Chapter Text
Motoya had been to a lot of movie premieres in his life, but a Miya Twins’ production was always on the next level.
Bright lights and the clamouring of a hundred voices calling out each actor’s name assaulted Motoya’s senses. Flash photography should have died with disco, if you ask him. He swaggered along the red carpet mostly on autopilot, using his well-practiced smile and fluid movements just in case a stray camera caught sight of him.
At least he wasn’t on the cast list this time. No interviews, no posing for photos, and no walking past giant posters of his own face plastered on the front. It was much easier coming to events like this when you were just someone else’s date.
Well, not that kind of date. Obviously.
Motoya’s gaze skipped to his not-date, currently answering a journalist’s questions about the film. Suna hadn’t asked Motoya to step aside when the journalist approached them, but Motoya knew it would have been more awkward if he’d just stood next to Suna and stared into space while they chatted.
They must be close to wrapping up by now, he imagined, so Motoya hopped over a few steps to listen in.
"Look, lady, I don’t know what else I can tell you,” drawled Suna. If his disinterested scowl and listless eyes didn’t convey boredom enough, Suna plucked his phone out of his pocket and began typing. “It's the last installment of the Memories saga. We all pretty much know what to expect. Explosions, overacting, maybe a half-baked romance that just borders on misogynistic. You know, the usual.”
Suna, wholeheartedly focused on texting, didn’t catch the narrowed glare of his interviewer, or the irritated twitch of her lips.
"I get the feeling you're not excited to watch the film," she said, clipped. She looked about two seconds away from smacking him in the face with the microphone in her hand.
"I've never felt excitement in my life. It's not personal." Suna hit send with a punctuated jab of his thumb. Motoya felt his pocket buzz.
Motoya tried to stifle a laugh behind his palm. He was sure this moment would end up in a Youtube compilation later tonight, in one of those 'Suna Rintarou hating the Memories movies for ten minutes straight,' or 'Suna Rintarou performing stand up comedy on the red carpet part 11'. He didn’t bother to check the message either, knowing Suna was probably just sending him deep fried Phineas and Ferb memes again.
"Do you even like your job, Suna-san?" The impatience in her voice was like curdled milk.
Suna opened his mouth, and Motoya propelled himself forward like he was reaching for a falling grenade. He slugged an arm around Suna’s shoulders and pushed him to the side, out of the microphone’s range. He flashed his brightest, don’t-mind-me-I’m-just-a-side-character smile to the interviewer, and cleared his throat.
"Hi! Komori here,” he said cheerfully. The journalist blinked at him. Motoya almost cringed. Being typecast as the plucky best friend role in every production he’d ever been in meant that people usually didn’t recognize who Motoya was. Whatever, he’d accepted it by now.
“Rin is a phenomenal, deeply passionate actor. He cares about his craft more than most former child actors raised in the film industry do. But this chapter of his career is coming to a close, and he'd like to focus on future projects from now on."
Suna scoffed, wriggling within Motoya’s hold, but Motoya sent a light kick to his shin to get him to shut up.
Motoya knew Suna didn’t like to be saved. He’d probably only asked Motoya to come to the premiere with him because Motoya didn’t babysit him or scold him for acting out like most of their friends would. But Motoya also knew that being excessively rude to interviewers and shitting on his career as a millionaire, A-list actor was not the best image to project when Suna was just starting to branch out in his filmography.
The interviewer’s eyes flipped between them, confused, but evidently grateful that she’d finally gotten some good material for an article.
"You’re much better at this than him," she said plainly, waving the microphone to Motoya. Motoya shrugged. It wasn’t hard to be better than Suna at media relations. She faced Suna with fresh, hungry eyes, and leaned in closer. "What future projects can we expect to see from you, Suna-san?"
A small, playfully smile curled around Suna’s lips. It was one of Motoya’s favorites, because it usually meant that Suna was either about to tell him a dirty joke or detail a prank on Atsumu that he’d been cooking up. Motoya liked being the one person that got to see that smile the most.
"Toya. Should I spill the beans on our super-secret, mind-blowing news?" Suna relaxed around Motoya at last, ducking his head lower as if they were two gossiping old grandmas.
"Rin.” Motoya held a hand over his chest in mock offense. “I would never talk to you again if you didn't."
Suna threw his head back in a barking laugh. Motoya giggled too, hoping Suna wouldn’t notice how Motoya’s eyes lingered on his exposed throat.
