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“So, guess what,” Motoya starts while he’s toweling himself off, hair still dripping from the shower. Rintarou pointedly does not let his gaze linger on the precious inches of exposed skin Motoya’s sporting, who has absolutely zero shame, to Rintarou’s absolute dismay (Rintarou is a professional athlete, not a horny teenager, god damn it). He gives a non-committal hum, which Motoya takes as his cue to continue. “Osamu asked me out.”
Pause. Full stop. “What?” Smooth, Rintarou. Hey, they just finished a grueling practice, and his brain sort of shut off to preserve energy. Sue him.
Motoya squints at him suspiciously. “You know, Miya Osamu? About this high?” He sticks his hand out to jab Rintarou in the middle of the forehead; Rintarou scowls and bats it away. Motoya continues, unfettered. “Owner of popular restaurant Onigiri Miya? Your best friend since high school, second only to moi ?”
“I didn’t need the clarification, thanks. Also, fuck you, you shouldn’t think so highly of yourself. ‘Samu’s a better friend than you.” He pauses, unsure of how to proceed past light-hearted quips and some good-natured shit-talking. This is leaning into unfamiliar territory: Rintarou hates it. “So what did you say?”
Motoya grins. “I said yes. We’re getting dinner on Friday, after practice.”
But that’s when we usually hang out. Motoya interrupts his train of thought, reading his mind like the freak demon he is. “Yeah, I know that’s when we usually hang out. Sorry, Rin. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” Rintarou assures him. Why would he mind that Motoya is going on a date with the person he’s been in love with since high school? Never mind that Rintarou’s been harboring an unfortunate crush on Motoya since the day he started on EJP.
Motoya brightens at his reassurance. “You’re the best, Rin.” Motoya blows him an obnoxious kiss before he’s dashing out of the locker room, leaving Rintarou to wallow in his own pool of suffering.
He’s fine. Rintarou’s fine. He doesn’t want to talk about it.
Dinner turns into lunch on Saturday, then breakfast on Sunday - both of which Motoya shamelessly plasters over Instagram accompanied by a questionable filter and one too many thirsty emojis. Rintarou feels like a middle school girl whose crush still hasn’t texted back. He’s going to show up to practice on Monday with a sign that reads Welcome home, cheater!
(He doesn’t. He walks into the gym with his tail tucked between his legs and what must be the most pitiful expression known to man.)
Washio breeches the question first, because Washio still hasn’t mastered the art of when to enable Motoya and when to disengage. “So. Miya Osamu, huh?”
Motoya’s grin is positively feral. Rintarou swoons anyway.
“Rin introduced us, actually.” Someone hoots from across the gym. Washio slaps him on the back.
Rintarou watches a cartoon bulb light up over Motoya’s head. “Oh, Rin, that reminds me! We stopped at a konbini after our date and got you chuupet." He tosses him a packet; it narrowly misses Rintarou's head. "Osamu said you liked mango, and I called him a noob because mango isn’t in season right now, and he should know that. Then we made out in the snack aisle until the cashier kicked us out. What a fucking dumbass,” Motoya coos. There are actual hearts in his eyes. Rintarou wants to cry, and maybe throw up, or ideally go home and verbally assault the life-size Miya Atsumu cardboard cutout he keeps in his closet strictly for that reason.
Rintarou is many things, but most of all, he prides himself on being a problem-solver. A rational and effective human being, if you’re particularly inclined to therapist-speak.
Problem? Falling in love with your best friend in high school. Solution? Go pro, and get a new best friend on your new professional team. Unfortunately, this presents a new problem: falling for said new best friend. Solution? Introduce both best friends to each other in hopes of... well, Rintarou didn’t really think that far ahead. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Rintarou is a desperate man.
And now they’re dating each other. And Rintarou is still, unfortunately, in love with them both. Go fucking figure. He’d like a therapist to try and explain this one.
Rintarou does the unspeakable: he dials Atsumu.
