Chapter Text
The last place in the world Motoya wants to be on a Saturday is the library.
Granted, he would probably just be in his dorm room or out with Kiyoomi, so it’s not like he’d be doing anything particularly more exciting, but it would be free of homework and that makes it indescribably better. He leans against his hand, looking at the data on his laptop screen. It’s mostly in Spanish but he doesn’t need the words, he needs the data. In the wise words of Lindsey Lohan, “it’s the same in every country.” Therefore, thank you for your data, random science paper.
He drags his eyes over the tables, trying to make sense of the labels to see if he can actually use it. He grinds his fingers against his temple. Motoya’s fingers feel a little numb from the chill of the aircon. He bites his lip a little, hope rising.
“Okay, so, I think if we narrow it down to a specific model of plane, average price per ticket, and average cost per seat mile per year, I think we could swing a price elasticity of supply analysis,” he says, looking over at his partner.
Suna looks back at him. Gold eyes unnervingly steady on Motoya’s face. He releases the straw of his drink, plastic mangled by teeth. He looks warm despite the lack of layers, a little bit of pink on his cheeks. “Sounds good to me.”
Motoya waits, seeing if he’s going to offer anything else, but he just bites back down on the straw, looking back to his own laptop. Motoya dies a little inside.
“Can you narrow down a plane model?” He asks, aiming for overly polite instead of suffering.
“Sure.”
“Thanks,” he says, dying a little more inside.
It could be worse, he tells himself.
When the project was announced and partners were assigned, he had braced for the worst. Suna was good about showing up to volleyball practice but less so about classes. (As far as Motoya knows at least, they’ve only shared a handful of classes over the last three years. Maybe he cares more about his major specific classes). When he does show up to this class, he usually just gets the professor talking about his poodle and derails everything.
Motoya was fully expecting Suna to ghost him for the duration of the project with a well worn, placating mantra of “yeah, I’ll get to it”, only to reveal at the end that nothing was done and leave Motoya scrambling the night before the due date, and, of course, still demand that his name be on the paper because ‘he needs to pass’ or whatever, despite contributing nothing to the project.
Suna shows up when Motoya asks, agrees (blandly) to whatever Motoya asks him to do, and so far, does them.
He is just painfully quiet the entire time they are together.
In this class, it seemed like he was always eager to talk, well, eager to talk about things that were not economics. At volleyball practice for their university team, he was chatty too. Always eager to pounce on moments to tease or generate some discussion for a few extra minutes rest. Motoya had expected something similar here. Instead, Suna regards him with the trepidation one might use for a monster that’s waiting for the right moment to gaslight and eat him.
He finds himself almost begging Suna to talk just to make this go by faster. It could literally be about anything. They barely know each other outside of proximity stuff so it's not like they’ve run out of topics. Looking over at Suna, he finds him slouched in his chair a little, eyes glued to the screen, periodically moving his fingers. Ignoring Motoya entirely if he can feel the stare.
It could be worse, he reminds himself.
They have the library to themselves save for a couple other students working on assignments. This early on a Saturday, the only people alive are the ones who don’t have a choice. It’s quiet save for the occasional shift of paper or tapping of feet. If he listens hard enough, maybe he could hear the bookcases sucking out their souls.
“It looks like American and Frontier both use an A319 plane for domestic flights,” Suna announces.
Motoya searches the tables of data and sure enough, is able to find A319 on the list. “Perfect, I’m sending you this,” he says as he airdrops the research to Suna.
“I’ll write the background paragraph if you wanna start putting a data table together?” Motoya asks.
“Sure.”
He smiles tensely, “Awesome.”
Sucking his teeth, he pulls up their shared google doc and the case study they’re supposed to be referencing for this research. He types away for a moment but his attention is quick to fade. He does not want to be here, the dread bubbling inside of him. He purses his lips for a moment. Maybe volleyball…?
“Do you think Bokuto is going to wear those super short shorts again to our run on Monday?” Motoya asks.
“Probably.” Suna replies with such severity it gobbles the thread of conversation up whole.
Motoya can’t even be mad, it was a pretty pathetic attempt at conversation. When did he start failing at this? He’s good at talking to people; people love to talk to him! He can’t decide if banging his head on the desk or flinging himself over the railing to the first floor is the better idea. Anything is better than this awkward silence.
His phone screen lights up. The text message bubble bright against his aesthetic lo-fi background.
From Sakusa:
>> I’m being dragged to the tailor again
Technically, he’s not asking for anything. Motoya could easily swipe it away and go back to the essay. He should swipe it away and go back to the essay. Kiyoomi doesn’t need anything. Kiyoomi wouldn’t even be mad! (Well, he’s going to be mad about being dragged anywhere with his bridezilla sister, but it wouldn’t be directed at Motoya.)
If he squints really hard maybe it can become more. He’s the designated Kiyoomi interpreter so maybe it kind of sounds like a cry for help.
To Sakusa:
>> (ᓀ ᓀ)
A location pin appears in the chat. Twin telepathy ain’t got shit on cousin bat signals.
“Hey, I gotta go,” Motoya says.
“Okay.”
Well, at least he doesn’t need to come up with a lie to try and remember. He packs up his things quickly, shoving them messily into his bag as he says, “I’ll text you about next week, yeah?”
Suna doesn’t even grace him with a full word, just some noise that sounds like agreement. When Motoya lifts his head, he’s not even sure Suna even gave the effort of looking at him, his face still glued to the screen. Whatever, not his problem anymore.
He takes one glance over the table to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything before walking away from their table and heading out, praying it doesn’t look like a run.
“You look like shit,” Motoya’s older sister, Hana, snarks as he enters the tailor’s workspace.
“You’re getting wrinkles,” Motoya immediately replies. She smacks his arm hard.
