distance away as he leans back in his chair seated at one of the small cafés located across campus. He looks more alert than Osamu feels, though his eyes crinkle with concern when he makes it over to Osamu.

“What’s wrong?” His gaze drops to the pastry that sits on the table between them. He slings his backpack off his shoulders and drops into the chair opposite Osamu, the legs scratching against the floor. “Can I have that?”

“Yeah,” Osamu says, nudging it over to him. He bought it with the intention of eating it himself, but after the first bite, it didn’t sit well in his stomach as it continued twisting in tight knots and he’d given up. It’s an infrequent occurrence for Osamu to turn away from food, and that alone gives Atsumu all the information he needs.

“Okay.” Atsumu unpeels the plastic wrap around it and rips off a piece before chucking it in his mouth. “What’s up?”

“Failed my first stats exam.” Even admitting it out loud leaves a bitter taste behind on his tongue. “I didn’t realize I had fallen so far behind.”

“That is surprisin’. You’re always studyin’. How’d this happen?”

Osamu resists the urge to glare at Atsumu. He knows this is Atsumu’s way of parsing out the problem, but it only serves as a reminder of all the mental gymnastics Osamu has done in the hour since he received the grade. No matter how he looks at it, there’s only one conclusion he comes to: all of his studying and hard work has been for naught. He’s still failing the class.

“I don’t know,” Osamu says, tugging at the ends of his hair. “I thought I was doin’ fine. I’ve been doin’ alright on the homework, and I thought it was natural that everyone was a little confused.”

“That might be cuz everyone is failin’.”

Atsumu has a point there. Osamu’s seen the reviews from students that have previously taken this mandatory course, lamenting over the tedious problem sets and the impossible exams. As ridiculous as it sounds, many of his classmates might be in the same boat. While it eases the tightness in Osamu’s chest a smidge, it doesn’t erase the weight on his shoulders. 

“Well. Let’s see.” Atsumu motions for Osamu’s phone, and Osamu hands it over to him without question. Any other time, he might have protested. “I’ll pullin’ up yer syllabus. Let’s see how you can still pass the course.”

It’s the patented Atsumu method of figuring out which assignments are necessary in order to attain a passing grade. Osamu has mocked him for it several times, and now, it’s come back to bite him as he seeks out any way of improving his grade enough to knock this course from his required classes list. 

Atsumu scrolls for a bit, squinting at the professor’s instructions on screen. With his free hand, he breaks his pastry into smaller pieces and takes the occasional bite. Osamu suppresses the need to complain about the greasy fingerprints. Atsumu is offering his help out of his own generosity. This rarely happens. It’s likely because his misery is etched into every corner of his face to the point that any stranger can tell he’s having a poor day. 

“Okay,” Atsumu says after a few minutes of scrolling back and forth. “I think it’s still manageable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu sets the phone down on the surface of the table and slides it over to Osamu. “This class has four exams throughout the semester. There’s this first exam, then a midterm exam, another normal exam, and a final. So long as you pass the other three, you’ve got a shot at passin’ the course with a decent grade.”

“You sure?” Osamu leans in closer to the screen where the percentage values of each exam are listed. 

“Yeah. I mean, you prolly have to make sure you’re doin’ all of yer homework perfectly. Get good scores on all of those, and they’ll cushion yer grade.”

Osamu can do that. He’s managed to submit all of his problem sets thus far, and his TA has returned them back each week with satisfactory remarks. “That’s manageable.”

“Nice.” Atsumu devours the last of the pastry in one bite, and a litter of crumbs scatters onto his chin. He picks up a spare napkin to wipe his fingers. When he speaks again, the words are garbled. “That was good. Anyway, stop stressin’. It’s the first exam. All you gotta do is study really hard for the next one, and you’re golden.”

As simple as it sounds, Osamu knows better than to assume it’ll be that easy. He nods. “Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Atsumu pitches his legs forward, and his knees knock against the bottom of the table, jostling it. “Is that it? You’re done poutin’ now?”

Osamu scowls as he tucks his cell phone back into the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Don’t be a prick.”

“I’m not. You looked so mopey when I came over here. It was like someone stole yer lunch money or somethin’.”

The sad thing is that Osamu can’t even deny it. Even now, he’s not positive he looks much better than before, but at least he’s a bit more hopeful about his future in this course. There’s still time to turn it around. “Whatever.”

Atsumu shrugs at the same time two people walk past their table, and Osamu watches as Atsumu’s focus wavers. His eyes slide past Osamu’s shoulders, and he sits up straight as recognition crosses his features. “Omi-kun?”

Osamu follows the line of Atsumu’s gaze to find Sakusa standing alongside another student that looks vaguely familiar, with brown hair cut short and small eyebrows. Meanwhile, Sakusa appears to be frozen in place at the sound of Atsumu’s voice, but he does turn on his heel and approach their table, his friend close behind him.

He looks different cast in natural lighting as opposed to the hazy darkness of a college party. His expression holds none of that awkwardness from the time Osamu spoke to him last, and he appears to be more in his element away from the thundering noise, a paper cup of coffee clutched in his right hand. 

“Miya,” Sakusa says with a slight nod, addressing Atsumu. “I thought I told you not to call me that.” His head inclines towards Osamu. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Atsumu says cheerfully. He looks past Sakusa to offer the stranger a wave of his own. “Hi, Komori.”

“Hey, Atsumu.” Though Komori appeared to be withdrawn at first glance, the difference in demeanor between him and Sakusa is evident within seconds. While Sakusa’s mouth forms a flat line, a smile curls along Komori’s lips, at risk of widening further, and he rocks back on his heels as he faces the two of them. “I don’t think I’ve ever met you, Osamu. I live in 210 with Kiyoomi and Suna. We’re neighbors.”

“Oh.” That must be why he seems familiar, though Osamu is sure that they’ve never spoken before this interaction. He must have seen him in quick glances down the hall. “Nice to meetcha.”

“Komori and Omi-kun are cousins, too,” Atsumu supplies helpfully. 

“Ah.”

“Suna’s just our honorary third menace,” Komori adds.

At the mention of Suna’s name, Osamu’s expression darkens. It must be obvious to everyone around him, because Komori lets out a loud laugh. “He mentions you sometimes,” Komori says. “So you two know each other well?”

Osamu’s lip curls. There’s something unnerving about someone like Suna asking Gin questions about what kind of person Osamu is and referring to Osamu in casual conversations with his roommates. It’s not like any of their interactions have been positive, so Osamu doesn’t know why Suna bothers. 

“I guess.” Osamu’s voice is flat. It doesn’t matter how interested he is in knowing what Suna has to say. He’s not going to give himself away. 

For some reason, Osamu’s response makes Komori laugh even more, and at his side, Sakusa snickers. “I know that look,” Komori says, nudging Sakusa in the side. “It’s that ‘Suna is a pain’ look. We’ve all been there.”

His mouth opens, though he doesn’t know whether it’s to refute Komori’s claim or to argue that it’s impossible that everyone Suna knows has been in Osamu’s shoes before. His response dies in his throat, and his lips press back together in a taut line.

Thankfully, Atsumu cuts in. “He messes with Samu more than most, though.”

“Really?”

“That’s probably a fair statement,” Sakusa says. His eyes slide over to Osamu. “If you tell him to stop, he will. If it bothers you, you have to tell him.”

It’s the same rational advice that his roommates have told him repeatedly, bolstered with the reminder that Suna has been nothing but polite to them these past few weeks. Osamu should say something, considering how he takes the opportunity to complain about Suna so much that his entire group of friends are sick of hearing about it, but the thought of walking up to Suna and demanding that he leave Osamu alone makes him feel queasy. 

At this point, he can’t pinpoint whether his own pride prevents him from doing so or if his curiosity about what Suna wants from him is what keeps him from speaking up. Either way, he’s stuck, and the only viable solution he has is to put up with Suna pestering him. He’s hoping that the exposure will make him easier to ignore, even though it’s been weeks and Osamu still rants about him like he had the first time they met. 

Osamu shrugs. “It’s whatever.”

On cue, Atsumu groans. “You’re such an idiot.” He looks over at Sakusa and Komori. “He’ll never say anythin’ about it. He’s too stubborn.”

“So is Suna,” Sakusa says. 

“You’re one to talk,” Komori says. 

Sakusa shoots him a glare, the kind of look that speaks of years of ease and familiarity. He salutes them with his coffee cup. “We have to get going, but it was nice to talk to you, Osamu-kun.”

“Yeah.” Komori nods along eagerly. “Nice to finally meetcha, Osamu.”

“Hey!” Atsumu cries out, pouting. “Aren’tcha gonna say it was nice to talk to me, too, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa lifts his cup to his lips and slurps loudly. “Nope,” he says when he lowers it after a few long seconds. 

“Hey!”

As Atsumu lets out a loud string of complaints, Sakusa walks off, and Komori offers them a final wave before jogging after him. Once they’re out of sight, Osamu relaxes. It’s not like Sakusa or Komori are unbearable to deal with, but after the day he’s had, normal conversations don’t come easily. Their words of advice ring in his head, loud and insistent, and for a second, Osamu considers what it would be like to heed it. It’s a fleeting thought, one that vanishes at the memory of Suna’s smug look, and his features contort into a scowl before he can help it.

“I know that look,” Atsumu says, waving a finger around Osamu’s face. “It’s yer ‘thinkin’ about Sunarin’ look.”

Osamu straightens at once, the legs of his chair scratching against the floor. “Shut yer trap.”

“It’s the same exact look as yer ‘Suna is a pain’ look.”

“Cuz whenever I’m thinkin’ about Suna, I’m thinkin’ about how much of a pain he is.”

“Sure, sure.” But the levity to his tone tells Osamu that he isn’t convinced. “Do me a favor, and have an actual conversation with Sunarin. None of this weird tense bullshit you do. You’d prolly get along well if you tried. You’re both incredibly annoyin’.”

Osamu takes the remainder of his crumpled up garbage and throws it at Atsumu’s face.