Atsumu answers after the first ring—understandable, Rintarou changed his contact to Hot JVA Kuroo Tetsurou after Atsumu got horrifically wasted last week and made the mistake of entrusting Rintarou with his phone while he puked his guts up in the bathroom—and Rintarou wastes no time. God forbid he make small talk with Miya Atsumu for longer than necessary. He’s losing brain cells by the minute. “I need to talk to Sakusa.”
He hears a confused Eh ? followed by an incredulous scoff. “Rin? Should’ve fucking known,” Atsumu grumbles.
“Atsumu. Let me talk to Sakusa,” Rintarou pleads.
“Nah, leave Omi-kun out of your mess. He’s done nothing to deserve this.” Rintarou can picture Atsumu’s grimace on the other end of the line.
“Atsumu. I will leak your embarrassing childhood photos. Including the one of you throwing up into Osamu’s crocs.”
The ensuing silence tells him all he needs to know. He hears another, clearly exaggerated grumble, and the shuffle of a phone being passed off.
“What.”
“Um,” Rintarou says, “Uh.”
“Can I help you with something.”
“Yes, um. How does one, uh. Deal with. HavingfeelingsforMotoya.”
A long pause. “How would I know jack shit about having romantic inclinations towards my cousin.”
Okay, backtrack. “That’s not what I—just—fuck.”
“I feel similarly about your strange relationship with Motoya and this phone call.”
“He’s so hot,” Rintarou whines, actually whines like a petulant toddler, and Sakusa unceremoniously hangs up on him.
Rintarou can’t run from his problems, it turns out, especially when said problem involves both your teammate and sworn frenemy's hunk of a twin brother.
They've taken refuge at Onigiri Miya after a narrow loss in the fifth set on the Jackals’ home turf. Rintarou stuffs himself in a corner booth to replenish his energy and nurse his wounds, and maybe ogle Osamu’s back muscles as he methodically chops vegetables.
Motoya’s perched atop the counter like he belongs there, occasionally making grabby hands at Osamu, who flicks him on the forehead but betrays himself by following it up with a soft peck.
Atsumu slides into the booth beside him, completely disregarding the empty space across the table, and plasters himself to Rintarou’s side like a parasite. Sakusa follows closely behind, regarding them like he’s a scientist tasked with studying Atsumu’s parasitic behavior and Rintarou’s untimely demise.
“Hey, Suna,” Atsumu chirps, “how’s it going?”
“Get away from me,” Rintarou protests weakly. Atsumu ignores him. A side effect of growing up with a twin is selective hearing, Rintarou supposes.
He pretends not to notice Atsumu rubbing circles on Sakusa’s knee. He doubts Atsumu notices. Sakusa definitely notices.
There’s a loud roar from across the room that sounds suspiciously like Bokuto, followed by a high-pitched squeal that’s unmistakably Hinata. “Shit, I gotta see this,” Atsumu mumbles, practically climbing over Sakusa’s lap in his scramble to his feet.
Sakusa exhales through his nose, heavily like he’s trying to restrain himself. Rintarou can relate.
His gaze flits over towards the counter, where Osamu and Motoya are recreating the scene from Ghost using rice and nori. He must stare a little too pathetically, because Sakusa turns to him with both eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
“I missed my chance, huh.”
Sakusa’s frown is minuscule, but distinguishably somber. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Cheers,” Rintarou says.
There’s a nursery rhyme that Rintarou learned in elementary school: Make new friends, but keep the old, it sings, one is silver and the other’s gold.
Now Osamu and Motoya are each other’s gold. Rintarou’s tired of settling for silver.
Osamu stops him before he has the chance to dash out the door, a paper bag of leftover onigiri caught between his teeth and an unspoken confession weighing down on his tongue.
“Rin. Yer still coming over for movie night, right?”
He hesitates. “Are you sure I wouldn’t be, you know, intruding?”
Osamu looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Don’t be silly, Rin. It’s always been the three of us. Just ‘cause ‘Toya and I are dating now don’t mean we’re gonna kick ya to the curb.”
Movie nights typically go like this: Motoya on the floor reclining between his legs; Osamu perched to his right with one knee digging into his abdomen; Osamu throwing popcorn at Motoya’s head. He feels like he’s watching some kind of weird mating ritual that he’s been inadvertently roped into.
