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“You!”
Osamu blinked once, twice, thrice, slow and heavy, trying to focus his blurry vision. Someone was shouting at him, over the thumping bass and loud, fucked up college kids. Was it angry shouting? Had Atsumu done something stupid again? He didn’t feel like picking up after his brother’s mess tonight.
He had allowed himself this one function, after a hard week of finals. Osamu avoided any social events at all costs- he disliked having to deal with large groups of borderline OD-ing 20-year-olds. Plus, the music was usually shit. But at this one, Kenma was in charge of the music, because he refused to do anything else whenever Hinata forced him to come along. Osamu often found himself talking to Kenma out of introvert solidarity, which was how he knew these things, and also how he was able to convince him to queue some of his favorite rock classics. Osamu didn’t give a fuck if some of the kids looked stupidly confused. The youth these days. So uneducated.
“You,” And the voice was in his ear, accompanied by a pair of heavy black boots that had come to a standstill almost toe-to-toe with Osamu. He squinted. So that meant he was probably staring at the floor, unless rules of gravity had changed somewhere in between that special brownie and his sixth shot of vodka (seventh?). Lethargically, he brought his heavy head up, up, farther than what felt possible.
There was a man staring at him intently, through heavy lidded eyes. He was closer than what most of polite society would deem… well, polite. Osamu was gone, so he didn’t really mind, although it made it harder to focus his eyes with the target in such close range.
“Uhh…” Osamu said. He was planning on making some sort of witty statement, but his brain was operating too far behind his eyeballs and he had just realized that this man was… well. He had piercings; in his nose, and his eyebrow, and flashes of silver implied a lot more in his ears. His eyes, a yellow-y green sort of color that he’d never seen before, were lined with heavy black makeup. Pretty.
“You,” The man said, and oh his bottom lip was pierced, too. A snakebite piercing, Osamu thought, which he only remembered because Sakusa had those, and Atsumu liked to go into way too much detail about how they felt- guh . Gross. “You have amazing tits.”
“Uh. Thanks?” What.
“I’m drunk as fuck. Cuddle with me,” His voice was raspy, whiny rather than deep. It was attractive.
“What?”
And then he was being dragged through the crowd, long fingers wrapped around his wrist.
When he was drunk, Osamu often had no awareness of anything going on around him. When he was high, he often had no awareness except a specific point of his body that his brain tended to hyperfocus on. He was crossed that night, probably, but he still had that one bit that all the nerves in his body seemed to travel to. Right now, it was the slightly chilly hand clamped around his arm. There were bits of metal- rings. On every finger. Osamu was too lazy to look down, but he’d bet that this man had attractive hands. And they, for some reason, were on him.
The man was apparently taking him on a journey. Osamu thought they might’ve just gone up the stairs of the house they were in. Hopefully he wasn’t about to be murdered.
They were in somebody’s bedroom. He only realized this when his shins hit something soft, and he looked down to see a bed, neatly made. The room was blessedly empty, it seemed, dark except for a single lamp on the bedside table. The bass from Kenma’s music still pounded in his ears, but it was muted, as was the shouting and screeching and other obnoxious loudness.
The man fell onto the bed, tugging Osamu towards him. He stumbled between his legs. Were they about to fuck? Drunken hookups were Atsumu’s thing, as was being homosexual. He furrowed his brows, watching as the stranger tugged off his boots, revealing colorful socks with different patterns- one had sushis with faces, and the other had one of those old wrinkly white world leaders (Boris Johnson?) depicted in a speedo. Interesting.
“‘m not…”
“Relax, dude. I’m not trying to fuck, or anything. Spoon me. I wanna lay on your moobs.”
“Um... ‘kay,” Osamu shrugged, and collapsed onto the bed, which immediately groaned under his weight. He was going to think about the word ‘moobs’ later.
His new friend- friend with benefits? Friend with cuddling benefits- wiggled up next to him, and Osamu lifted a heavy arm for him to fit. The man wrapped long arms and legs around him, holding tight as if Osamu was some sort of liferaft. His head, indeed, rested on Osamu’s pecs. If he were sober, this would be awkward. But he was so very not sober, and so he squeezed his arms around the man, resting his cheek in soft hair. He had on a big hoodie, but underneath he was rather scrawny. It made Osamu want to hold him tighter.