Ginjima Hitoshi

Hey Osamu

Miya Osamu

what 

Ginjima Hitoshi has sent a photo.

It’s not a picture of Gin at all. It’s a mirror selfie of Suna at the gym, sitting on one of the benches as his lips quirk up. It doesn’t look like he’s exercised at all yet, though that probably explains why he’s still completely dressed in a tracksuit and sending Osamu unexpected pictures from Gin’s phone.

Miya Osamu

suna give gin his phone back

Ginjima Hitoshi

He’s changing rn

I’m just waiting for him

Entertain me

Miya Osamu

no

Ginjima Hitoshi

Osamuuuuuuu

Pay attention to me :P

Miya Osamu

i’m working

Ginjima Hitoshi has sent a photo.

This time, Suna sends him a picture of his lips pulled in a deep pout. For some reason, his stomach clenches as he sends his next message.

Miya Osamu

bye 

Ginjima Hitoshi

Will you come to the gym with me and Gin next time

Miya Osamu

depends

do you ever plan on returning my measuring cup

Ginjima Hitoshi

Oh yeah

I forgot about that

I’ll bring it when I get home

Does that mean you’ll come :)

Miya Osamu

let me think about it

no

Ginjima Hitoshi

:(

Osamu sets his phone aside, returning his attention back to his textbook. He was in the middle of studying before Suna interrupted, but his focus is lost within a matter of seconds. All it takes is a few strange and random selfies from Suna, and he’s lost his place. A bubble of frustration rises inside him, but he takes a steadying breath and gives himself a few seconds to recall what he’d been reading. 

It’s not the first time Suna’s rattled him—and it certainly won’t be the last—but it’s the first time Osamu has wondered what it might be like if he let the conversation continue and run its course. It’s the first time he’s debated talking to Suna longer.

Unknown Number

Do you want me to leave your measuring cup outside your apartment?

Miya Osamu

suna?

Unknown Number

Yeah?

Miya Osamu

how did you get my number

Suna Rintarou

I copied it from Gin’s phone

…Sorry?

Uh I can delete it if u want

Miya Osamu

whatever

yeah leave it outside

Suna Rintarou

Okay 

I washed it btw

You’re welcome :)

Miya Osamu

would you like a sticker

that’s common courtesy

why would you give it back to me without washing it

Suna Rintarou

Oh

Sorry

Okay I left it outside

Miya Osamu

cool

um thanks

Suna Rintarou

You’re welcome :)

After being at university for more than a year, Osamu has mastered the art of blocking out the incessant chatter from his roommates and the other students on his floor. He likes the library well enough, and it suits his needs whenever it’s finals season and he has to force himself away from all distractions in order to focus. But there’s something inherently more comfortable about sitting back in his bed with his laptop propped up against his thighs, his covers pooled around his legs. 

Although the loud voices of his roommates carry through the thin walls of their apartment, it becomes white noise as Osamu continues his reading, ticking off each course on his to-do list the more he gets done. But after an hour of staring at his screen, when the front door bangs open, his focus wavers for the briefest of seconds—long enough to pick up on an unexpected voice.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Now that Gin and Suna are gym partners—whatever that entails—he should have expected that Gin would invite Suna back to their apartment at some point. But he’d hoped it would come with a warning, one that allowed him to disappear for a few hours until Suna was gone again. 

Osamu is trapped. He can’t dash out the front door without passing by Suna and the others. His one saving grace is that the door to his room is shut, and he hopes this is enough to keep anyone from barging in. With that in mind, he returns back to his reading, though his concentration is ruined now that Suna’s voice filters in with all the rest.

It’s softer than Gin’s and Kosaku’s. It’s calmer than Atsumu’s. It’s as unfamiliar as it is familiar, and Osamu can’t help but fixate on it over the others’. His ears strain to pick up on Suna’s words without meaning to, but they’re too muffled to make out. With a sigh, Osamu scrolls through the rest of his upcoming assignments. He has a problem set to finish for his statistics class, but he’s aware enough to know that attempting it right now will only frustrate him further. He can at least do busy work for other classes until the conversation in the other room dies down.

He’s about halfway through a report for his literature course when the voices hush in the other room and a patter of footsteps head in his direction. The door creaks open, and Osamu lifts his head to find a pair of eyes staring at him through the crack. 

Osamu forces himself to break their eye contact first. “Wadaya want, Suna?”

“What are you up to?” Suna pushes the door open a little more, his hand clasped around the knob. 

“I’m workin’,” Osamu says pointedly, as if the collection of textbooks, syllabi, and extraneous sheets of paper littered over his bed isn’t proof enough. “Leave me alone.”

Osamu should’ve known better than to hope that Suna would follow his instructions. Instead, Suna decides to wander further into the room. It’s the average size of a single college dorm, but with two people in it, it feels a little more cramped than usual—especially when one of those people is Suna. There’s enough space for a bed, a desk, and a closet—and not much else. 

Still, Suna takes his time scanning the entirety of the bedroom. His eyes roam along the pile of textbooks stacked on the top of Osamu’s desk before darting over to the volleyball pushed beneath his bed frame. Suna’s acute attention to detail makes Osamu painfully aware of his overflowing laundry basket shoved into the far corner and the full trash can on the other side of his chair. He doesn’t consider himself a neat person, but he’s always thought of himself as tidy enough. It’s not like he was expecting company, and he’s had other things on his mind—namely, how he’s going to pass his next statistics exam that’s approaching soon. 

“Suna.”

“You’re always studying, huh?” Suna taps one finger against the cover of the textbook on top. “You actually rent all of your textbooks.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“You should just find PDFs online.”

“I do.” Osamu frowns. This is the most pathetic attempt at small talk he’s had to endure in a while. “But I can’t always find ‘em all. And I like bein’ able to look at physical copies.”

“Ah.” Suna nods, though his head keeps rotating around, inspecting every corner of the room. “That makes sense.”

“Suna.” Osamu hits the backspace key a couple of times. He’d been in the middle of typing a sentence before Suna interrupted, and he’s lost his train of thought. “Why are you in here? Aren’tcha meant to be hangin’ out with Gin?”

Suna casts a look over at him. “I am hanging out with Gin.”

Osamu tries his best not to let his annoyance tinge his words. “So why are you in here instead of with him?”

“I wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Why?”

Suna shrugs. Osamu has never realized how infuriating it can be to have someone respond to him like that until he met Suna.

“Well. You’ve seen me.” Osamu leans back a little, pushing his knees further up until his laptop topples onto his stomach. “Now you know what I’m up to. You can go.”

Suna takes a few steps further. He doesn’t stop until he reaches Osamu’s shoulder, and it’s instinctual for Osamu to freeze as Suna leans forward, his face mere centimeters from Osamu’s. His heart starts to race, and he wonders belatedly if his fight-or-flight instinct is kicking in. It takes him a while to realize that Suna is staring at his laptop screen.

Osamu groans and clutches his laptop closer to him, trying to shield it from Suna’s view. “Stop snoopin’ around. I’m doing homework.”

“I see,” Suna says. “So you’re really busy.”

“Yes.”

Suna frowns, and if Osamu didn’t know any better, he’d say Suna looks a little disappointed with his response. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Can you go now?”

Suna makes a noncommittal noise, but he does lean back a little. The relief is instantaneous. There’s something suffocating about being in the same enclosed space as Suna, even if it’s a space as comfortable as his own bedroom. He doesn’t like that Suna gets to see his room like this, all disorganized and cozy and lived in. 

“We’re watching TV,” Suna says. He walks back over to Osamu’s desk and begins opening the drawers. “Gin, Kosaku, Atsumu, and I.”

“So?”

It almost sounds like an invitation, and he supposes from anyone else it would be.

Suna rifles through, and he pulls out a keychain in the shape of a black jersey with the number eleven painted across the front. He spins it around his thumb a few times, and the metal catches the light from the single lamp in Osamu’s room. 

“Put that back,” Osamu says without looking up from his laptop. “Stop bein’ nosy.”

“I wouldn’t have to be nosy if you told me a little more about yourself.” To his surprise, Suna does as he’s asked, and he drops the keychain back into the top drawer before shutting it. “I didn’t know you play volleyball.”

“I don’t.” Osamu’s hands still over the keyboard. “Not anymore.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“It wasn’t what I wanted to pursue as a career, that’s all,” Osamu says. 

He doesn’t need to explain any of this to Suna of all people. Suna isn’t entitled to any of Osamu’s personal history, but Osamu finds himself divulging nonetheless. Maybe it’s because he’s used to people watching Atsumu—who’s taken the plunge and is pursuing volleyball after college. He’s grown accustomed to falling into the background ever since high school, and his natural instinct is to assume it’ll continue that way into college. He’s caught off guard by the fact that Suna bothers asking at all.

“Right.” Suna has moved onto Osamu’s closet, rummaging through the shirts and sweaters that are arranged on hangers. Although he’s focused on the task at hand, Osamu can tell he’s paying attention to Osamu as he speaks at the same time. “So what do you want to do?”

Osamu hesitates. “I want to go into the food industry.” He braces himself for the inevitable strange look, the irritating tone of voice he’s heard countless times before accompanied with the typical Are you sure?

To his surprise, Suna does neither of those things, though he does take out one of Osamu’s windbreakers and hold it up against his chest. “I like this windbreaker,” he says. “Can I have it?”

“Um, no.”

“Damn. Fine.” He hangs it back up in the closet. “That’s cool. What kind of food?”

“I’m leanin’ more towards onigiri.” That’s putting it lightly. He’s been making onigiri by himself since high school, and there is often the occasional day on the weekend that he sets aside to make a whole batch for him and his roommates. He’s more than thought hard about how his career might look and what he wants to sell. There are some days when he feels like those dreams and aspirations might swallow him whole. “But it’s a work-in-progress.”

“Onigiri sounds nice,” Suna says, subtle appreciation leaking into his words. He closes the door to Osamu’s closet and turns away from it. “I’m sure it’ll happen for you.”