"Well, we can't have that, can we? It would certainly make filming difficult,” Suna said cryptically. He looked like the movie star everyone knew him as, all twinkling eyes and teasing smirk. "Toya and I will be starring in the upcoming series, "Raijin", available on EJP Streaming next summer."
This wasn’t how either of their agents wanted the news to get out. Motoya was sure Kiyoomi would rip him a new one when this interview went live, but who cared? They had a script reading tomorrow and filming for the next ten months after that. Paparazzi would have figured out they were doing a series together in at least a week anyway, or else they weren’t very good at their jobs.
"We can't give away too many details—most of the production is still under wraps—but keep a lookout for more updates! Rin and I can guarantee that this is one show you won't wanna miss."
The script reading was going great until Motoya started hallucinating.
“And then that’s when you two will kiss,” Hanamaki said matter of factly, pointing at a crude stick figure drawing on the whiteboard. If they were looking for actors with tongues as long as that, they would be sorely disappointed by Motoya.
Motoya blinked. Looked down at his lukewarm, too-bitter coffee. Oh my god, Matsukawa must have spiked the cappuccino machine. That was the only explanation for what he was hearing, of course. Motoya had never been on drugs before, so he figured the only way to stop the hallucination was to just push through it.
“Sorry, can you repeat that?” He asked, croaking like a rusty door hinge. He looked to the two writers helplessly, but Hanamaki and Matsukawa just stared at him. “There’s a—you want us to—to—” Motoya shook his head again, his pulse racing and his head full of cotton. Drugs were terrible. “There’s a what?”
“A kiss. It’s in the script, right there,” came a tired voice next to him. Motoya whipped his head to the side just in time for Kiyoomi to thrust his copy of the pilot episode into Motoya’s face. Motoya blocked it, ready to complain about Kiyoomi's borderline abuse to his poor client. He really needed to hire a new agent, cousin or not. “Raijin and Okojo make out in the cockpit while the wolf aliens are attacking and that’s what triggers the ship to jump into hyperspace.”
“This is a really weird Star Trek spinoff,” muttered Suna, squinting down at the printed words. Motoya tore his gaze away. Right now, just looking at Suna made his hands shake.
“Thematically, we were going for more of an Akira vibe. Or Space Odyssey,” Matsukawa chimed in, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Hanamaki nodded solemnly beside him.
“Well, you failed pretty spectacularly.” Motoya heard the sound of Suna’s script being tossed back on the table. “You do realize that Katsuhiro Otomo wouldn’t have put in a scene where the love interests have to use heat energy from sucking face to power their hyperdrive, right?”
Love interests. Sucking face. Motoya heaved in a deep breath, but his lungs still felt empty. He rubbed his palms over his face, wondering if he’d look like an insane person if he just banged his head on the table.
The thing is: Motoya is a sad, pathetic person with a sad, pathetic crush on his best friend.
They’d met over a decade ago, with a whole list of other child stars that were now big names in the industry. All-Japan Youth: Vampire Camp! was a hit show among audiences of pre-teens and lonely women in their twenties. Suna had tagged along to auditions with the Miya twins, two brothers he was unlucky enough to be neighbors and childhood friends with.
Motoya remembered how they would sneak out of vocal warmups to watch anime on Suna’s phone and meet up after curfew to explore the filming grounds. All-Japan Youth: Vampire Camp! was filmed at an actual summer campsite in Tokyo, and their favorite spot was the bank of a small lake deep in the forest.
“I really like you, Rin,” Motoya had (stupidly) said back then, reaching over the gnarly tree branch they sat on to take Suna’s hand. At thirteen, Motoya had limbs too long for his body, braces, and about a thousand pimples dotting his face. But he was confident that Suna liked him back, at least a little.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Suna had hastily replied, jerking his hand away. He didn’t even look at Motoya.
And that was the end of that. Twelve years later, Suna had never mentioned it. And Motoya would rather cut out his own tongue than bring it up.
“Are you alright, Komori-san?” A soft touch on his shoulder blade drew Motoya out of his thoughts. He blinked his bleary eyes open and met those of Kita Shinsuke, Suna’s agent. His amber eyes bored into Motoya like he could read his mind. Motoya had always been a little scared of the guy.