“Oh, god. They are squishy. Hell yes,” He muttered into Osamu’s chest. Breasts?
“What is going on.”
“We’re cuddling. Isn’t it nice? I’m a great cuddler,” Osamu had to admit that it was nice. He wasn’t much for displays of affection, but it was nice to have someone to hold. And although he was rather bony, he was also soft in places, and he melted onto Osamu like they were made that way.
“ Why ?”
“Cause I’m a clingy drunk. Plus, you were standing there looking like you needed a hug, or some water, but I didn’t have any water, and you have a very nice body, so.”
He had lost Osamu somewhere in the middle of that little rant. He stared up at the dark ceiling, eyes slowly drifting closed, breathing growing more even.
Osamu adjusted his grip, slipping a hand under the back of the man’s sweatshirt, to rub a thumb along the smooth skin of his back. He was rewarded with a small hitch of breath, a tiny stutter, barely noticeable. He smiled unwittingly and traced his fingers up the curve of his spine, exploring. He liked the way it felt under his own calloused grip, and the way it sent a faint, swirling heat into his stomach. This was very nice indeed. Comforting. Enough to make him drowsy.
The man was mumbling quietly, but Osamu only managed to catch the words “ future dilf ” before he tipped into a heavy sleep, comforted by the heaviness of a body wrapped around his own.
__
Osamu was dying. Or, more likely, he was already dead. And apparently he had gone to hell, because someone was torturing him, making his head throb painfully with every beat of his heart. His mouth was painfully dry, and he was caught between shivering from cold and breaking out in a sweat. When he tried to open his eyes, he discovered them to be practically glued shut due to the crust that tends to form after a particularly intense nap. Osamu lifted one leaden arm slowly, to rub the sleep out of his eyes, and pry them open.
He was in a bedroom, on a bed, alone. The entire room was a flat gray color, lit only by the dim early-morning light streaming through the window. It was dead silent. Osamu suddenly felt very wrong, but he didn’t know why. He knew he was forgetting something, or something was missing, or wrong. He sat up. And realized that he still felt drunk. Or high. Or something. Whatever it was was making his head spin on his shoulders at a disturbingly high velocity.
Osamu realized, suddenly, that he was about to vomit.
He ran.
“What the fuck.”
“What the fuck, what the fuck? It ain't that weird,” Osamu was huddled in his bed, hiding under his blankets from the evil sunlight that was streaming through his window, attempting to worsen his headache. “Ever heard of friends with benefits?”
He had finally remembered, after puking his guts out into someone’s sink, what was missing when he awoke. The cuddle man.
As soon as he’d found his way back to his dorm, he called his brother. Which was probably a mistake.
“That means sex, Samu!” Atsumu’s voice crackled through his phone speaker at an alarming volume. “I know yer a virgin, but you at least hafta know people’re havin’ sex. Not just… cuddlin’.”
“I’m not a virgin , Tsumu, an’ I know people have sex! Just apparently not this guy.”
“Yer supposed to be the straight twin.”
“I am. S’not gay to cuddle with yer homies.”
“Yer not even homies! Ya don’ even know his name.”
“I bet Kuroo knows ‘im.”
His twin grumbled into the speakerphone. “Prolly. I’ll ask Tetsu at practice- though he might be on Bokkun duty.”
In normal-person terms, that meant: I’ll ask Kuroo today at volleyball, although he might not be there because his boyfriend, Bokuto, is insane and drank probably around three gallons of beer last night and thus must be suffering through a massive, throbbing hangover, and it’s Kuroo’s job to take care of him because they are gross and in love.
“Hm,” Osamu hung up with a sigh, burying further into his covers as he waited for the advil he had taken to kick in. It wasn’t odd that neither of them knew the guy- it was a big campus, and Osamu himself was rather antisocial. A lot of people knew Atsumu, but he wasn’t much more people-oriented than his twin- he was just loud, so people assumed he was extroverted.
Honestly, he wasn’t even sure why he was still thinking about it. It wasn’t even a hookup. And what would he even do if he found the man? Befriend him? That would be weird. Everything was weird.
