Chapter Text
The library. Where university students’ motivation goes to die. It’s where Suna Rintarou is pretty sure his soul left his body two hours ago when his third highlighter of the day ran out of ink. That’s probably a sign that he’s highlighting too much, but he stopped caring somewhere between reading his third and seventh articles. How’s he supposed to know whether a study’s methodological idiosyncrasies are vital to the outcome of the study? And how much of the background information and previous research is going to end up relevant by the time he reaches the study’s findings and conclusions?
Or maybe it’s not the level of highlighting itself that is the issue, it’s the sheer number of articles he’s been trying to shove into the creaky filing cabinet that is his brain in the nine hours he’s spent holed up in the library. Brains weren’t meant to take in this much information in one go. Suna is sure of it.
That’s a lie. He’s not sure of anything anymore because his brain melted into pudding three hours ago.
He doesn’t even know if any of this information is even useful for his paper. One minute he’s browsing EbscoHost’s database for the social and behavioral sciences — scrolling, scrolling, scrolling — for anything remotely helpful, growing more and more confused with each article, book review, and anthology chapter that rolls across the screen, and in the next moment he’s ten articles deep and only two of them are remotely close to what he was supposed to look for.
This is supposed to be some philosophical, meta opinion paper about the nature of reality. But all he has to show for it so far are a handful of journal articles that contradict each other and three dead highlighters. And it’s with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he realizes that the last few hours of research haven’t just been completely off track. More like useless. Garbage. Trash. A waste of time.
Suna sighs and pushes away from the table. This paper is going to be the end of him and he’s not even halfway through the literature review. With one hand he rubs his eyes while reaching for his travel coffee mug with the other, sighing when he realizes it’s empty. As if it hasn’t been empty for the past five hours. Suna falls forward, his forehead collides with the desk with a loud whack. This — this — Is why you should always call it a day the moment your brain starts to liquefy.
Suna knows that he ought to give up for the evening. If the last few hours were a shit show, what’s going to change that now? But there’s that little voice at the back of his head egging him on to try just one more article. After all, it’s one less that he has to read tomorrow if he gets it done tonight. Another lie. There’s no way he’ll be able to remember any of this tomorrow. He checks the time on his phone — 9:30. If he leaves now he’ll be home just in time to avoid all the tipsy students shambling out of their apartments on their way to the bars for thirsty Thursday. That’s all the motivation he needs to activate what little energy he has left and hastily shove his laptop and charger back into his backpack.
He flips the cover of his notebook shut and crams it into his bag along with all of the random junk that inevitably litters his desk after a long day in the library. Earbuds that died two hours ago. A protein bar wrapper. No less than five crumpled sticky notes. Suna is sure that his will to live, his brain cells, and his motivation are scattered among all the random bits and bobs but compared to the rest of his garbage, collecting them is a lost cause. He doesn’t bother trying to put it all back into its proper spot, electing instead to shove all his crap into the cavernous dark abyss that is his backpack’s front pocket.
Suna hikes his bag up to his shoulder as he walks out of his group study room. Technically his allotted time ran out forty minutes ago but no one’s come by to yell at him so he suspects no one cares. Convenient since he would rather die than get a table on the open floor of the library where anyone could try to, god forbid, talk to him.
He slides open his phone and swipes through the few notifications he got while he was working on his paper. Gin and Atsumu are arguing about something in their group chat with their other friends from their graduating high school class. He flips through his meme folder, selects the one labeled ‘gay judgment’, and hits send without reading the bulk of the messages. There’s a “congrats on the funding, bitch ” from his sister about a small grant the university awarded him and a handful of Twitter notifications that he decides to deal with when he gets back to his apartment later.
Tonight’s session in the library wasn’t any more brutal than other countless nights he’s spent here but he’s more tired than normal. All he wants to do is head home, flop on the couch, and chow down on some dinner. He’ll probably pop in a movie despite knowing that the exhaustion will knock him out before it’s halfway over. Once a self-confessed night owl, Suna is lucky to make it to 11 pm on long library days like this, 12 — maybe 12:30 — on an average night.