“Yeah, yeah. I just feel like I’m gonna vomit and then die, maybe,” he squeaked out. Motoya ran a hand through his hair, feeling it already damp with perspiration. He tried to casually lean back in his chair, but sudden movement made the room spin. “Do you guys have water?”
“Wow, just because we said you’ll have to kiss Suna?” Hanamaki joked, a wry smile spreading across his face. He elbowed Matsukawa, giddy like a grade schooler. Were these two really the same duo that wrote and directed the Aoba Johsai trilogy?
“Very flattering. Tell me how you really feel, Toya.” Suna’s sarcasm brought heat to Motoya’s cheeks. The asshole could learn to use some tact, considering their history. Unless he’d completely forgotten about the moment that still plagued Motoya’s nightmares, which somehow hurt even more.
“No, dude we can work with this,” Matsukawa interjected, elbowing Hanamaki back while he furiously scribbled on a stray post-it note. “Okojo literally vomits every time they kiss. That’s some star-crossed lovers shit. Like Blade Runner.”
“Too bad this is rated PG-13, because if he’s blowing chunks from a kiss, just imagine what would happen when they—”
“So this—this story is a romance, then? Between us?” Motoya bit his lip. Unfortunate wording. “I mean—between our characters?”
Matsukawa waved his hand around the room, to the collection of concept sketches and half-written plot points pinned on bulletin boards lining every wall. “Duh. No one’s done a gay space opera yet, so…”
Motoya scanned the room. It should have been obvious to him when he walked in, but he saw it now. There was a concept poster with Raijin and Okojo locked in an intimate embrace while an asteroid collides with a planet behind them. Another poster showed a close-up of their profiles, foreheads touching, with a background of a starry galaxy and saucer-shaped spaceships. On another wall was a post-it note that read “MORE EYEFUCKING” in bold, black letters.
“Motoya, this shouldn’t be a surprise. I sent you like, twelve emails about this,” chided Kiyoomi. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. “I specifically got you this role because you said you wanted to take on more projects with queer representation. I thought you’d be happy.”
Oops. Motoya had gotten into the bad habit of moving all of Kiyoomi’s emails into the trash and hoping Kiyoomi would just remind him if it was important enough.
“Yeah, yeah. Of course. I’m excited. I’m really excited to be doing this,” Motoya rushed out. He was acutely aware of Suna, sitting across the table from him, but avoided his eye in favor of shuffling through the script. “So let’s move on to the next scene, yeah? After they ki—escape from the aliens. They crash land on a planet full of…” Motoya paused, rereading his line three times. “Does this say a biker gang of evil robots?”
“Like we said. Akira and Space Odyssey.”
On the list of horrible, terrible, life-ruining ideas, playing the love interest of the guy you've been secretly pining over for years wasn't really that high. It probably didn't crack the top ten. Plus, Motoya was a professional; he could handle having to separate the longing looks and delicate touches in an on-screen relationship from his actual friendship with Suna. If Motoya was being honest with himself, he might actually be really good in this role, if he could tap into some actual emotion while delivering his own lines.
Motoya took in a deep breath as everyone at the table continued to move through the next scene.
He could do this.
“So why did you freak out back there? That was weird.”
Motoya groaned inwardly. It wasn’t like he could have known that giving Suna a ride to the script reading was a bad idea, except now they were stuck together in stuffy, terse silence for the entire twenty minute drive back. He let Suna plug his phone in the hopes that Spotify playlists would be a buffer between them, but it seemed that even “Nicki Minaj Iconic Verses” couldn’t save him now.
“Don’t let anyone else know, but I think Matsukawa spiked the cappuccino machine,” Motoya quipped, carefully not to let his voice shake.
One thing he and Suna had in common was the art of masterfully avoiding important conversations about feelings. It was basically the backbone of their friendship. Just a simple joke to redirect the topic at hand, or pulling up any random meme as a distraction, and the uncomfortable atmosphere would dissipate like smoke.
It was a full-proof method of resolving any conflicts before they even become a thing. In the twelve years that they’d known each other, the biggest argument Suna and Motoya ever had was over who got to be Saweetie whenever 'Best Friend' came on the radio.
Motoya was so accustomed to using the diversion tactic that he almost swerved off the road when Suna spoke up again.