Osamu went back to sleep.
__
A few weeks later, and Osamu had been dragged to another party.
Okay, maybe he had been a little less resistant than usual when Ginjima had told him to come, implying that perhaps a certain clingy drunk might be there (and wiggled his eyebrows so violently that Osamu was reminded of two fuzzy caterpillars experiencing cardiac arrest). He had told Gin- or rather, Atsumu had implied it to Gin, and Gin had forced Osamu to elaborate- only because he was forced. The man hadn’t let it go. He thought it was hilarious.
Kuroo hadn’t been at practice, and Atsumu had forgotten about the cuddling incident approximately five minutes after it ended, only to be remembered occasionally while teasing his twin about his lackluster love life. So Osamu didn’t know who the man was, and he didn’t want to ask either of them about it, because they were both annoying as shit and needed no reminder of potential blackmail material.
Osamu was left wondering.
Perhaps he was a serial cuddler. A chronic, drunken little spoon. How often did he go to parties? Did he have a reputation for- literally- sleeping around? Was Osamu just one of many moob-having victims?
(In the past few weeks, he had found himself poking at his own tits, mystified. He supposed that they had grown as he filled out, after quitting volleyball. Atsumu teased him for his borderline dad bod, but Osamu rather liked it. And apparently attractive strangers did too.)
So, here he stood.
In a corner, leaning against the wall awkwardly, chatting with Kenma, watching Atsumu make a fool out of himself with his creepy-ass boyfriend in the middle of a sea of writhing bodies.
“It is rather horrible,” Kenma said, monotone as ever. He was a bit more chatty, after Hinata had dragged him outside for a half hour, returning only after both men emitted an odor reminiscent of the city of San Francisco during June. “It’s like the mating ritual of slenderman. Slendermen. Right in front of us.”
Osamu nodded in agreement, eyeing the couple as they gyrated. “Y’know those fuckin’... gumby-type shits? The ones that haunt car dealerships?”
Kenma nodded solemnly. His hair was pulled back into some sort of messy ponytail, but strands of blond still fell into his face, fluttering around as he moved his head. “Absolutely.”
Osamu took a healthy gulp from the bottle in his hand (tequila?) and passed it to Kenma, who followed suit, looking just as grim.
He scanned the crowd. It was even busier than last time, probably due to the fact that it was hosted by Kuroo, and everyone liked Kuroo. Well, everyone had a crush on Kuroo, and most found that they could tolerate his personality, too.
“Who are you looking for,” Kenma muttered. Nothing he said ever sounded like a question. It was unnerving, how he spoke, but Osamu liked it.
“Wha?”
“Who.”
“Nobody.”
There was a silence, in which Kenma looked mightily unimpressed. Lying to him was useless. That fucker knew everything.
Osamu sighed. “Just. Someone I met last time.”
“Oh. I remember. I saw,” He nodded slightly.
“How? Ya were busy, like, vacuum cleanin’ Hinata’s face with yer mouth.”
Kenma’s mouth twitched into a tiny smirk. Evil. Menacing. “I see everything.”
“Kay, damn, eye of Sauron.”
The smirk grew, and Kenma turned to look at him. Or rather, look at something right next to him. His eye twitched, a tiny impossibility, because Kenma was not twitchy. Something had caught him off guard.
“Wow. You are a huge nerd,” A familiar voice rasped in his ear. Osamu immediately turned at the sound, and almost whacked the man’s face with his own. He leaned back to avoid such a disaster, squinting at the stranger. Or less-than-stranger, he supposed.
“You!” He stuttered. Piercings glittered over stretched lips as the man smiled wryly. His teeth were rather sharp, giving the action an almost feral undertone. The effect was slightly dampened due to his casual attire- sweatpants and converse, as opposed to the boots and jeans last time- but still. Osamu gulped. He was not drunk enough for this. “‘M not a fuckin’ nerd . I’m well-read . ‘Nd Lord of the Rings is a classic .”
“Oh. Hey, Suna,” Kenma had edged closer, peering at the newcomer through bloodshot eyes.
“Kenma,” The man- Suna - nodded back. Wait.