Thank you gets stuck in his throat, and I appreciate that doesn’t seem quite right either. There’s something about the nonchalance with which Suna says that it’ll happen that differentiates itself from everyone else’s opinions of Osamu’s ambitions. He doesn’t discuss the probability of failure or question whether Osamu has thought enough about what he’s risking. The sentiment is clear and matter-of-fact, lacking any superfluous language to send the message home. 

I’m sure it’ll happen for you. He’s not sugarcoating anything, nor is he voicing Osamu’s deep fears. 

When it comes to expressing his gratitude, all that leaves Osamu’s lips is a disjointed hum. 

“Alright,” Suna says, heading in the direction of the door. “I’ll leave you alone, so you can get back to being a good student.”

“Thank you,” Osamu mumbles with an exaggerated roll of the eyes.

“I’ll see you around, Osamu.”

Osamu glances up once, just in time to see Suna’s mischievous smirk before he flicks the light switch off and shuts the door, flooding the entire room with darkness. 

“Dickhead,” Osamu mutters. 

Suna’s presence around the apartment becomes less of a rarity and more of a common occurrence as the days go on. It’s almost frustrating how easily that prickly first impression of Suna is shed, and the rest of his roommates grow to like him on their own terms. Even Atsumu, who Osamu thought he could count on, winds up tagging along with Gin and Suna to go to the gym one afternoon, and when he returns, he’s as much a part of the Suna Rintarou Fan Club as anyone else.

That one-time gym session turns into a regular outing, and before Osamu knows it, Suna is unavoidable. All he has to do is scroll through social media, and even though he’s not following Suna on any platform, he manages to see his face at least a few times. If he’s not online, he’s at Osamu’s apartment, drinking beers with Kosaku or watching TV with Gin or playing volleyball outside with Atsumu. 

This doesn’t stop Suna from picking on Osamu. If Osamu believed that Suna would stop all because he’s become closer to Osamu’s roommates, he was mistaken. If anything, Suna’s constant existence means that he’s around to irk Osamu more. 

They’re not always the most drastic of methods. Sometimes, it involves Suna lounging across the couch when he arrives home from a long day of classes and refusing to move when Osamu asks him to. Other times, it involves Suna licking the dirty utensils after Osamu finishes baking, even though Osamu tells him not to. The rest of the time, Suna stops by to ask him questions like: Are you studying, Osamu? How was your day, Osamu? Do you want to come watch TV with the rest of us?

For the most part, Osamu answers him with curt replies, but he decides that he prefers the consistent stream of questions over the physical antics, like asking for clean dishes or extra milk. He can withstand the questions, especially when it seems like Suna enjoys hearing his responses. Sometimes, Osamu wonders what might happen if he decided to indulge Suna a little more. What might happen if he continued the conversation further—and if he asked Suna similar questions in return?

But as swiftly as the thought arises, he forces it down. Their relationship—as odd and abnormal as it is—is weird enough without Osamu muddying the waters on his own. Suna does enough for both of them. All he can do is bear it. 

It would be easier to ignore if Suna didn’t insist on infiltrating his entire apartment—namely, Osamu’s bedroom. When he steps inside of his bedroom after his afternoon class, he flicks on the light switch—and nearly jumps out his skin when he spots that his bed is already occupied.

“Suna?” Osamu cries out before he can help it. Suna’s sprawled over the top of Osamu’s covers, his feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. His hair spreads out against Osamu’s pillow, and his arms brace against his stomach while he scrolls through his phone. At the sound of Osamu’s voice, his eyes flick over to Osamu standing in the doorway for a split second before returning back to his phone. “What are you doin’ on my bed?”

Suna makes no move to sit up or climb off. He keeps scrolling along, looking completely unfazed by Osamu’s outburst. “I’m waiting for Gin. We have plans.”

Osamu checks the time on his phone. He doesn’t know Gin’s schedule by heart, but he’s almost positive that Gin’s class doesn’t end for another half hour. “So you couldn’t wait in the livin’ room? You had to wait on my bed.”

“Yup.”

“Get off.”

“Nope.”

Osamu suppresses the snarl of frustration that builds up. He slings his backpack off and drops it on the floor next to his desk. “Fine.”

He drags out his chair and takes a seat while pulling his laptop out of his backpack. While he powers it on, he lets his gaze slide over to Suna for a moment, and he notices the sliver of skin exposed between the hem of his T-shirt and the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s ridiculous that the first thing that comes to mind is that stupid text message from Gin all about Suna’s abs, and his face warms within seconds as a result. He forces himself to look away.

It hasn’t gotten any easier. Being in his room alone with Suna has only gotten more difficult. He knows how to fill the space without moving a muscle. 

As soon as his laptop loads his browser, he checks his student email. Meanwhile, there’s a faint rustle of sheets, the creak of the mattress as Suna shifts, and Osamu keeps his gaze fixed ahead while he skims through the most recent collection of emails in his inbox. 

“Osamu.”

“What?”

When Suna doesn’t respond, Osamu looks sideways at him—only to feel like he’s been punched in the chest. Suna’s head is at the foot of the bed now, propped up against his arms while he stares up at Osamu. Although his expression doesn’t change, there’s something oddly alluring about the look in his eyes.

This isn’t good. Not at all. Osamu can think about Suna Rintarou so long as he’s confined to the role of the annoying neighbor that sticks his nose in Osamu’s space and pesters him with never-ending questions. He can’t think about Suna Rintarou beyond this. If he starts to wonder more about what lies underneath his shirt or whether Suna is aware that he’s sending Osamu bedroom eyes, he’ll drive himself further into a pit of his own confusion over Suna’s fascination with him. 

“What?” Osamu repeats when Suna doesn’t respond, though the word comes out more like a croak. 

Suna leans further forward. “What are you doing?”

“Checkin’ my email,” Osamu says lamely. If it were any other time, he might’ve responded with it’s none of yer business, Suna, but with Suna looking at him like that, any intelligent reply has vanished from his brain. “Why?”

“You don’t mind that I’m on your bed?”

“Why would I mind?”

Suna rolls onto his back, looking up at Osamu from where he hangs upside-down. His bangs fall away from his face. “Mm. Just wondering.”

Osamu knows why Suna is wondering. Any normal person would be furious about the invasion of their personal space. It completely disregards any manners or proper etiquette as the guest in someone else’s home, but he supposes Suna has never behaved like a proper guest as long as Osamu has known him. 

It takes a considerable amount of effort to tear his gaze away and return his attention to his laptop screen, and he thinks he hears a slight sigh as Suna rolls over again. But he chalks it up to his imagination. 

“I’m bored,” Suna says. He props his chin against Osamu’s shoulder, and Osamu stiffens at the sudden weight against him. He doesn’t know how to force Suna off—short of elbowing him in the jaw—so he stays still. At this angle, Suna’s face is closer to his than it’s ever been before, and Osamu feels every movement in his throat as he speaks. “Entertain me.”

“I don’t hafta humor you, Suna.” Osamu makes no further move to scroll or type out a response to the latest email demanding his input. “You’re the one imposin’.”

“But you’re not supposed to let a guest be bored.”

“You’re not my guest. You’re Gin’s. If anythin’, you’re more of a pest.”

Suna snickers. “But Gin’s not here right now.”

“Then go talk to Kosaku. Or Tsumu. They’re in their rooms.”

“But what if I want to be in your room instead?”

And what—exactly—is Osamu meant to make of that? With his free arm, he reaches up a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Then don’t complain that you’re bored. It ain’t my job to make sure you’re all happy and content.”

“I guess not.” There’s a faint vibration, and Suna picks his chin up from Osamu’s shoulder long enough to reach back for his phone. He hums as he reads his most recent notification. “Oh. Gin’s here.”

“I didn’t hear the door.”

“He said he’s coming up.”

“Good.” Now that Suna’s off, he has nothing holding him back from tidying up his inbox. His hands hover over the keyboard. “Now you can leave.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Suna swings his legs over the side of Osamu’s bed and drops to the floor. As he straightens, he stretches his arms high over his head, and Osamu turns at the right moment to get a glimpse of the small of his back as he heads in the direction of the door. Instantly, Osamu’s cheeks redden, and he twists back around in his seat before Suna spots him ogling. His dry spell must be bad if he’s actually finding Suna attractive. That—or the sleep deprivation is finally catching up to him. “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Osamu mumbles. 

Suna lets out a hearty laugh, and Osamu feels the echoes of its rumble deep in his stomach. When he’s gone, it’s a little easier to breathe, but Osamu finds that it’s a lot lonelier, too.

Kosaku Yuto

Osamuuuuuu

Get out here dude

Ginjima Hitoshi

Osamuuuuuu

Miya Atsumu

idc if he stays in his rooom all night!!

Miya Osamu

i’m studying

Ginjima Hitoshi 

Just for a little?

Suna’s askin bout you

Miya Osamu

even more reason for me to NOT

Kosaku Yuto

Just ten minutes????

Just ten...small...tiny minutes

Miya Osamu

            I HATE YOU GUYS

Ginjima Hitoshi

You love us really 

“For the record,” Osamu says as he emerges from the confines of his bedroom, “I ain’t drinkin’ anythin’. I need to finish studyin’ for my exam tomorrow, and I can’t be screwin’ around.”

The scene displayed in front of him is almost identical to how he pictured it from the loud voices that drifted through the walls. A few cans of beer litter the surface of the table, either empty or half-full, and a bottle of sake sits on the floor by Atsumu’s feet. The television is on, though no one seems to be paying attention as they all sprawl over the couch and the floor, droning on about meaningless nonsense. While it’s a common sight to find the rest of his roommates in this situation on the weekends, this time, there’s an outlier. 

Suna lies across most of the couch, his spine pressed into the cushions, his eyelids fluttered shut. His arms extend behind him, causing the hem of his shirt to ride upward, and Osamu wonders for a second that he might be asleep. But as soon as the thought arises, Suna peels one eye open to peer up at Osamu from where he stands over them. 