“Dude, I mean for real.” Suna shifted in his seat, eyes darting to Motoya with an expression Motoya recognized from the time Suna had food poisoning after filming a movie overseas. “I’m really hyped for this show. And I thought working together again would be fun. But if you’re having doubts for whatever reason…”
Motoya slowed his speed as the car turned a corner. He tried to focus on Nicki’s sick flow spilling from the car’s speakers, currently berating Roman for not taking a vacation, but his head pounded even louder in his ears. Motoya turned over possible responses in his mouth, each word tasting sour and biting. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white and palms uncomfortably damp.
“I mean—I just—it’s weird, isn’t it? You’re like, my best friend. Acting as love interests on screen is super weird, right?”
“It’s not like you have to be in love with someone to play their space boyfriend. You’re an actor, Motoya, just fake it.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Motoya said quickly. This was not how today was supposed to go. He checked his rear mirrors, the sides, his dashboard, anywhere that wasn’t in the general vicinity of Suna’s face. “I’ve played romances before, of course, but not with someone I know as well as you. And it was always with girls, too.”
“So you would be more comfortable if I was a girl? That’s a big fuck you to the gay agenda.”
“No—Jesus Chirst, no.” Was Suna being purposefully difficult about this? Motoya could have cried with relief when Suna’s apartment complex came into view. His fingers slipped trying to open the glove box, desperate for the gate remote. “You’re telling me you’re not a little freaked out about this? We have to film a kiss scene like, next week. You can’t seriously tell me that it won’t be at least a tiny bit awkward.”
They pulled into the parking garage. Motoya felt ten thousand times safer encased in dim, forgiving darkness and the neon exit sign right in front of their parking spot. Next to him, Suna plugged his phone out of the HDMI port, ringing silence overtaking the car once again.
“Maybe for you. I’m a great actor and a better kisser. I’ll make it look amazing,” Suna deadpanned. Motoya unlocked the doors and turned the car off. His hands rested on the gearshift, fingers tapping nervously as he waited for Suna to just get the fuck out already.
“Okay, well, good for you and whatever, but not all of us have a ton of experience in that area,” Motoya protested. He turned his head away, pretending to be fascinated by the dingy, empty parking garage. He heard Suna shift in his seat again, clothes and leather rustling softly.
“Kiss me, then.”
“And another thing is—huh?”
Motoya’s head whipped back to Suna, not able to hold in his shock. Suna’s face was much closer than it had been two seconds before. Inky eyes and skin like moonlight was barely a breath from him. Motoya shivered as Suna exhaled, spreading a puff of cool air across Motoya’s heating cheek. Motoya blinked rapidly, swallowed the itchy, thick sand climbing up his throat, and fought the instinct to drag his gaze down to Suna’s lips.
“I’m sorry, what?”
The squeak that crawled out from Motoya’s throat was not his voice. That was a thirteen-year-old giving a class presentation on STIs. Or a grown man after shitting his pants on a first date.
Motoya couldn’t even give himself half a second to cringe, however, before Suna inched impossibly closer. This time, Motoya went cross-eyed glancing at Suna’s lips, slightly parted and straight out of late-night fantasies that Motoya only sometimes let himself have. What the fuck.
“You said you’re worried it might be awkward to film an on-screen kiss with someone you’ve known for such a long time,” murmured Suna.
Why did he suddenly sound like a sex phone operator? Suna’s voice was never this husky. Motoya ducked his head down, focusing on the safe image of Suna’s hand gripping the console. But Suna trailed his hand from the console to Motoya’s thigh, resting innocently on faded denim. No fair, whined Motoya’s brain, filling with mush as Suna’s touch burned straight into his skin.
“So, let’s practice now and get all the awkwardness out,” Suna finished. Motoya was currently not able to form words or thoughts or really function as a person, however, and stayed stiffly silent.
Suna’s dark eyes scanned his face with a hint of concern. “Toya. Just kiss me, you pussy.”
“Dick,” Motoya, his mind still reeling. Suna couldn’t be serious. “Be a little nicer and maybe I’ll consider it.”
Motoya should definitely not consider it. Motoya should shut his mouth and shove Suna off, or open his own door and tumble out onto the disgusting garage floor to escape.
Kissing Suna was a terrible, dangerous idea. There were twelve years of carefully crafted friendship riding on whether or not Motoya could reel in his mushy, obsessive feelings. While it was probably possible to do it on set, surrounded by strangers and cameras and covered in enough layers of makeup to not even feel Suna’s lips against his, it was much different to try it in a dim parking garage, sitting the front seat of Motoya’s car, as fucking practice.