“Kenma! Ya know him?”
He didn’t even look up at him. “Yeah. Suna.”
Suna was meeting Kenma’s steady gaze with his own. Osamu suddenly felt as if he was intruding. “I’m Suna.”
Osamu gritted his teeth. “Right. ‘Kay. Nice ta meet ya, Suna-?”
“Rintarou.”
“Suna Rintarou. How do y’all even know each other?” He was peeved that the blond hadn’t even mentioned this, but honestly, he didn’t expect much from the man. He wouldn’t have told Osamu anything that wasn’t explicitly asked for.
“Had sex,” Kenma supplied, helpfully.
Osamu choked, eyes bulging. “But- Hinata-”
“Watched,” Suna was grinning, now, turning his head to look at Osamu with a mischievous glint in his eyes. For his part, Osamu was having a mild crisis. His mind was going places it shouldn’t ever have gone. He didn’t want to think about his kind-of-friend and his not-really-friend having sex while his mostly-friend watched! Why were those images doing things to his heart (among other parts)? Why was it so hard to be a heterosexual man these days? “Nice to see you again, Osamu.”
Had he ever told Suna his name?
A handle was placed in his flailing grasp. Osamu drank.
At some point, Kenma disappeared (probably to have weird kinky sex with his apparently not-innocent boyfriend), leaving Suna alone to supervise Osamu’s drinking habits. And Osamu quickly learned that Suna was a shit supervisor. He was quite the instigator.
Sometime after Kenma took his leave, they stumbled onto the nearest couch, which was actually not a couch, because it was an armchair. Which meant there was very little room for sitting. And so, naturally, Suna pushed Osamu onto it and sank onto his lap, smiling evilly the whole time. He shoved his hands into the back of Osamu’s sweatshirt and rested his head in the crook of his neck. After a moment of hesitation, he rested his hands on Suna’s waist, wrapping his arms around.
A heavy bass from the questionable rap music rattled around them, making the space hum and Osamu’s bones feel like jello. Or maybe that was due to the Suna Rintarou caged in his arms.
Suna lifted his head to look up at him. He was really quite attractive, objectively. The eyeliner and piercings were distracting, and they added to an intimidating sort of effect, but underneath all of that, Suna was pretty. High cheekbones, heavy lids, full lips that were only apparent when not twisted into his usual sardonic, mischievous grin. His eyelashes were long and dark, and they fluttered a bit as he peered up through them. Absently, Osamu ran his thumb over his snakebites, feeling the coolness of the metal contrasted with warm skin. Suna poked his tongue out slightly, wetting his bottom lip and the tip of Osamu’s finger, and subsequently sending a shiver down his spine.
“What the fuckkkk,” Someone shouted over the music and general loudness. Osamu tore his gaze away from Suna’s to see his brother standing over them, looking torn between smugness and horror. A joint dangled from his fingers, halfway burned, dropping ash. That would explain Sakusa’s absence- he hated weed.
“What,” Osamu said defensively, and Suna turned to stare at Atsumu.
“There’s two of you,” He said, in awe.
“Miya Atsumu,” Atsumu smiled unpleasantly. “The hotter twin. Nice ta meet ya.”
Suna leaned back, resting his head against Osamu’s chest. “The moobs beg to differ.”
For once in his miserable little life, his brother was at a loss for words. His eyebrows had furrowed at the word “moobs”, and he was stuck in some sort of constipated facial expression. His arms twitched uselessly at his sides. Osamu used his stunned stillness as an opportunity to snatch the joint from his hand.
“Got a light?” He whispered to Suna, who nodded and pulled a lighter out of his sweatpants pocket after only a few seconds of searching. Osamu stuck the joint in his mouth and Suna cupped his hand around it, lighting it. He inhaled.
When he went to exhale, Suna put a hand over his mouth to stop him, and then pulled him down in a sort of almost-kiss that made Osamu’s stomach feel like it was filled with those scary flexible Russian rhythmic gymnasts performing complicated stunts. It took him a moment to realize what was going on, and he breathed out, letting the smoke flow into Suna’s mouth. Shotgunning. Wonderful and definitely not filled with sexual tension. The gymnasts in his stomach were now participating in arson.