“Osamu,” Suna says cheerily, as if he and Osamu are the best of friends. He makes a motion like he wants to tug Osamu closer, but he misjudges the distances and his hand closes around thin air. “Sit down with us.”

“Just for ten minutes,” Osamu says, making eye contact with Kosaku as he walks around the length of the couch. “Then I hafta go back and study.”

“Boo,” Gin says, before blowing air into one of the empty beer cans to make a low, humming sound. 

“You’re gonna be fine.” Atsumu’s head lolls forward as he talks, but he attempts to sit up straight as he speaks. “You’ve studied hard for this exam. There’s no way you don’t pass.”

“There’s definitely a way. It involves the group of you convincin’ me to drink along with the rest of ya and showin’ up hungover to the exam.”

A laugh splits through Atsumu’s lips. “Heh. That would be funny. That would be…” His head careens to the side like he’s dozing off before jolting upright suddenly. “Hilarious.”

“It would not.” Osamu hovers in the awkward space between the couch and the table, unsure of where to take a seat. Suna’s legs take up most of the couch, leaving him with no room to sit, but he’s not keen on plopping onto the floor. “Um.”

“Here.” Suna draws his legs up to his chest. It leaves a spare cushion open for Osamu to sit down. “You can sit.”

Osamu drops into the vacated space. “Thanks.”

“Hey.” Gin shoots Suna an accusatory look. “You wouldn’t let any of us sit there.”

“It’s Osamu,” Suna says, like this is enough of an explanation, and Osamu would be touched by the combination of his words and the gesture if Suna didn’t throw his legs over Osamu’s lap in the next second. 

“I shoulda known,” Osamu mutters while leaning back into the couch. It’s not like Suna’s legs are particularly heavy, but it stops him from having the freedom to get up as he pleases. He doesn’t even know where to place his hands. Suna’s taken up most of his lap, which means that Osamu’s hands sit awkwardly against his sides. “You’d never do anythin’ out of the goodness of yer heart.”

When Osamu looks over, Suna is giving him that look again—the same one he’d given him in Osamu’s bedroom a few days ago. A soft smile curls against his lips, spurred on by the alcohol swimming in his bloodstream, and Osamu decides that this isn’t the worst thing that could happen. 

“Ten minutes, Suna,” he warns.

“Ten minutes,” Suna promises. 

Suna does keep his promise. When Osamu demands that Suna lift his legs, he follows through without a complaint, despite the protests from the rest of his roommates that he’s a bore. They lose interest quickly after, though Osamu swears he feels a stare between his shoulder blades that follows him back to his bedroom.

At the end of the night, when all of his roommates are passed out in the living room, Osamu is the one to wind up escorting Suna back to his apartment. 

“Walk in a straight line, Suna,” Osamu says while they cross the distance between their apartments in the hall. 

“I’m trying,” Suna insists. To his credit, while his balance wavers, he doesn’t need to brace himself against the wall to keep from toppling over. Out of all of them, Osamu would say that Suna handles his alcohol the best, though it’s a flimsy compliment when he’s up against Gin and Atsumu. “See?”

“I’m seein’,” Osamu says. “It’s nothin’ impressive.”

Suna casts a look over his shoulder. “Rude.”

Osamu’s jaw clenches. Coming from Suna, the insult—as half-hearted as it is—barely even stings. He picks up his pace until he’s at Suna’s side, but he slows his steps the second they’re in sync. “Don’tcha have class tomorrow?”

“Nope. Not until two in the afternoon.” Suna whips out his phone to check the time, and the screen flashes as it reveals that it’s just past one in the morning. “I’ll be golden. I’ll sleep it off.”

“Hm.”

“What are you studying so hard for, anyway?” Suna tucks his phone back into the front pocket of his jeans, though it takes him a few fumbles to get it inside. “You have an exam tomorrow or something?”

“Yeah.” They reach the front door to Suna’s apartment, but Suna doesn’t pull out his keys yet. He inclines his head towards Osamu, and it takes Osamu a second to realize that he’s waiting to hear the rest of what Osamu has to say. “Stats.”

Suna nods. He drops his weight against the front of the door, eliciting a loud bang that’s almost certain to wake up the other inhabitants of the apartment, and he stretches his legs out. “That’s rough. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Osamu says, scratching at the nape of his neck. At this point, he’ll take any luck he can get, even if it comes from Suna. “We’ll see how it goes. I mean, I’ve studied, but I’m still kinda nervous. I studied hard for the last one and failed, so.”

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can help it, a nervous stream that is the manifestation of all the worries and anxieties he’s tried talking himself out of. Because when it comes down to it, he’s afraid that all of the hours of hard work he’s put into this class won’t amount to anything. It’ll be like the last time, when he put in all the effort he could manage and reaped none of the rewards. He doesn’t know why he’s chosen to admit this to Suna of all people, but he’s already unloaded this baggage onto the rest of his friends enough. 

He supposes it makes sense to let Suna hear it, too. 

When he looks back up, Suna is much closer than he remembers. His face is pressed so close to Osamu’s that it’s startling, and a strangled noise leaves his throat. Suna pulls back a little, but only just. His head drops against the wall, but he stares back at Osamu with that same unflinching expression as before, the one that makes Osamu want to reach out. 

But then he remembers who’s behind that look, and it’s enough to make him hold still. 

“Osamu.”

“Yes?”

“You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” Suna taps his finger against the side of Osamu’s head. “You’re smart. You’ll be fine.”

“You—you haven’t even seen my grades—”

“Yeah, I have,” Suna reminds him, and Osamu immediately wants to groan. Now that he’s thinking more about it, he does recall the incident from last week, when Suna crept up behind him while Osamu was perusing his records. He had been eerily silent through the whole affair, and Osamu only realized that Suna had been right behind him when he went to stand up—and nearly leapt out of his own skin. “You’re really smart.”

His mouth fails him. All that leaves his lips is a noncommittal noise.

“Don’t stress about it.” Suna reaches into his back pocket for his keys, and he yanks them out, the metal jingling together. “You’ll be fine.”

Suna tries to jam the keys into the lock, but after several missed attempts, Osamu snarls and steps forward, snatching them from his hand. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, lemme do it,” he says. 

Suna doesn’t bother stepping back. His breath fans the back of Osamu’s neck while he works. The front of his chest is pressed right up against Osamu’s back as he twists the key into the knob and a definitive click follows. The door swings open, and Osamu gestures forward. 

“There ya go,” Osamu says, dropping the keys back into the palm of Suna’s hand. 

“Thank you.” Suna bobs his head. He stumbles around Osamu to get inside. “You smell good.”

“You smell drunk,” Osamu says back.

Suna snickers. He braces one hand against the frame of the door as he props himself up against it. That impish gleam fades, replaced with a rare seriousness for Suna, and he makes direct eye contact with Osamu. “Osamu. I need to tell you something.”

The solemnity to his tone almost makes him look like he’s stone-cold sober all over again. It’s enough to make Osamu stiffen, and knots form in his stomach as he asks, “What is it?”

“Come here.”

“What?”

Suna gestures forward with a flap of his hand. “Come here,” he instructs, more insistent this time.

Osamu leans forward, and Suna makes an impatient noise deep in his throat. His hands come up to rest on either side of Osamu’s face before tugging him forward, and for one quick second, Osamu thinks that Suna might actually kiss him. It’s a fleeting thought, but it makes his stomach swoop nonetheless. Instead, Suna pulls his head forward until his mouth hovers by Osamu’s left ear.

“Out of everyone in that apartment,” Suna whispers, “you’re my favorite.”

A shiver runs down Osamu’s spine, and the knots in his stomach unravel before twisting for an entirely new reason. Suna’s hands fall away then, letting Osamu go, and Osamu straightens, all while gaping at Suna. Suna can’t be serious. He must mean it as a joke. He hardly knows Osamu other than their brief conversations that can hardly be called conversations to begin with. Every interaction they have is taut with tension, enough that it leaves Osamu winded in the aftermath. The possibility of Suna’s statement being true is slim.

But still, it leaves a flicker of warmth blossoming inside him.

As he’s mulling over how to respond, Suna tries to wink at him—only to end up shutting both of his eyes at once.

“You’re drunk, Suna,” Osamu says, his voice small.

“Not that drunk.”

“Tell me again when you’re sober, and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“You won’t believe me, anyway.”

There’s a layer of truth to that. Because if Osamu lets himself believe in Suna’s honesty, then it becomes impossible to contain Suna within the carefully crafted box Osamu has constructed for him. The lines are blurred, the nature of their relationship convoluted, and Osamu doesn’t know where they go from there.

Suna rests his face against the frame, almost like he’s resigned to Osamu’s refusal to trust him. A gummy smile twists his lips. “Good night, Osamu,” Suna says, though his voice doesn’t rise above a whisper. “Good luck on your exam tomorrow.”

Osamu swallows, and he knows he’s not hallucinating when he notices Suna trace the moment with his eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbles. He starts to turn to leave, but finds himself pausing halfway. “Good night, Suna.”

He doesn’t wait for the door to shut before heading back down the hall. 

His stomach twists in a fit of nausea as Osamu departs from his examination testing room. In anticipation of the exam, he had done everything right: he’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep, he’d reviewed his notes and assignments, and he’d attended office hours with one of the available TAs. He spent a dedicated amount of time towards improving his grade, but when he’d first locked eyes with the first page of the exam, any confidence that he might have had fizzled out and left him lurching.

Panic seized him completely, any rational thought or reasoning abandoning him, and he’d fumbled through the entirety of the exam to the best of his abilities. Even so, he wound up spending the full allotted time at his seat, unlike many of his peers who turned theirs in early and got to leave before the end of the period, and he drove himself to the edge with the numerous times he went back and second-guessed his responses. When the countdown finished and the TAs went around to collect the remainder of the exams from the lingering students, Osamu passed his over with a wince, and while he strode back to his apartment, his mind worked itself into a frenzy.