He pays no mind to the few people still milling around the library as he makes his way to the exit, too absorbed by his thoughts of dinner and what he’s going to get his mother for her birthday next week to care. He’s almost to the door when he hears rapid footsteps from behind him as if whoever it is wants to run but knows they’re in a library and that that is a no-no. They call his name. Suna freezes, hand raised over the door handle, unable to move. He doesn’t turn around.
It can’t be.
“Hold up!”
That voice. He knows it. It sends a jolt of shock, fear, and, confusingly, excitement through his stomach. Suna knows that voice. Knows it better than he wants to admit. Miya Osamu. Suna can’t quite remember the last time he saw Osamu but whether that’s because it’s so long ago that his memory is truly hazy or a side effect of the exhaustion is beyond him.
When Suna and Osamu broke up three years ago, the decision had been mutual. Their relationship didn’t go up in smoke. There is no heart-breaking sad story to spill. Just a case of the right person, wrong time. Suna wanted to go to university and then try out for the professional men’s volleyball circuit. Osamu wanted to live at home and work his way up first hand through the restaurant industry. It couldn’t be helped. They wanted different things. And their breakup was more than mutual, it was amicable. It stung, don’t get him wrong. But he’d take a mellow breakup over a dramatic, painful shit show any day.
Though they ended things on good terms, that doesn’t mean they stayed friends. They weren’t naive enough to fall for that. It still hurt. Suna still needed a break to sew together the tear in his heart and figure out what it meant to be Suna Rintarou, 19, single. And not Suna Rintarou, 19, in a long-distance relationship. Not to mention the well known fact of the universe that exes can’t be friends.
Someone — Osamu — calls his name again, but Suna is frozen in place. Hand still hovering over the door handle. Suna shouldn’t feel as surprised as he does. They’ve seen each other here and there since their break up. They still share a large group of mutual friends from high school. This isn’t a big deal and Suna shouldn’t be surprised. And yet, Suna’s hand hovers over the door handle. He has a decision to make and only a split second to do it. He can grab the door handle, push it open and escape into the rapidly cooling night air as if he had never heard Osamu in the first place. Or he turns around to face a man he hasn’t spoken to alone in nearly three years.
His arm drops back to his side and he turns on his heel. His joints move mechanically, almost like they’re on a time delay, creaking like the tin man during an oil shortage. Curse Suna’s traitorous heart for having the audacity to skip a beat when he lays eyes on Osamu. It’s nerves or shock or something. That must be it. Probably. Hopefully.
“Suna!” Osamu says again, mouth curved into a small smile.
His heart thumps against his chest so loudly that he’s sure Osamu must be able to hear it too despite the several feet that still separate them.
“Hey.” Suna tries to match the energy in Osamu’s voice but he’s not sure that he hit the mark. Get yourself together. “Osamu.”
“I think you dropped this.” Dangling between Osamu’s fingers, swaying gently back and forth, is Suna’s phone charger.
“Oh,” Suna says, sounding like a total fucking idiot.
Osamu holds out his hand a little further when Suna doesn’t move to take the charger back.
“Oh,” Suna says again. This is awful. This is one of the worst moments of his life. But it’s like every word Suna’s ever heard flew right out of his head the second he caught sight of Osamu. What are words? Someone help him.
Mechanically, he reaches for the charger, mumbling a quick thanks as he shoves it into his pants pocket. They fall quiet and Suna wants to say something but navigating awkward situations has never been his strong suit and he has no idea what to say. What is small talk? What is the social norm for moments like these? Osamu started the conversation, should he be the one to end it? This is too much for Suna’s tired brain and hungry stomach to figure out.
Osamu nods and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “Well, that’s all I have to say. I don’t want to keep you here.”