“What. The shitting fuck.”
Oh, right. Atsumu was still there. And looking even more constipated.
“Why are you still here,” Suna said, not even bothering to turn around. “Scram, little man.”
Atsumu scrammed.
The night progressed into morning in a hazy cloud of smoke- both literal and theoretical. Osamu ran lazy hands under Suna’s sweatshirt, feeling the outline of his ribs and his spine, slipping fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to trace a v-line and hipbones. His skin was impossibly soft. He played with the rings that lined his fingers, all silver and decorated with little skulls and moths and celestial bodies. Suna was pretty much asleep against his chest the entire time, but Osamu didn’t mind.
Gin came to get him sometime around three in the morning, looking endlessly amused at the sleeping Suna that was clinging to him like a baby koala- or perhaps an octopus, as his limbs were really very long.
When Osamu moved to extract himself, Suna let out a whine and looked so pitifully cute that he almost stayed. Almost. But he was exhausted, and Gina and Atsumu would make fun of him for weeks if he stayed.
“That was the gayest shit I’ve ever seen,” Gin laughed loudly as they walked back to their dorm building. Their rooms were one floor apart. Osamu thought, right now, that that wasn’t enough.
“Have ya not been around Sakusa and my brother, ever?” Osamu grumbled.
“I have. And it’s gross. But you and that guy… even grosser .”
“M’not gay. He’s- well. He’s not gay fer me .”
Gin snorted. “Sure, pal. Stage one is denial.”
“Fuck off. S’just… cuddlin’.”
He was too tired and intoxicated to argue any further. But Gin was definitely wrong. Because cuddling isn’t inherently not platonic. And yes, he did enjoy it, and yes, Suna was very hot and hugging him made Osamu feel all warm and fuzzy and he wanted to make out with him and take him on dates but that was it.
He fell asleep thinking about messy hair and eyeliner and piercings rubbing against his neck.
__
Osamu was going insane. He couldn’t concentrate in class, or outside of class, or when he wasn’t even doing anything at all. Because Suna Rintarou’s stupid beautiful face kept popping up in his head every time he tried to use his tiny dumb brain.
He had remembered something important.
A tongue piercing.
Osamu had noticed a glint of silver in his mouth the second time they met, when Suna was actually talking, but he was very drunk and distracted and had forgotten about it immediately. During class, however, while he was supposed to be listening to a lecture about molecular biology, he instead let his mind wander over every detail of Suna Rintarou. And so he recalled the tongue piercing.
And oh boy was it messing with his head. He wanted to know what it felt like to touch. He wanted to know what all of Suna felt like to touch. Osamu kept getting flashbacks to the conversation with Kenma. Imagining Suna in that… situation. Imagining himself in Hinata’s place, or even Kenma’s. And when he went to sleep at night, he found that his bed felt rather empty, and his arms felt too light without a human koala clinging to him.
And although Osamu was a master of denial and procrastination, he was forced to admit something. There was a very small chance, or maybe even a medium-sized chance, that he was not straight.
__
“Tsumu. I have a question. And yer not allowed ta laugh.”
“Kay.”
“Does wantin’ ta fuck a man make ya gay?”
“Dude.”
So while Atsumu wasn’t very helpful, Osamu supposed he was probably not wrong.
Which meant he had a problem.
Which meant he needed a solution.
So far, he had three options:
1. Avoid Suna Rintarou at all costs and live a life of somewhat happy heterosexuality.
While seemingly dramatic, Osamu thought this was viable.
2. Keep doing what he was doing. Cuddle in a platonic way. Get over his stupid feelings.
This was probably the most reasonable option. Osamu dismissed it immediately.
3. Ask Suna to make out with him. If he likes it, he’s gay. If not, he’s not.
One of those choices sounded a lot better than the others.
He was going to make out with Suna. Or at least, he was going to ask. And perhaps get rejected. But really, the man was very casual about affection, so Osamu doubted he would be offended by the offer.
__
It had sounded a lot better in his head. He was supposed to be the smart twin, but that was only comparative. Maybe problem-solving wasn’t his thing.