It’s not like there is anything he can do to amend the damage that has been done, but the force of failure weighs heavily on his shoulders. He keeps wondering what else he could have done—how he might have prepared better. But each time, he comes up with nothing but the simple reminder that he’d done enough—and it still wasn’t what he needed to complete the exam with full confidence. All he can do is sit and wait until the results are posted online, and in the meantime, the knots in his stomach will continue to tighten. 

He’s in a poor mood when he enters his apartment building. His movements are erratic, his breathing rough and ragged, and he can only imagine the kind of look he’s wearing—the kind of glare that sends anyone in the near vicinity stumbling out of his path. He doesn’t think he’s going to cry, but failure threatens to hold him in a firm chokehold, and he’d prefer to be in the privacy of his room before his emotions swallow him whole.

When he bangs open the door to his apartment, his roommates all sit around the television, watching a season of a new reality show the three of them have been obsessed with. The loud noise from Osamu’s entrance is enough to make Gin look up, but the tentative smile that had been ready to form falls at the sight of Osamu’s expression.

“Hey, Osamu,” Gin says warily. “How was yer exam?”

At the mention of the exam, Atsumu and Kosaku’s heads both whip in Osamu’s direction. Osamu can’t even give them an answer. If he tries to speak, he thinks he might scream. Instead of responding, Osamu storms to his bedroom, and his footfalls against the floor almost resemble loud stomps until he reaches the door.

“Oh, wait, Osamu—”

When Osamu pushes it open, he’s met with the absolute last sight he wants to see. Suna is draped across Osamu’s covers, not unlike the previous time, but this time, he lacks his phone in hand. His lip quirks upward at Osamu’s figure looming in the doorway, but he either doesn’t catch the rage etched into Osamu’s features or he has a death wish. 

“Hey, Osamu,” Suna starts. “How was—”

Osamu clenches his jaw so hard that it hurts. His teeth grit together as his nails bite into his palms, and all of that pent-up frustration—all of that pent-up fury over Suna’s antics over the course of this semester—wash over him in a way that makes him feel like he’s been knocked down by a strong wave. It builds up until it becomes hard to breathe, and no amount of telling himself to calm down is enough to ward off the anger that controls him. 

It’s not Suna’s fault. It’s not Suna that Osamu is really mad at—not right now, at least. It’s an unfortunate coincidence that Suna happens to be here, pushing Osamu’s buttons like he always does, and it’s unfortunate that this is the one time Osamu cannot bear it any further. 

“Osamu?”

Osamu’s backpack drops from his shoulders and onto the floor, landing in a heap. Suna’s eyes track the movement before drawing back up to Osamu’s rigid posture—to the line of tension in his shoulders. 

“Get out,” Osamu says, his voice deadly calm. 

Before Suna can speak or even move, Osamu pushes on forward. “Get out,” he snarls. “I said get out.”

Suna appears frozen, his hands caught mid-air, and his eyes widen marginally as Osamu’s words hit him. He blinks a few times, like he can’t believe this is happening, and to be frank, Osamu can’t believe that this is how he snaps either. This is how he falls apart.

“You’re so annoyin’,” Osamu snaps. “What with yer snide remarks and yer disrespect of my personal privacy and yer inability to leave me alone for more than five fuckin’ seconds. Yer petty manipulations and all that other bullshit. I’m sick of it. I’m havin’ a fuckin’ shitty day, and I have to come home to this?”

“Osamu.”

“I’m speakin’,” Osamu cuts in, and he’s vaguely aware of how heavily he’s breathing, of how hard his chest is heaving. “You’re sweet as fuckin’ cotton candy to everyone else in this apartment, but when it comes to me, you continue bein’ a grade-A douchebag. Cuz you know you can get away with it. Well, I’m fuckin’ done. Get out.”

Suna stays still, blinking a little faster, a little dazed and a little bewildered, with a trace of something else in his eyes. Osamu doesn’t know what it is, and he can’t be bothered trying to figure it out. 

His throat hurts from raising his voice. It’s been a while since he’s gotten into a screaming match, and it’s been forever since he’s done so with someone other than Atsumu. This can hardly even be called a screaming match. It’s more of Osamu pouring out all of his bottled up emotions onto Suna, who doesn’t know quite what to make of it. 

When Suna’s gaze slides past his face, Osamu registers for the first time that they might have acquired a bit of an audience. As he twists around, he finds the other inhabitants of his apartment huddled at the door, gaping. 

“What are the three of you lookin’ at?” Osamu snaps, and like that, they all scurry off. 

Behind him, there’s a shuffle as Suna throws his legs over the side of Osamu’s bed and stands up straight. Osamu refuses to look at Suna as he walks past, staring resolutely at the floor instead. As the ramifications of what he just did fall into place, regret floods his system. Suna was not the right person to snap at, but Osamu did it, anyway.

“Sorry,” Suna whispers before he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. The word sits in the air, poisoning the empty space, and for once in his life, Osamu believes that Suna was being honest. 

It makes the regret he feels even worse, and when he throws himself onto his bed, right in the spot Suna vacated seconds earlier, it takes a tremendous effort not to fall apart.

It feels like hours pass before anyone dares to breach the entrance into Osamu’s room, and when it happens, Gin is the only one with the courage to do so. He pokes his head in, his movements hesitant, and Osamu doesn’t blame him. He saw Osamu yell at someone Osamu considers a near-stranger. He’s surprised Gin decided to confront him at all.

Osamu peels his head off the pillow, setting his phone aside. It’s been a conflicting process between trying to decide whether to text Suna an apology, text his roommates an explanation, or spend hours scrolling through social media in an attempt to distract himself from the weight of today’s problems. In the end, he spends most of his time on social media, and it doesn’t make him feel any better. 

“Hey, Gin.”

“You feelin’ any better?” Gin asks. He ambles further in, toting a paper takeout bag in hand. He sets it down on Osamu’s desk without waiting for directions. “Here’s dinner.”

“I’m still feelin’ pretty shit,” Osamu admits. He pushes himself into a sitting position and reaches over for the bag. His stomach started growling an hour ago, but he couldn’t convince himself to leave his room and face his roommates head-on. The consideration that Suna might have been out there with them was all the more reason to hide. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me.” Gin holds up his hands. “I had nothin’ to do with this.”

“Huh?” Osamu stops in the middle of peeling apart the top of the bag. “Then who? Tsumu?”

“Nah. He thought we should slip ya cheese and crackers beneath the door.”

“Then—”

“It’s all Suna’s doin’.” Gin starts to head back towards the door, though he pauses halfway, his hand wrapped around the doorknob. “He went out and ordered it for you.”

Osamu blinks. He tries not to let his sense of awe become so obvious, but he doesn’t think he’s doing a great job. The gesture is full of kindness—kindness that Osamu hasn’t come to expect from Suna. It’s jarring, especially considering how they left things off, and Osamu drops his gaze. He can’t look at Gin without feeling guilt knock him down again. He knows Suna didn’t deserve that outburst. It was all mistimed, and if he could, he’d take it back. 

“Oh.”

“You said you were havin’ a shitty day. So.”

Osamu lets out a long sigh. “I am.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” he admits, because he doesn’t. There are times when reassurance doesn’t help. All that makes someone feel a little better is sitting in their own despair for a while until they’re ready to emerge, and Osamu thinks this is one of those times. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

“Uh, Gin? Is Suna—”

“That’s somethin’ you gotta work out for yourself,” Gin says quickly. “I’m not gettin’ involved in that.”

That’s fair. Osamu wouldn’t want to get involved in this mess either. It just means it’s another thing he has to fix on his own time. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Just talk to him,” Gin suggests, looking back over his shoulder. “It might work more than you think.”

Osamu isn’t quite sure about that. The kind of vitriol he spewed at Suna is not going to be brushed under the rug easily. He doesn’t know how they proceed from here. Their relationship was on such a tenuous string that repairing it feels impossible—and if he does, he doesn’t know how they move on from it. 

Regardless, he owes Suna an apology. That much is clear.

“Yeah,” Osamu says. “I’ll talk to him.”

Kosaku Yuto

Osamuuuuuu

Ginjima Hitoshi

Osamuuuuuu

Miya Atsumu

it’s time to PARTYYYYY

Miya Osamu

fine

Kosaku Yuto

WHAT really?

            Miya Osamu

yeah i need this

Accepting his roommates’ invitation to join them at an off-campus party hosted by a guy by the name of Hanamaki is the first in a series of poor decisions for Osamu. The next is when he agrees to go shot-for-shot with Atsumu, because as always, he can’t resist Atsumu’s challenges when it comes to heated competitions. The third is when he leaves the party early to go back to his apartment alone, stumbling over his own feet and having to take breaks while walking as nausea rises and the urge to vomit slams into his gut. 

Although he’s traced the path back to his apartment numerous times, it’s a whole other ordeal doing it in the dead of night while inebriated. He finds himself second-guessing routes and streets that he knows like the back of his hand normally, and his wavering balance makes him even more impatient than usual.

But he supposes it’s fitting. He agreed to go out in the hopes that it would help him forget his own despair over his statistics grade—which he still has yet to find out—and drown out the guilt that plagued him the more he put off his conversation with Suna. He thinks less about the exam, but somehow, he thinks more about Suna. Suna and his stupid smirk—and his stupid comments—and his stupid thoughtfulness. He can’t exactly blame his attraction to Suna on sleep deprivation anymore. It’s time to chalk it up to the simple fact that Suna—against all odds—intrigues Osamu. 

Which is why his mood plummets every time he remembers the harsh manner in which he spoke to Suna. It’s enough to twist his lips into a frown and consider taking out his phone to send Suna a drunk apology.

But the last ounce of self-control and self-respect he has stops him from doing so. If he’s going to have this conversation with Suna, he wants to be sober. He needs to ensure nothing is lost in translation. Suna deserves his absolute honesty. 