Motoya boos at the blonde actress onscreen. “She’s not even that pretty. I could take her.”
“Like, in a fight?” Rintarou asks. Motoya merely hums. “In a fight, right?”
“A battle of the looks,” Motoya amends, gravely serious.
“Yeah. Sure,” Rintarou responds. Motoya kicks him in the shin.
“Samu, Rin doesn’t think I’m pretty,” Motoya whines. Osamu scoffs, then goes back to inhaling popcorn. Rintarou scowls.
“You needed to be knocked down a peg. I did what had to be done.”
Motoya shoves him. Rintarou takes it, like a lovesick fool.
The thing about being in love with your sworn frenemy’s twin brother is, nothing gets past the bastard.
“Sunarin, I know ya like my scrub brother. And Omi-kun says you like Motoya-kun, too.”
Fucking Sakusa and his penchant for sticking his nose in other people’s business. Rintarou hopes it backfires in his face someday. “Shut the fuck up. You’re so annoying.”
“You’re a bitch, Suna. Stop deflecting. And stop cursing out Omi-kun, I can see the gears turning in yer head right now.” He’s blocking the door, so Rintarou can’t slip out and pretend this encounter never occurred.
Fucking Atsumu. Osamu should’ve eaten him in the womb. Hell, Rintarou should unhinge his entire jaw right now and swallow him whole.
Atsumu’s staring at him pointedly, waiting for an answer, practically radiating I see right through you, bitch energy. Rintarou would like to pass away. He’ll drag Atsumu with him on the way down to hell.
He sighs. “It doesn’t matter. They’re happy together. I don’t want to fuck things up.”
Atsumu peers at him curiously. “What makes you think they can’t be happy with you, too?”
Then Atsumu drops the hammer, and death is imminent. “He’s been in love with ya since high school, ya know. And I don’t know Motoya-kun that well, but anyone with eyes can tell he likes you, too.”
It takes a home-cooked meal at Osamu’s apartment, set on an actual table with a tablecloth and candles—fucking candles!—for Rintarou to crack.
“What the fuck are we doing.”
Motoya cocks his head to the side, furrowing his ridiculous eyebrows. It’s so adorable Rintarou wants to punch a wall. “Rin?”
“You guys are dating. You, like, go on dates. Together.”
“That’s correct.” “Yup,” Motoya and Osamu chime in unison.
Rintarou’s spiraling. “So why does it feel like I’m on a date with you?”
“Oh my god, Osamu. He finally got it.”
What ? “What?”
Motoya opens and closes his mouth, like a flailing fish. It’s unbefitting for a man who once launched into a completely improvised hour-long monologue about wealth distribution and ending up converting half the team into communists. “Kiyoomi may have let slip that you…have feelings for me. And Osamu.”
Oh my fucking god. Rintarou starts weighing the benefits of getting away with justifiable homicide.
“We’re courtin’ ya,” Osamu adds helpfully.
“But—you—you’re dating each other. You like each other. Not me.”
Motoya huffs a laugh. It’s a sharp contrast to his usual hyena-like cackle—it makes Rintarou flinch, bracing for the inevitable rejection. “Rin, I’ve been flirting with you since the day we met. Anyone with eyes can see I’m ridiculously into you.”
Rintarou blinks. He needs a second; his head is spinning. “I… thought that’s just the way you are.”
Motoya shakes his head. “I can’t believe you. You’re so stupid,” he adds. Unfortunately for him, the stupidly fond expression on his face undercuts the insult a little.
He turns to Osamu, who’s stayed quiet throughout the entire exchange. “‘Samu?”
“Rin, if ya think I don’t love you, yer the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”
Rintarou has to scoff at that. “But what about—”
“Yeah. Even dumber than ‘Tsumu.”
“Shut up,” he says, weakly. He feels faint. If he collapses, will Osamu catch him? Maybe Motoya will give him mouth-to-mouth. If his knees give out right now, during the height of his professional career, well, at least there’s some consolation.
Rintarou makes a mental note to rescind any previous Sakusa slander. He should really send him a gift basket.