Suna rolled his eyes and sighed, momentarily moving away from Motoya to readjust in his seat. He must have been uncomfortable, leaning all the way across the console and into Motoya’s space.
“Oh, mine own scrumptious and dummy thicc love, prithee cometh over here and alloweth me giveth thee a kiss,” Suna said flatly.
It was a very odd thing, to hear words you’ve only dreamt of hearing for over a decade. This wasn’t exactly how Motoya had pictured it, of course, and Suna had never confessed to him like a Skyrim NPC in Motoya’s years of daydreaming. Maybe that was what helped bring Motoya back to reality—that Suna would scoff and mock the idea of confessing to Motoya for real. And why wouldn’t he? It was a ridiculous idea. Downright silly. Good thing Motoya could do silly in his sleep.
“There’s no need to beg, Rin,” he said with the most blithe tone he could muster, years of improv training finally paying off by how Motoya’s voice didn’t crack.
Suna grinned down at him, a pleased smile that Motoya knew well. At least the tension in the air had dissipated, a bit.
“Now who’s the dick?” Sun leaned back in, and a brand new panic shot through Motoya’s veins like lightning. He stiffened, his fingers slipping from their grip on the seat beneath him. Holy shit, what did he just agree to?
“I’ve got a crazy idea. There’s next to no chance that it’ll work, but it’s all I’ve got.”
It took Motoya a moment to realize he was reciting lines from the scene they’d read that day. He cleared his throat, straightening in his seat and letting the rehearsed words pool past the seam of his lips.
“What is it, Raijin? We could use a little crazy right now. They’ve almost broken through the plasma barrier.” The heat radiating off Suna’s skin made Motoya sweat. His heart rate kicked up a tempo, echoing like a drum in his ears.
“We need energy to power the hyperdrive. I know the proton charger is fried, but what if…” Suna paused for dramatic effect. “What if the energy came from… our bodies?”
Motoya couldn’t help it; he snorted, bringing a hand up to stifle his laughter. A smile broke across Suna’s face too.
“God, this script is such shit,” whispered Suna. Motoya chuckled, his nerves making his laughter louder than normal.
“You’re just realizing that now?” He bit his lip, anxiety ebbing for a moment. Maybe this wouldn't be too terrible. It was just running lines like they’d done a million times. “Okay, um… What do you mean, Raijin? How would we harness energy from our own bodies?”
He tilted his head to the side, his lips just brushing the shell of Motoya’s ear. “I could tell you… or I could show you.”
Motoya’s pulse skittered. His breath hitched, his skin went hot with sudden anticipation. Fucking hell, why did he agree to this again?
“That’s your cue, Toya.”
Right. Motoya wet his lips. In the script, Raijin leans in to initiate the kiss but Okojo is the one to actually do it. He made eye contact with Suna again and was met with an intense look of desire—all half-lidded eyes and slightly furrowed brows. It was enough to make a man weak in the knees. There was no doubt about it now. Suna Rintarou was an amazing actor.
Motoya leaned closer—somehow it felt easier to move even more closer to Suna’s lips than to look at his face—while the racing in Motoya’s heart threatened to burst right out of his chest.
“Rin,” he breathed against Suna’s mouth, a slip of his traitorous tongue, just as their lips touched.
It was feather light, a barely-there press of chapped skin.
Motoya pulled back just enough to stare at Suna’s mouth. He couldn’t look him in the eye even if he wanted to.
A creeping, uneasy dread sunk low in Motoya’s gut. He'd just effectively ruined their friendship. There was no way Suna didn’t catch on to how eager Motoya was to touch him, how much tenderness was in the soft press of lips. He waited with baited breath, fearing the worst.
“Oh, come on now,” whispered Suna, voice low and teasing. “I know you can do better than that.”
“You asshole,” Motoya groaned back. He shoved Suna’s shoulder, causing Suna to fall back with a laugh.
“Seriously, Toya! We literally need to conjure up enough sexual tension to power a giant spaceship into the sky. Do you want us to be eaten by furry aliens, is that it?”
Motoya imagined for a moment what Suna would look like with swollen lips, mussed hair, his brow shining with sweat and breathing heavily from just Motoya's lips. Suna was basically giving permission for Motoya to thoroughly kiss Suna until he couldn’t remember anything but Motoya’s name, and Motoya would be an idiot to pass it up.