Osamu continues mulling this over as his apartment building comes into view, and although he attempts to hurry his steps, it takes him longer than he would like to reach the side door and fumble with his key card before being granted entrance. Even the simple act of climbing the stairs is tough, and when he reaches his floor, his legs guide him on instinct to his apartment.

He starts to pat his pockets for his keys, but when he twists the knob, the door swings open. Osamu blinks. It’s not that unreasonable that Kosaku might have forgotten to lock it on their way out. Whatever.

Osamu stumbles inside, and if his mind were clearer, he might notice that the layout to this apartment is the reversed image of his. He might notice that he has a shorter distance to cross before he topples onto the couch, and he might notice that the air smells distinctly of cleaning products. His body sinks against the cushions, his head falling against one of the throw pillows, and he has enough sense to yank off his shoes before drawing his legs up onto the couch. 

“Ow,” Osamu mutters when he almost knees himself in the face. 

Normally, he might muster up the additional effort in order to reach his bedroom and lie down in his own bed. But right now, all that he can think of is how weary he feels from the journey home, and the couch seems like a more comfortable sleeping prospect than he ever thought before. His eyelids flutter shut, and he snuggles further into the couch as he starts to drift off. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed before—

“Osamu?”

Osamu makes a noncommittal noise without opening his eyes. It’s probably one of his roommates. 

“Osamu?” The voice sounds nearer this time—much nearer. Like it’s right above him. 

Still, Osamu’s head is much too heavy, and he’s much too content to bother cracking open an eye.

“Osamu.”

Osamu groans. “Wadaya want?”

When there’s no answer, he peels his eyes open, and a jolt runs through him. Recognition flares through him a second too late as Suna’s face hovers above his. 

It’s Suna’s face, but there’s something different about it. He’s never seen this look on Suna’s face before—this kind of wonder that makes Osamu a little breathless.

“Get outta my apartment, Suna,” Osamu mumbles. “I’m sleepin’.”

Suna chuckles, and the sound of his laughter loosens the coil that’s wrapped around Osamu’s heart. “I can see that,” Suna says. “But this isn’t your apartment, Osamu. It’s mine.”

“No, it’s—” Osamu tries to lift his head, then gives up halfway. He falls back onto the cushions with an oof. “It’s my apartment.”

“Here,” a new voice says. 

Another figure swims in Osamu’s vision just beyond Suna’s shoulder. Osamu recognizes the mop of dark curls as Sakusa hands Suna a glass of water. 

Huh. Maybe he’s not in his apartment. It’s possible that he miscounted his steps and didn’t pay enough attention as he was walking through the hall. 

Suna takes it with a quick nod of appreciation, and he walks around the couch until he’s crouched at Osamu’s side. “You need to drink something, Osamu.”

“No,” Osamu says resolutely, for no other reason than to be a brat. He knows Suna has a point, but everything seems like a challenge. “Don’t wanna.”

Suna’s eyes narrow. “You have to drink it.”

“No.”

“Osamu.”

“I didn’t realize Osamu-kun could be such a brat,” Komori comments, somewhere off in the distance. He’s not close enough for Osamu to be able to see him, but the volume of his voice suggests he isn’t far. 

“He’s probably tired,” Sakusa says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “And too drunk to function.”

“Still,” Suna says. “He needs to drink some water.” 

Suna holds it out, firm and insistent, and Osamu licks his lips once before forcing himself upright. As soon as he sits up straight, he feels a little dizzy, but Suna’s there with a gentle hand pressed against the back of his head while the other urges Osamu to grab the glass. Finally, Osamu obeys Suna’s orders, and he takes slow sips. He feels the way his stomach clenches periodically, and he thinks about whether it might feel better to hurl it all out. 

Suna seems to read his train of thought. “You think you have to throw up?”

“No,” Osamu says in between sips. “I think I’m fine.”

“Good. Don’t throw up on the couch. Sakusa will behead you for it.”

Sakusa nods gravely.

“I won’t,” Osamu insists. 

Suna believes him, and he waits with more patience than he’s ever exhibited in front of Osamu before while Osamu drains the rest of the glass. When it’s empty, Suna takes it back and sets it down on the table. He turns to address his roommates. “I can take care of him,” Suna assures them. “You can go back to sleep.”

“Are you sure?” Komori asks.

“Yeah. I got this.”

With Suna’s verbal permission granted, Osamu listens as Komori’s footsteps patter against the floor further and further away from him. Sakusa lingers behind, his eyes flickering between Osamu and Suna with some reluctance.

“You can go, Sakusa.”

“Don’t—don’t push him, Suna.”

“I’m not going to,” Suna says, all while looking at Osamu. Osamu’s face flushes, though he can’t tell if it’s due to the weight of Suna’s stare or from the alcohol. 

Sakusa accepts this answer, and, like Komori, his footsteps fade before another door shuts. 

It’s just him and Suna. Osamu has waited to speak alone with Suna for more than a day now, but he imagined this conversation happening differently—when he had more of an idea on how to apologize and his mind was a little clearer to keep him from saying something stupid. As it stands, this is far from ideal. But the more Suna’s around, the closer Osamu gets to saying something stupid. 

“Okay.” Suna crouches back down. “You want more water?”

Osamu shakes his head. 

“What do you want?”

Osamu’s head lolls forward, but it doesn’t get far. Suna catches him before he risks teetering towards the floor, and he urges Osamu back upright. 

“Osamu.”

“What?”

“You want to go to sleep in your bed?” Suna asks.

Osamu considers this, his eyebrows scrunching together. “No,” he says. “Too far.”

Suna blinks. “You want to sleep on my bed?”

The scrunch between his eyebrows deepens. While the shorter distance is enticing, the thought of sleeping in Suna’s bed after how they left things makes him queasy. “No.”

“I’d take the couch—you wouldn’t have to deal with me—”

“I ain’t takin’ yer bed, Suna.”

“Then what do you want, Osamu?” Suna stands up straight, bracing his hands on his hips. “You want to sleep on the couch?”

“The couch is right here. It’s comfy.”

“Your bed is more comfortable,” Suna says. “Come on. I’ll carry you and everything. I promise I won’t drop you.”

Osamu scans Suan from head to toe in a way he’s never allowed himself to do before. He can excuse this later on with the reminder that he was drunk, but as his eyes run over every stretch of muscle, he knows better than to think this is the alcohol getting the better of him. He licks his lips. “I’m pretty heavy.”

“I’m pretty strong,” Suna responds swiftly. He lowers back into his crouch position, and he rotates around so that his back faces Osamu. “Climb on. I’ll get you to your apartment safe and sound.”

“But—”

Suna looks back over his shoulder. “But what?”

Osamu gnaws on his lower lip. “No one’s back yet.”

“So?”

“It’s empty,” Osamu admits, his voice small. He knows what it’s like to have that emptiness roar back at him whenever he’s left alone in the apartment, and tonight, he’s sunken into himself enough to know that he would rather that not be the case.

His response is flimsy at best. But Suna nods like he understands. “It won’t be,” he says. “I’ll stay there with you.”

Osamu blinks. Although his previous experiences warn him not to trust Suna, his gut assures him that his honesty is true this time around. Suna is as earnest as he’ll ever get. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this. In fact, he’s surprised Suna hasn’t done the simple action and kicked Osamu out of his apartment. It’s not like he owes Osamu anything.

Still, Osamu’s heart warms. “Okay.”

He eases himself off the couch and climbs onto Suna’s back. His legs clamber for purchase, but Suna’s quick to adapt, gripping him beneath his thighs as he draws Osamu further up. Osamu’s arms wind around Suna’s neck, and he feels the muscles in Suna’s shoulders ripple as he stands up straight. They’re closer than they’ve ever been: chest pressed against the expanse of his back, and Osamu finds himself holding on tighter. Like Suna promised, he is strong, and he doesn’t give any indication that Osamu’s weight is more than he can handle as he walks in the direction of the front door. 

Suna crosses the distance between their apartments in seconds, and Osamu tightens his grip around Suna’s neck as they reach the front door. When Suna attempts to turn the knob, it doesn’t budge. It’s then that Osamu remembers the set of keys lodged into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Wait,” Osamu mutters. “I got it.” 

He undoes one arm from where it’s latched around Suna and drops it down to his pockets. It takes a few clumsy fumbles for him to pluck the keys out, and all the while, Suna waits patiently. When Osamu hands them over, Suna makes quick work of the lock, undoing it in a few swift motions. 

As the door swings open, Osamu drapes himself further across Suna’s back, feeling how his muscles shift as he kicks the door open further and readjusts Osamu’s position to ensure that he doesn’t slip and fall. At this angle, his forehead presses right against the nape of Suna’s neck, and his nose brushes against the short hairs that stick up there. He thinks he hears a sharp intake of breath, but it happens too quickly for him to be sure. 

“Okay,” Suna says, kicking the door shut behind them. “You want me to drop you off in your bed?”

“Yes, please,” Osamu mumbles. 

The lights in their apartment are all turned off, with only a sliver of the beam from the streetlamps outside guiding the path to Osamu’s bedroom. It’s discomforting to not hear the hum of the television or the whistle of the coffee machine or the low murmur of his roommates’ voices upon his return home. Instead, all that greets him is that roar of emptiness, and his grip tightens around Suna’s neck reflexively. 

When Suna props open the door to Osamu’s bedroom, Osamu is displeased to find that it’s as messy as he remembers leaving it. His backpack is thrown across the floor, a pile of papers sticking out between the zipper, and two abandoned textbooks sit open on the surface of his desk. He couldn’t even be bothered to make his bed properly when he woke up this morning; the sheets aren’t tucked as they normally are, and his pillow rests crooked at the head. 

Suna gives no warning before dropping Osamu unceremoniously on the top of his bed, and the mattress squeaks as he falls against the covers. “Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Mm.” Suna reaches over to light the lamp hanging above Osamu’s desk. All at once, Osamu can see Suna’s expression, clear as day. Any trace of resentment he’d expected is nowhere to be found. “Did you want to go to sleep?”

