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“Samu,” Atsumu calls from the bathroom, “why’s your toothbrush in the shower?”
“It’s not mine,” Osamu answers. “Why the fuck would I put my toothbrush in the shower?”
Atsumu opens the bathroom door with no small amount of drama. A toothbrush—thankfully his own—sticks out of his frothy mouth. Garbled, he asks, “Then whose izzit?”
“I’m not talking to you right now. You’re getting spit on my floors,” Osamu hisses, launching a pillow at Atsumu from his spot on the sofa. Rather unfortunately, Osamu’s aim is a little too good, and the pillow lands true—straight on Atsumu’s toothpaste-y face.
“Motherfucker,” Atsumu mumbles. He kicks the fallen pillow back in Osamu’s direction.
“What happened to your professional-volleyball-player reflexes?” Osamu asks. “Maybe you should retire.”
Atsumu gives him the middle finger.
Diversion successful, Osamu thinks.
He wasn’t lying when he said the toothbrush isn’t his. It’s not like Osamu would brush his teeth in the shower; what is he, an animal? No, the toothbrush in the shower is Motoya’s, because Motoya is a freak. Motoya also spends give or take three nights a week at Osamu’s apartment, dragging his roommate-slash-Osamu’s-best-friend Suna with him.
It’s not that Osamu thinks Atusmu would react badly. Osamu, Motoya, and Suna are totally normal, if somewhat overly affectionate, friends. It’s just that Atsumu might… blow things out of proportion.
Atsumu does not forget about it.
Instead, Atsumu FaceTimes him at nine-thirty-six in the evening and, instead of greeting him with a hello like a civilized human being, opens with, “You never told me who your secret girlfriend was. Last week, I mean.”
“Well,” Osamu says hesitantly, wishing he’d put in his headphones, “I don’t—”
“Oooh,” chimes in Motoya, “I didn’t know Osamu had a girlfriend.” He tugs on Osamu’s hair, hard. “Are you keeping secrets from us?”
Atsumu blinks. “Komori?”
“And Rin,” Motoya adds primly, snatching the phone from Osamu’s hands and switching the camera around to show Suna, asleep. In Osamu’s bed. Between Osamu and Motoya. Osamu sighs.
“Oh,” Atsumu says, dragging out the sound. Oooooooh. He grins lopsidedly. “So it’s not a girlfriend.”
“It’s not anything,” Osamu mutters, stealing his phone back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right,” Atsumu says, “right right right. I don’t have anyone’s toothbrush in my bathroom. Or shower, I guess. What the hell is up with that, Komori?”
Before Motoya can continue to needle Atsumu, Osamu interrupts, “That’s because no one likes you, Tsumu. Bye.”
Suna cracks open one singular, judgemental eye. “You woke me up.”
Motoya pats his cheek, hard. It’s more of a slap; Suna frowns. “Go back to sleep. We have an early start tomorrow.”
It’s not that Osamu doesn’t know what it looks like. He spends a lot of time with Suna and Motoya. So much time that his things are divided between his apartment and theirs; so much that Motoya and Suna each have a toothbrush at his place and extra clothes in his drawers.
They’re just really good friends, okay?
Really good friends who text all day and have each others’ schedules memorized; really good friends who say I love you before they hang up.
“That doesn’t sound very platonic to me,” says Atsumu, whose gleeful grin does nothing but give Osamu’s tension headache a vicious edge. “I don’t kiss Sunarin goodbye when I hang out with him, but maybe that’s just me.”
“I don’t kiss him,” Osamu grouses. “Why did I even come here?”
Atsumu pokes him in the ribs, hard. “I bet you want to though.”
“No way,” Osamu says, even though it’s possible he’s thought about it once or twice. Maybe even three or four times. Or five! Not that anyone’s counting!
“I was kinda surprised when Komori jumped on him when he joined EJP,” Atsumu muses. “But it looks like it all worked out.”
Now, it’s Osamu’s turn to poke Atsumu in the ribs. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Scrambling backwards, Atsumu hugs his torso to protect himself from Osamu. “I mean I thought you were gonna get all jealous!”
This brings Osamu to a pause. “Why would I get jealous over Suna and Motoya?”
Sure, he’d probably feel a little bitter if Suna started showering someone other than him with constant attention, but for some reason, Motoya’s presence has never bothered him. In fact, he’d been pretty happy for Suna when he made a friend on his new team; seeing them together makes Osamu’s chest feel disgustingly warm and fuzzy.
For some normal, platonic reason.
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Atsumu says after a long, drawn-out pause. “Whatever’s wrong with you is probably terminal.”
“Soooooo,” Motoya says, leaning into Osamu’s space and dragging out the oh until Suna whacks him on the shoulder. Properly chastised, Motoya sits up and continues, “Osamu. Secret girlfriend. Spill.”
It’s just past closing at Onigiri Miya and Suna and Motoya are, as per usual, polluting the front counter while Osamu cleans up. “I’m busy,” Osamu says, flat, because he knows Motoya is egging him on. Motoya wants him to admit that there is no ‘secret girlfriend’ at all, that Atsumu was talking about Motoya himself.