“Yeah. It was — it is nice to see you. See you around,” Suna says, hand hovering over the door handle again. This time he pulls it open. As he turns over his shoulder to mumble a quick, “have a goodnight, Osamu,” it doesn’t occur to him to ask Osamu why he’s in his university’s library after 9 at night. Curse his stupid, tired, pudding brain.
Finally back at his apartment, Suna lets out a breath he hasn’t realized he was holding. Talking to Osamu, even briefly knocked his world off-kilter. It broke one of the unspoken rules of Suna’s universe. And Suna doesn’t know how to get his life back into the right orbit.
Suna tosses his backpack to the side and swipes the blanket hanging from the back of the couch and swings it around his shoulders so that it hangs off of him like a cape then pads into the kitchen. The cabinet door squeaks when he opens it. He’s running low on a lot of basics and needs to go to the grocery store. He makes a mental note of it then reluctantly pulls out a packet of instant miso soup with tofu from the back of the cupboard.
Ten minutes later he’s curled up on the couch, a bowl of hot miso soup cooling in front of him, and the TV remote in hand. Suna’s Netflix queue is long and robust. He clicks through the first few, dismissing each one. Too long, too depressing. Too bright. Too boring. He narrows it down to two. The first is a poorly rated American horror documentary about a “demon house” in the middle of nowhere. The second is on the long history of the giant Nomura jellyfish invading the Sea of Japan.
Years ago, he and Osamu used to binge watch documentaries just like these. When they were done they’d rank them on a system of their own creation, occasionally breaking into a heated debate over whether or not the documentary in question deserved four stars in the excellent use of royalty free music category or the full five stars. Usually, they ended up playing rock paper scissors to decide, completely negating their long and lengthy arguments.
He wonders if Osamu would like the jellyfish documentary or if he’d rather watch the one about the American demon house. He nearly hits play on the America horror documentary but hesitates and flips back to the other. The jellyfish documentary, from at least three years ago, totally would have been up Osamu’s alley. It isn’t until he clicks the play button on the jellyfish one that he realizes what he’s doing. Suna drops the remote as if it burns and it clatters onto the coffee table.
What the fuck?
The documentary, oblivious to Suna’s crisis, continues to play, the giant Nomura jellyfish fills the screen, floating by with a serenity Suna could only dream of. Suna shakes his head a few times as if that will dispel his traitorous thoughts. Suna isn’t supposed to think about Osamu. Not any more than he has to, which at this point should be limited to when they cross paths, or on the rare occasion that someone else brings him up in Suna’s presence.
Suna isn’t crazy. He doesn’t try to avoid Osamu like the plague or some harbinger of doom. But he does try to keep Osamu far from his mind. Nothing good can come from ruminating on that when he’s alone and tired. Suna is over Osamu. He got over Osamu a long time ago. Years ago. There’s no reason why a two-minute, stilted conversation with Osamu should have this effect on him. It shouldn’t throw him off balance like this.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots his phone lighting up on the cushion next to him. He grabs it without thinking, eager to have a distraction but woefully disappointed to see that his wish isn’t getting granted by this notification.
[pain in the ass DNI] today at 10:37 PM
hey
Suna considers ignoring the text. He’s known Atsumu long enough to know when he’s up to something. He looks back at Atsumu’s innocuous ‘hey’. Atsumu never opens a conversation with a ‘hey .’ If he elects for a greeting at all, it’s more likely to be a ‘B I T C H, i know ur on ur phone!!!! ’ Otherwise, he jumps right into whatever he’s texting about in the first place. Suna chews on his bottom lip and swipes to unlock the phone. Or maybe Suna is reading too much into it. Maybe Suna is being a bit paranoid. Maybe his run-in with Osamu is affecting him more than he realizes.