Osamu pushes himself into a sitting position. “Maybe.”

“Alright. I can turn the lamp off—”

“Wait.” Osamu catches at the hem of Suna’s T-shirt, and Suna stiffens at the direct contact. “I needa say somethin’.”

It’s not the optimal time to bring it up, but Osamu feels like he would regret it more if he didn’t mention it at all. Suna could have kicked him out of his apartment on the basis of that conversation, and he didn’t. Although his mind is a bit fuzzy and his tongue isn’t cooperating like it should, every nerve in his body urges him to apologize. 

There isn’t ever going to be an ideal way to go about it. He needs to stop being a coward and say what he needs to say. 

“Suna.”

Suna makes a throaty noise. “Yeah?”

Osamu’s eyelids flutter shut, and his head falls forward a little—though he doesn’t go far. Suna’s firm hands grip at his shoulders in an instant, forcing him upright. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Suna stills. Osamu can’t see him, but he can imagine the kind of face he’s making: his eyebrows flicked up, his jaw slackened. “You don’t have to—”

“Can you let me apologize? I’m sorry.” Osamu pries his eyes apart, partly because he owes Suna this much, partly because he wants to assess Suna’s reaction to determine how he should approach the rest of his speech. Suna doesn’t give away anything. While his palms still remain on Osamu’s shoulder, his expression is absolutely unreadable. “I shouldn’t have yelled at ya. I was havin’ a bad day, but that’s no excuse. It was really a wrong-person, wrong-time kinda thing. You didn’t deserve me blowin’ up at you like that.” He lets out a sigh. “I was a prick.”

Suna digests all of this with a nod. “You were the prick?”

“Yes—”

“Even when I came over to borrow all of your kitchen supplies, and I laid down on your bed, and I took your laundry out of the machine. That was you being a prick?”

Osamu blinks. “Well, no, but—”

“You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m not even mad.” Suna gently urges Osamu backwards until he’s lying down on top of the covers. His back hits the mattress all over again, and his head sinks against the pillow. “It was a long time coming.”

That’s how Osamu might have justified it at one point. But it no longer applies—not in his eyes. He should have spoken up a long time ago, like Sakusa and Atsumu had urged him to. If he had, Suna might have backed off. Instead, he’d kept quiet, bottling up his irritation until it imploded, and with the external stressors that university provided, it was no wonder he’d broken down as he had. 

He could have approached the situation better. With Suna as present around his apartment as he was, it would have been simple to take him aside and have a polite conversation. Whether Suna would have listened or not was up to him, but it wasn’t Osamu’s call to release all of that pent-up frustration onto him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Osamu insists. He tries sitting up again, but Suna’s firm palm forces him to stay put. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like I did. It was unfair.”

Suna shrugs. “Believe it or not, people yell at me all the time.” There’s an impish gleam in his eyes as he says his next sentence. “You yelling at me was a pleasant surprise.”

Osamu’s mouth falls open, then clamps shut. His eyes narrow, trying to pick out any deception to his words, but he finds none. That’s what is the most dumbfounding. 

“What about me yellin’ at you was pleasant?”

“It’s not so much about the yelling,” Suna clarifies. “It’s more about the fact that you actually had the gall to snap at me the way you did. You went totally feral. It was...intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” Osamu sputters. “What—”

“Every time I did something annoying, you either ignored it or pretended like it wasn’t a big deal. You made yourself seem so...normal in comparison to Atsumu. I was curious whether it was all an act.” This time, Suna drops his gaze to the covers, and he pulls his hand away from Osamu’s chest. “I wanted to see what it would take for you to lose your shit. I might’ve been irritating you on purpose. So don’t apologize.”

Osamu feels like he’s been slapped across the face. Even though Suna isn’t meeting his eyes, his gut tells him that Suna is saying the truth. If that is the case, then what is he meant to make of this explanation? All of those snide remarks and jarring interruptions and exasperating antics were on purpose. Suna’s been intentionally digging beneath Osamu’s skin for reasons he doesn’t understand.

“Why?” Osamu demands. “Why wouldja care if I’d lose my shit in front of you?”

“Because,” Suna says, “I like seeing all of the sides to your personality—even the ones you try your best to hide. Like I said, it’s intriguing.”

Osamu deflates at that. He knows that growing up alongside a twin means that he’s part of a package deal. There isn’t a world in which Atsumu is separated from Osamu and vice versa, and if he’s being honest, he wouldn’t ask for anything different. But as Atsumu became more impolite and unruly with age, Osamu felt like he had to make up for the characteristics Atsumu lacked. Someone had to be the responsible, well-mannered individual out of the two of them, and Atsumu certainly wasn’t up to the task. 

So Osamu was the responsible and well-mannered one. He remembered proper etiquette, he made polite small talk with people outside of his friendship circle, and he apologized on behalf of his outspoken brother. 

The fact that Suna doesn’t care how he acts is a novelty. The fact that Suna wants to see all of him is as much of a surprise to Osamu as it must have been for Suna to see Osamu go off the rails as he had. It makes his stomach warm. 

“Don’t apologize,” Suna says. “Not for that.”

Osamu doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t know how to verbalize the emotions bubbling up inside him. A stretch of silence falls between them, and Suna reaches over to turn off the lamp above Osamu’s desk, shrouding the room in darkness once again.

“Suna?”

“I’m right here. Go to sleep.”

Osamu shuffles backwards until his legs slip beneath the covers, and the instant warmth coats his lower body as he slides down against the mattress. Even when he squints, he can’t make out Suna in the dark. His curtain is wide enough that a stream of moonlight flits through the gap, but he can’t find the outline of Suna’s figure.

“Suna.”

“I’m right here, idiot.”

Osamu scowls. “Where are you?” He shuffles over to the edge of the bed, and his eyes bulge as he spots a familiar shape crouched against the floor. “What are you doin’ there? Are you alright?”

“What?” Suna lifts his head before pulling backwards a few centimeters, startled by the short proximity between their faces. “I’m completely fine. This is comfortable.”

“No, it’s not. You’re sittin’ on the hard floor. I can’t remember the last time I mopped.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Get on the bed.” Osamu pats the empty space beside him. The university-issued mattress is barely large enough for one person, much less two, and considering he and Suna are bigger than the average college student, it’ll be a tighter fit than usual. But they can make it work. He’s not sure he would extend the offer if he wasn’t as drunk as he was, but he doesn’t like the thought of Suna sitting on the uncomfortable floor all night just to keep Osamu company. “C’mon.”

“Uh.”

“Suna.”

“This is—” Suna breaks off with a sigh before standing up and dusting off his sweatpants. 

Osamu slides over to the other end, pushing himself up against the wall to give Suna enough space, and he yanks up the covers to let Suna climb beneath. There’s a flicker of hesitation before Suna slips under, and even when he does, he doesn’t dare fill the space Osamu has left for him. He’s nearly hanging off the edge, half of his body suspended off the mattress, like the last thing he wants is to invade Osamu’s personal bubble.

It’s almost frustrating. Suna has been keen on invading Osamu’s personal bubble for weeks, and now he’s decided to be shy about it. Osamu winds his arm around Suna’s waist, his hand resting against Suna’s hip, and he ignores Suna’s grunt of surprise to haul him closer. He isn’t satisfied until Suna takes up as much of the mattress as Osamu does. When he lets go, Suna’s shoulder brushes against his, and his leg presses right up against Osamu’s. It should be an uncomfortable pressure to handle, but Osamu finds that he likes it. 

“Are you comfortable?” Osamu asks.

Suna makes a strangled noise deep in his throat.

Osamu looks sideways at him. “Are you?”

Suna coughs once. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m comfortable. Thanks.”

Even though it pains him to say it, he does. “You don’t hafta stay—”

“No, I’ll stay,” Suna says quickly, drawing the covers up to his shoulders. “I’ll stay.”

The silence returns, but this time, the emptiness of the rest of the apartment is so tangible that it sends shivers up Osamu’s spine. He tries shutting his eyes, focusing on the rhythmic breathing of Suna right beside him, but every time he does, all he can think about is what Suna said: I like seeing all of the sides to your personality—even the ones you try your best to hide.

He likes Suna like this, too. Honest and genuine and true. He can get used to this—especially if Suna decides to stick around. He hopes he does. He’d like to see all of the sides to Suna’s personality, too, now that he’s gotten a glimpse of this one.

Osamu turns over, and the first thing he notices is that Suna is deathly still, as unmoving as a corpse, and an involuntary giggle leaves his mouth. He stretches his arm forward until his hand rests on top of Suna’s cheek, and this time, he feels the way Suna jolts beneath his touch.

“Suna?”

“Yeah?” His voice shakes, though Osamu can’t imagine why.

“You’re gonna keep hangin’ out here, right?” Osamu asks, his thumb rubbing soothing circles along Suna’s jaw. It’s a reflexive action that doesn’t require much thought, and he watches as Suna swallows.

“Yeah,” Suna says. “I’ll keep hanging out here. I don’t think it’s possible to get rid of your roommates. They’re everywhere. They’re unavoidable.”

“Tsumu would be so offended if you stopped goin’ to the gym with him.”

“I know.” Suna sighs. “He’d be so annoying about it.”

“He’s always annoyin’. You knew what you signed up for.”

Osamu draws his arm back, and he braces himself up on his elbows until he hovers over Suna’s face. Suna’s eyes follow him, a trace of uncertainty hidden beneath the typical calm and collected facade, and it’s like the start of breaching the shell Suna has created around himself. It’s a slow and steady approach, not unlike the kind he used to take for a powerful volleyball spike, but the outcome is worth it in the end. 

Osamu moves forward—but he doesn’t get far.

Suna slaps a hand over Osamu’s mouth, hard enough that his teeth ache in the aftermath. His eyes are wide—wider than Osamu has ever seen them. “What are you doing?”