Locating Suna had been less of an issue than he anticipated. Osamu simply showed up at a function, and he was there, slipping long arms around his waist in apparent greeting.
“Hey,” He whispered, and Osamu melted.
Honestly, he had never thought about how intimate cuddling was before Suna. They hadn’t even talked much, and he knew nothing about him other than his name, his alcohol of choice (Jack Daniels, which Osamu thought was nasty) and that he was apparently into weird sex shit. Oh, and that he liked dudes.
But somehow he felt closer to Suna than he had with any actual hookups, and even the few girls he had gone on dates with. And, even worse, he liked the Suna thing better than all those other things in the past.
“Why are you thinking so hard. It looks like your brain is about to melt out of your ears,” The man himself was clinging to Osamu, who sat on some random person’s kitchen counter having an existential crisis. Suna was in between his thighs, leaning on him. When he talked, Osamu’s eyes fixed on the tiny hint of a silver piercing in his mouth. It was a dangerous position.
“Uh…” Osamu thought, maybe, this was his chance. “I have a hypothesis.”
Suna squinted at him.
“I’m- don’t laugh, Suna- I’m tryin’ ta figure out if I like guys,” Immediately, his face heated to probably tomato status.
Suna laughed anyway, and Osamu scowled. “Okay, right. How are you gonna figure that out?”
“I need a volunteer from the audience.”
“Right, right. A volunteer who happens to be an extremely attractive and cool gay guy?”
“Exactly,” Osamu tried not to smile, but Suna’s maniacal grin was contagious. “If ya’d be willin’...”
“Hmm… no.”
His heart dropped. “Oh- I- didn’t mean ta make ya uncomfortable-”
“Ha! Just kidding. You should’ve seen your face.”
Osamu groaned, burying his face in Suna’s shoulder. “Yer a literal menace to society-”
He was cut off by Suna pulling him up by the back of his neck and kissing him with an unexpected amount of enthusiasm for someone who was often not willing to walk on his own if the journey was deemed too much effort.
It was good. It was sloppy, and a bit aggressive, but it was good. Osamu ran a tongue along Suna’s bottom lip, feeling the click of metal against teeth, and sucked it into his mouth, earning a groan. His mouth was warm and wet and tasted vaguely of Jack Daniels, and Osamu was glad he was merely tipsy, so that he could be present for every part of this.
Suna pulled back. His pupils were dilated, eyes half-shut, and his hair was even messier than usual due to the fact that Osamu had apparently been tugging on it unconsciously. “So?”
It took him a second to realize what Suna was asking. “Mm. Not sure. Might need more evidence.”
Osamu was a dirty, rotten liar. He was also very much attracted to Suna, which meant he liked dudes, at least a little. His hypothesis was formed. He just wanted to make out with Suna for as long as possible before the man rejected any offers to go further. It didn’t seem like he was looking for a relationship, and although he seemed to value Osamu’s tits, he wasn’t sure about the rest of him.
Suna tilted his head back and began to press kisses down the side of his neck, nipping at it occasionally and swirling his tongue around so that the silver bead rubbed the soft skin. Osamu grabbed at the front of his sweatshirt, desperately, chest heaving.
“Osamu,” Suna muttered into his ear. “What do you want?”
“I- what?” He blinked, trying to focus his swirling thoughts.
“What do you want? With me, I mean.”
“I want… everything yer willin’ to give me,” Osamu said, honestly.
It was the most genuine smile he’d ever seen on Suna’s face. “I hope you like PDA, cause you just gave me permission to be a clingy motherfucker.”
“I like everything, if it’s with you,” Maybe he was being too honest.
Suna laughed, pressing his nose into Osamu’s cheek. “That is so cheesy. And way too broad. What if I was into, like, male lactation?”
Osamu wrinkled his nose. “What the hell is that?”
The laugh evolved into a cackle. “Oh, you poor straight man. Let me educate you.”
Although Osamu didn’t seem to know much (he should not have inquired about the male lactation thing. Absolutely horrifying), his hypothesis was at least correct. Miya Osamu is not straight. And neither is his boyfriend.
(Also, fellas, it is gay to cuddle with your homies. And that’s okay.)