“I’ll kiss the shit out of you, then.”
“Let’s see you try,” challenged Suna, his eyes darkening.
Or maybe letting himself have this was even more idiotic.
He surged forward, this time meeting Suna halfway over the center console. It was a little hard to navigate with his torso twisted and his legs straining to remain straight, but when his fingers tangled in Suna’s dark locks and he felt thick eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, any discomfort was drowned out by the rush of blood in his veins.
“That’s more like it,” breathed Suna. His exhale tingled against Motoya’s skin. Suna’s hands came up to cup the sides of Motoya’s jaw, tilting him slightly so their lips could slot together, fitting so perfectly that Motoya briefly entertained the thought that they were meant to stay like that forever. Dampness collected on Motoya’s bottom lip, and he swiped his tongue out to lap it up. Suna inhaled sharply at the touch, however, and chased Motoya’s retreating tongue with his own. Motoya wanted him to go deeper, impossible deeper until he could feel Suna’s teeth and swallow every breath punched out of his lungs.
Motoya’s hand slid from Suna’s hair to cup the back of his neck. He dragged it down still, from Suna’s throat to his chest, down the curve of his side and ghosting just above his hip. Motoya wanted to feel all of him. Motoya wanted to push Suna flat against the reclining car seat and crawl on top of him. He wanted to grab at Suna’s shirt, pull him close in fistfulls and never let him go.
“Fuck, you’re so—”
Motoya froze before he could make another sound. He was very much not acting anymore.
Self-control finally seized him around the heart in icy steel bands, in sharp claws that stung and drew blood. He killed all the possessive, infatuated thoughts piling up in his head. Slashed them to bits with the reminder that Suna would never, ever feel the same way.
His hand was still on Suna’s hip. He should probably take it off now. He pried himself off of Suna and leaned back into his seat. Motoya wasn’t even breathing hard or shaking—he just felt empty and numb. Suna seemed to be in a similar state, shrinking back into his seat without a word. Together they sat, staring at nothing in particular and not meeting each other’s eye.
Turns out that making out with your best friend is not a good idea. Who would have thought?
He needed to salvage this somehow. He could still salvage this, right? Motoya catalogued all the possible moves he could make right now. He could apologize—say sorry and hope Suna would brush it off. He could completely ignore the fact that he very obviously tried to eat Suna alive, just wrestle him out the door and drive off. He could tell Suna that Motoya was stupid, feverishly in love with him.
I don’t think that’s a good idea, his memory reminded him. So true, teenage Suna.
Motoya’s instincts kicked in. He opened his mouth in a wide smile and raised his hands up, shooting Suna finger guns.
“Nice,” Suna said, shooting finger guns back.
It did nothing to diffuse the crushing, devastating tension. Motoya drummed his fingers against the gearshift again, his brain running circles thinking of anything, anything he could say to shatter the silence.
“So. Do you think the ship taking off immediately after they kiss is supposed to be like, a metaphor for orgasm?”
He turned to Suna with forced cheer, letting his lips curl up in a familiar, friendly, safe smile. An olive branch. Suna took it.
“No way. Does that mean they both came just from kissing? Fucking virgins.”
“Those writers are on crack, I swear to god.”
Suna seemed to suddenly remember that the car door had, in fact, been unlocked this entire time and he could escape wherever he wanted. Suna pushed it open, tossing his legs over the edge. He paused before exiting, turning back to Motoya with an unreadable expression.
“Hey. So, we’re good, right?”
Motoya didn’t understand the implications of his question. Of course they were good. Why wouldn’t they be? Suna hadn’t acknowledged Motoya’s creepy and obsessive crush on him. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed.
“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t we be?” Motoya lifted a thumbs up as further proof. Can’t argue with a thumbs up.
“Yeah, yeah. I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure,” said Suna. He ran a hand through his hair, looking out toward the exit to the main building. “Well, see you tomorrow, I guess.”
“Yup. See you.”
Suna skirted out of the car and down the hall. Dim, flickering parking garage lights cast his figure in dancing shadows as he reached the exit door. He turned back one last time, but Motoya ducked his head down.
He caught one last glimpse of Suna’s navy jacket before the large metal door swung shut, swallowing the sight of him.