“Uh.” Osamu hasn’t really put much thought into it beyond the simple fact that this is the closest they’ve ever been, and over the past few days, he’s noticed a lot more about the sharp features of Suna’s face and the curve of his mouth and the burst of his laugh. He’s not really thinking straight at all, operating purely on impulse, and right now, his alcohol-addled brain wants to know if Suna’s lips are as soft as they look. 

Suna takes his hand back. “You’re about to kiss me.”

“Maybe? Is that bad?”

Suna’s eyebrow twitches. “You hated me a few seconds ago! How have you done a complete one-eighty?”

“But I’ve been checkin’ you out for over a week.” Osamu’s lower lip pushes out. “You don’t wanna kiss me? I mean, it’s completely fine if you don’t—”

“That’s—that’s not the issue here, Osamu.” His lips flatten. “You’ve been checking me out? When?”

“I dunno. A lot. All the time. I can’t remember.” It hurts his brain to think that much. He shifts backwards a bit to allow Suna the chance to breathe. “Sorry?”

“Don’t—don’t apologize,” Suna murmurs. With more distance between them, it’s like Suna’s entire body relaxes. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you just want to kiss me because you’re drunk, or do you actually want to get to know me?”

“Well.” Osamu drops his chin onto Suna’s stomach, and Suna peers down at him. “You said you liked seein’ all of the sides to my personality. Maybe I wanna see all of the sides to yours, too.” A pause. “If that’s...okay?” 

Suna stares at him for an incredibly long time. The look he gives Osamu is indecipherable, and uncertainty races through him, filling him with hesitation and doubt while Suna thinks about his words. There’s something terrifying about saying the honest truth when he’s already vulnerable, and he feels it down to his very bones. 

When Suna does speak, he manages to catch Osamu by surprise once again: “Eh. I’m not as interesting as you, Osamu. But I wouldn’t mind that at all.” Suna’s fingers tangle themselves in the dark tufts of Osamu’s hair that fall over his forehead, and Osamu delights in the sensation. “It’s okay.”

His smile is instantaneous, and Osamu brings himself back up to Suna’s level, ready to kiss him in response. But he’s stopped again as Suna covers his own mouth with his free hand.

“No kissing,” Suna orders, his words muffled. 

“Oh.” A furrow appears between Osamu’s eyebrows. “Okay.”

Suna peels his palm away. “Not tonight, I mean,” he says. “If you still want to kiss me tomorrow, you’re more than welcome to. But right now”—he points between them—“I’m sober, and you’re not. You might regret this in the morning—this whole ‘wanting to get to know me’ thing.”

Osamu frowns. He doesn’t want Suna to think he hasn’t thought this through—that he isn’t as devoted. “I won’t regret it.”

“Good.” Suna drags his knee up and uses it to knock Osamu sideways until he lies down on his back right beside Suna. “Then you can kiss me tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“I promise.”

Osamu takes this promise to heart as he nods to himself, and he tugs the covers up over his legs. The exhaustion hits him all at once, his eyelids drooping as a yawn overtakes his entire body. The back of his mind vaguely registers the warmth of Suna right beside him, and Osamu nestles closer, chasing the body heat until their arms tangle together. Suna hums, the most content sound Osamu has ever heard from him, and Osamu smiles in response.

“Good night, Suna,” Osamu whispers.

Just before sleep whisks him away, he hears a whisper carried through the silence. “Good night, Osamu.”

The remnants of sleep still cling to him when the first hints of morning sun peek through the curtains, and Osamu rubs at his eyes with closed fists the second awareness sets in. The memories of last night return to him in flashes, aided by the slight headache that pounds at the edges of his skull, and he wishes he’d bothered drinking more water before tucking in for the night. In his defense, he’d had other priorities.

Namely, the other person occupying his bed.

It doesn’t matter that Suna Rintarou isn’t harboring a hangover as potent as the one Osamu is experiencing. He’s fast asleep, turned over onto his stomach as his hair spreads out against Osamu’s pillow, and a bit of dried drool collects at the corner of his mouth. Like this, all hints of mischief are erased from his face, replaced with something much softer and more honest, and it reminds Osamu of the glimpse he got of Suna last night—all genuine and true. 

It’s enough to make his own lips flick up in a smile. He still remembers Suna’s promise from last night, and he has no regrets. He intends to collect. 

A faint vibration catches his attention first, and Osamu follows the noise until his gaze lands on his phone, perched at the edge of his desk, buzzing with unanswered notifications. It takes a certain amount of deftness to ease himself over to the end of his bed to collect it, and when he does, he’s met with a barrage of unopened text messages from his group chat. He glances momentarily at the last few that came through, but stops as soon as he’s faced with a photograph of drunk Atsumu sprawled face-down across someone’s lawn, sent by Kosaku. 

There’s one notification that is an outlier out of all the rest. It’s from his university’s site, and his eyes skim the title of the email: Exam Results Posted For Intro to Statistics!

There’s a sinking sensation in his stomach that he can’t help, and he can’t put it all down to his drinking escapades from last night. He’s nervous. All he’s had to assess how the exam went were his own emotions in the hours following. This is the first actual confirmation of how the results turned out. It’s nerve wracking, because this is what he’s been waiting for and dreading at the same time. 

If he fails, he’ll have to drop out of the course and try again next semester. If he passes, then he has a chance. A chance at maintaining his stellar grades. 

Even though this answer is what he needs, his fingers still hesitate when it comes to inputting his student ID and password in order to pull up his records. As his phone loads, he casts one glance back at Suna, still fast asleep. The sight of him all relaxed loosens the nerves tightening inside him, and he takes in a deep breath as the page pops up. 

He scrolls down until he reaches the most recent grade. When he finds it, he reads it once, twice, then a third time to confirm that it’s correct. 

“Oh.”

Osamu turns his phone off, ignoring the other messages that demand his attention for the time being, and he shuffles back to the top of the bed. He holds himself up by his elbows, and he bends his face close to Suna’s, amusing himself with the raspy breaths he takes as he sleeps. Carefully, Osamu presses a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Immediately, Suna’s eyes fly open, and while he registers Osamu’s face pressed up against his, his brain appears to reboot itself in the seconds after he stirs. “Osamu.”

Osamu smiles a close-mouthed smile. “Mornin’, Suna.”

“Good morning.” Suna blinks. “Did you kiss me?”

“Not on the lips. Exactly.”

“Oh.” The word drips with disappointment, and Osamu can’t help but laugh at it. Suna’s entire face scrunches, and it only makes Osamu laugh more.

Osamu closes the distance between them again, but this time, his mouth finds Suna’s. Delight races through him as he discovers that Suna’s lips are as soft as they look. It’s slow and lazy as the two of them work to reorient themselves with the new day, but it’s also easy and gentle and such a contradiction from what Osamu knows of Suna that it’s almost dizzying. 

Osamu doesn’t mind, though. He wants to learn more about Suna—the good and the bad and everything in between. It makes the sweet moments like these all the more meaningful.

When Osamu pulls away, Suna grins back at him, that usual mischievous smile that Osamu is more acquainted with. “It really is a good morning,” Suna says. “What brought this on?”

Osamu knocks his forehead against Suna’s. “I passed my exam.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

Being able to say it out loud sends another wave of relief washing over him. He’d stressed about the exam for so long, both in the days that preceded it and the days that followed it. It had been so mind-consuming that he drove himself to the edge, and his breakdown in front of Suna had been the result of that. 

At least, with this passing grade beneath his belt, he can say that he got something out of those sleepless nights and tedious office hours and exhausting hours spent studying. Well, that—and it’s fair to say he’s got Suna, too. 

“I told you,” Suna says, brushing Osamu’s hair away from his face. “You’re really smart. I knew you would do well.”

“Shut up.” Osamu’s cheeks warm. “You didn’t know shit.”

“I know how much time you spend studying. It was a fair judgment to make.”

“Whatever.”

Suna laughs at the disgruntled face he makes, and he runs his hand through Osamu’s hair a couple more times before he deems himself satisfied with the outcome. “Do you think your roommates are back yet? I don’t hear anyone making breakfast.”

“Prolly not.” The mention of his roommates reminds him of the numerous messages waiting for him. It’s not his fault that Suna is so distracting. “They’ll be sleepin’ until noon. If we want somethin’ to eat, we’ll have to make it ourselves.”

“Damn.” Suna grips Osamu by the chin. “I guess this is the perfect time for you to cook me breakfast. You know, since you refused to all the times I asked before.”

Osamu wrenches himself away, though a short chuckle leaves him. He lifts himself off Suna and eases himself onto the floor, his feet brushing against the carpet. “You already admitted that you did that to be annoyin’.”

“Yeah, but I would’ve appreciated it,” Suna says, sitting up to stretch out his arms. His back cracks as he straightens, and Osamu winces at the noise it makes. “What do you say? Is my boyfriend willing to make me something good to eat?”

A thrill runs through him at the word—‘boyfriend.’ He never imagined the word applying to Suna. He never would have considered it before last night. Today, it’s different.

He savors it. It’s a thrill of its own—being Suna’s boyfriend.

“Sure,” he says, holding out his hand to Suna’s. “So long as you give back the jam you borrowed the other day.”

“Oh.” Suna’s expression clears. “Right. I did do that.”

Osamu laughs, more so at Suna’s expression than anything else. “Yeah. You did.” 

“I’ll give it back.” Suna kicks off the covers. As soon as he’s back on steady feet, he places his hand in Osamu’s, and Osamu cherishes the shape of Suna’s fingers entangled in his as Osamu drags him out of the room. “But you have to start calling me Rin. Got it?”

Osamu smiles back at him. “That can be arranged. Rin.”

After all, Osamu has a lot to catch up on. He has to learn all of Suna’s favorite foods and shows and sports teams. He has to learn how Suna acts when he’s upset and how he laughs when he’s caught by surprise and how he smiles when no one else is watching. He has to learn how Suna looks when he’s at his most vulnerable and how he looks at his happiest moments. He wants to learn all of these things—no matter how long it takes.