Although Suna has seen very little of Osamu in the past three years, and never alone until today, the same can’t be said for Atsumu. Avoiding Atsumu because of their breakup would have been impossible given they entered uni the same year. And although they didn’t choose the same university, they do both play for their respective volleyball teams, which means they face off at least twice a year. Sometimes more for practice matches. And even if this wasn’t the case, Suna wouldn’t want to avoid Atsumu on account of his and Osamu’s breakup. Their breakup shouldn’t affect anyone beyond their relationship, or lack thereof, with each other. Suna and Atsumu are friends. What Suna and Osamu have or had has no effect on that.
He’s proud to be able to say that it hasn’t affected his friendship with Atsumu. But it wasn’t always easy. There was a period of time that was tense between Suna and Atsumu after the breakup. Atsumu was insistent that they were making a big mistake but Suna and Osamu held fast to their decision. Atsumu was equally frustrated with both of them. But time marched on and Suna got better. He assumes the same is true for Osamu.
After their first game against each other, Atsumu marched up to Suna and said, “we Hyogo boys gotta stick together.”
To which Suna replied, “I’m not from Hyogo. I’m from Aichi.”
Atsumu rolled his eyes and said, “Fine, us Inarizaki boys gotta stick together.”
That was that. And what little awkwardness remained between Suna and Atsumu melted away.
[pain in the ass DNI] today at 10:42 PM
Don’t ignore me asshole
I know u ran into samu today
Suna’s phone lights up again and he groans. Of course. Of course. Atsumu is like a bloodhound on the scent when it comes to Osamu. And to Suna for that matter. In moments like this, Suna hates to admit how well Atsumu knows him. Where there is dirt, he will find it. Sometimes Suna thinks he’s worse than Komori.
[pain in the ass DNI] today at 10:45 PM
SunaaaaRINNN let me in LET ME IN
[pain in the ass DNI] today at 10:49 PM
That wasn’t even two hours ago
Word gets around
What do u want
Nothing
Then why are u contacting me
Suddenly so formal
Eat shit
Are you okay?
Suna blinks at the screen. Sometimes Suna forgets that they aren’t 17 anymore. That Atsumu has matured just like the rest of them have, and if he’s honest, is one of the most caring people he knows.
[pain in the ass DNI] today at 10:56 PM
Huh?
Did u forget how to read
I asked how ur doing
Ya know
Since you ran into samu
Or were cornered by him. it was hard to get the straight story from him between all the panicked stammering
He called you already?
Bruh he called me the moment the door closed behind u
Huh
Why?
Cause he’s an idiot
why is he freaking out
it’s gonna take more than that to get me to spill my brother’s secrets
You’re the one that texted me
Yeah to see how you’re doing
No, Osamu involved
Well
No Osamu except for as he relates to whether you are okay or not
Don’t worry I’m not gonna tell Osamu what you tell me
I can keep his secrets and I can keep yours
So, are you okay?
Suna curls the blanket tighter around him. The bowl of miso soup sits abandoned on the table. On the television screen, a Nomura jellyfish floats by a diver. The narrator is saying something about its beauty but Suna can’t hear it over his thoughts. Is he okay? And if he’s not, is he going to tell Atsumu the truth? Suna’s world has shifted on its axis but for what? A little conversation? That’s dramatic even for his standards. This had to happen eventually. They run in similar circles. It was inevitable that Suna would end up alone with Osamu for a few moments and it’s bound to happen again. He can’t freak out like this every time it happens.
[pain in the ass DNI] today at 10:58 PM
I’m good
Bullshit
Why bother asking me if u think you know the answer already
Thought I’d give ya the chance to tell the truth
I told the truth
Uh-huh
Atsumu
Suna
Fuck off
You know where to find me if you need to talk
And who knows
Maybe this was the beginning of something
Suna blinks at his phone screen.
[pain in the ass DNI] today at 11:03 PM
Maybe this is where you learn to be friends again
Where we WHAt???
Atsumu
Exes can’t be friendsSure sunarin
Whatever you say