“I, for one, want to know who you’re cheating on us with,” Suna says conversationally. “Don’t you, Motoya?”
“Ooh, let me guess,” Motoya says in his terrible, evil scheming voice. Osamu would hate it if he didn’t like it so much. “Picture this, okay, I’m setting the scene. It’s some American girl. She came here for…” Motoya blinks. “Onigiri, I guess. That’s all there is. Anyway. She’s here for onigiri but stayed for the handsome man behind the counter. They have a whirlwind romance—”
“Will you stop that, there’s no girl, okay—”
Motoya doesn’t let Osamu finish. He goes on, “Whirlwind romance, right, but she wants Osamu to travel with her, and Osamu’s too much of a homebody to leave the prefecture, let alone the country, because he’s a loser. So their love can never be. The end.”
“That was a shitty ending,” Suna sighs. He leans his head on Motoya’s shoulder. Osamu’s heart stutters at the sight. When Suna adds, “I liked the part where Samu was a loser. It was really realistic,” Osamu’s heart skips again. Mysteriously.
Choosing to ignore Motoya’s grandiose fiction, Osamu says, “I can’t cheat on you, Rin. It’s not like we’re dating.” Because they’re not, even though Suna and Motoya have fucked up their professional-athlete-sleep-schedule to come see Osamu after a stressful day at work. Like friends do.
Suna blinks, slow and cat-like. “...I forgot,” he says. “Whoops.”
“Now who’s the loser,” Motoya teases, but he sounds… sad, sort of, or maybe Osamu’s projecting.
“Did you know that Osamu has two secret girlfriends,” Atsumu says conspiratorially to their mother over a three-way video call, “and their names are Suna and Komori?”
“Goodbye,” Osamu says, because the door is open and Suna and Komori are in the living room, playing some game on Suna’s switch that has made its home in Osamu’s apartment even though Osamu doesn’t know how to turn the thing on, let alone play it.
“I didn’t know you broke up with your secret American girlfriend for us,” Motoya says, because he likes listening in on phone calls. “Come sit.”
Suna shifts over so there’s space between him and Komori for Osamu to sit. “Secret American ex -girlfriend,” Suna corrects. Once Osamu sits, Suna shoves him—gently, lovingly—until his head is in Suna’s lap and his legs are thrown over Komori’s.
“I thought you guys were playing…” Osamu looks over at the TV and doesn’t recognize anything, “...something.”
“Well, you’re here now, and you don’t even know how to use a Switch controller,” Motoya points out—a little meanly, like he thinks Osamu should know how to work a Switch controller.
“Atsumu keeps talking like we’re dating,” Osamu says suddenly; he’s sure Suna and Motoya heard Atsumu’s baseless accusation, but for some reason, the idea won’t leave his mind. He turns his face so his nose is pressed into Suna’s stomach. Suna pets his hair, but the moment is ruined when Motoya pulls on his leg hair. “Just ‘cause he found your toothbrush here. Toothbrushes. I guess.”
A strange feeling settles in Osamu’s stomach. Not hunger, confusingly, but apprehension. Why is he so nervous about what Motoya and Suna have to say? Atsumu’s just joking around, and besides, their relationship isn’t like that. Osamu is cuddling with his two best friends for… fun.
“Why do you care so much?” Motoya asks. “Do you want to?”
Osamu’s stomach drops. “Do I what,” he asks, slowly. Suna pulls on his cheek.
“I mean, Suna brought his switch here,” Motoya barrels on, oblivious to the typhoon wreaking havoc on Osamu’s internal organs. “That’s like a marriage proposal. Right? We could be dating.”
“I have to be honest with you guys,” Suna confesses, “I kind of assumed we figured this out like, ages ago.” He brushes Osamu’s hair out of his face and peers down into his eyes, solemn. “I mean, we’ve been sleeping in your bed, dude.”
“You can’t call me dude if we’re dating,” Osamu says pitifully, though his own voice sounds inaudible over the typhoon. “That’s not very nice.”
Motoya plucks another one of Osamu’s leg hairs.
“Ow,” Osamu says.
“Shush,” Motoya replies, lovingly. “I guess we’re kind of overly-friendly. Just a little,” he muses. “I would hate to prove Atsumu right, though. Osamu, are you alright?”
Osamu is not alright. He’s kind of, sort of, stumbled upon a relationship with his two best friends. How could he have seen this coming? “I’m great,” he says, and it’s only sort of a lie, because he’s pressed up against Suna and Komori so the typhoon in his chest isn’t as scary. “I think we can prove Atsumu right. Just this once.”
Motoya smiles, and Osamu wants to kiss him a little bit. A lot.
“I wonder if Osamu’s ready. I mean, he just broke up with his secret American girlfriend,” Suna says. He’s doing the almost-smile Osamu likes.
“Shut the fuck up,” Osamu says, lovingly. “I have no American girlfriend. You’re stupid.”
“No girlfriend, just us,” Motoya sighs, faux-dramatic. “Two very attractive and smart consolation prizes.”
“Yeah,” Osamu says, and he smiles too.