The family tailor is a nice, older man who is a saint for putting up with their family for as long as he has. His space is neatly organized, filled with the scent of clean linen. He has pushed the work tables towards the walls and out of the way, pulled out chairs for them to sit. Thankfully the space is small so it is currently filled with just the cousins. His little sister, Yukiko, is on a little podium, standing painfully still with her arms out.
“Can you take in the sleeve a little bit here?” Sakusa’s sister, Noa, asks, pinching the fabric a little.
“Of course, Ms. Sakusa,” Their tailor says softly. He takes a pen, marking the spot.
Noa steps back, pursing her lips in thought. Motoya smirks as he watches Yuriko straighten up just a little bit more, trying to be perfect for their exacting cousin. He sits next to Kiyoomi, who is scowling with his arms crossed in his seat.
“Are you next?” Motoya asks teasingly.
“Hana is then me,” Kiyoomi grumbles quietly, “She decided she didn’t like how square my shoulders looked the last time.”
Funnily enough, at the time, she said she loved them. That it made her baby brother look particularly sophisticated, like some handsome English soccer player. Unfortunately, this was par the course for most of the wedding planning thus far.
“Since you're here as well Motoya, I want you to put yours on. I think the suit jacket might be a little long for you,” Noa comments, turning to look at him with a sharp black gaze. “Wouldn’t want to make you look,” Her eyes drag down the length of his body quickly before snapping back to his face, “short.”
“Sure,” he says with a tight smile. As if they aren’t the same height.
As soon as she turns her back, he looks to Kiyoomi. He raises a brow, silently asking, The fuck? Kiyoomi smirks just a little, shrugging his shoulders, returning the look with a who knows? Noa launches into something about needing Yukiko to spin and the length of her dress.
“What were you doing?” Kiyoomi asks.
“At the library, working on that econ paper,” Motoya replies, “although now I’m wondering if I should have stayed.”
“You should have,” Kiyoomi immediately says, “How’s the partner?”
Motoya’s mouth pinches into a frown, “It’s going okay.”
It's a bad attempt at a lie. Kiyoomi raises a brow at him, silently imploring Motoya to continue. Remaining silent earns Motoya a pointed jab of his foot. Noa’s phone goes off, distracting them momentarily as she scurries out of the room.
Motoya sighs, “He’s just… quiet? I don’t know.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“I just - like he talks all the time during class and we get along at practice but as soon as we’re by ourselves he develops an allergy to complete sentences.”
“Sounds like the opposite of a problem.”
Motoya wilts a little, “Has he said he hates me or something?”
Kiyoomi’s face falls, projecting No one could ever hate you Motoya, you’re an angel. Okay, it definitely doesn’t say that, but that is what Motoya is going to say that it says. Interpreting isn’t a literal science, he has leeway.
Noa comes back in, charging the energy of the room immediately. “Alright, I have to go to the florists later cause they’re fucking idiots -” she points at the three of them, snapping her fingers, “All of you, up, go change.”
They get up. There’s shuffling as the Tailor pulls out their garments, setting them up in the dressing area. They’ve got the routine down pat. This is probably the 8th time they’ve been here in two months. “Does he have any other clients right now?” Motoya wonders aloud.
“Doubtful,” Hana says. Kiyoomi hums in agreement.
They finish changing, stepping back out into the tailor’s workspace. Motoya isn’t entirely sure what the colors or theme for the wedding actually are anymore. Their suits are a dark green while his sisters have somehow ended up in a light blue dress that is a vague - vague - nod to a more formal kimono. That’s the closest they’ll probably get to a Japanese style wedding.
Motoya lets his mind float away as Noa starts prattling on. Maybe this whole thing isn’t a problem, Motoya thinks to himself. At practice they’re seldom paired up together unless they’re working on defense specific stuff. Outside of class they don’t share any friends except for the volleyball team people. It's not like Suna does hate him (at least with any severity) and Motoya is largely apathetic if he’s being honest. Maybe they just don’t have a lot in common and they’ll do this essay, get a good grade, and go back to being proximity associates.
He watches the tailor mark in white where she wants his jacket to now sit, he’s pretty sure it’s actually going to be a little too short now but isn’t up for the argument that’ll ensue. He shrugs off the jacket to hand it to the tailor. Now that she has somewhere else to be, the whole thing flies by.
“Motoya,” Noa snaps.
He grimaces, warily replying “Yes?”
“You’re not bringing anyone to the wedding,” She rolls the hand holding her phone as she finishes, “right?”
Before he can even open his reply, Hana snorts. “Toya, dating?”
Noa and her share a little giggle while Motoya’s feels his cheeks heat up.
“He’s handsome enough!” Yukiko sweetly defends.
“Yeah, sorry I don’t churn through them like TV Dramas, Hana,” Motoya snarks.
That incenses Hana, who’s mouth pinches angrily. “So bring one then, bring a date to the wedding.”
“Hah?”
Hana doubles down, a cocky smile blooming, “Bring a date to the wedding. Or is that too much to ask never-been-kissed-toya?”
“He’s been kissed,” Kiyoomi comments in disgust. Motoya has a brief, traumatizing flashback to freshman year when they shared a dorm. He swats at Kiyoomi for breaking their agreement to never speak of that moment ever again.
“Bridesmaid never the bride ‘toya?” Noa poses.
It’s not that he hasn’t wanted too, it's just that it takes so much energy and schoolwork takes up a lot of his time and then there’s practices and games and it's not like the pool of people to pick from is that spectacular so who cares if he doesn’t date or ever had a boyfriend, it's not weird. Plenty of people don’t date till after school anyways or later in life and why does he have to yield to other people’s timelines about these things?
“Dying alone ‘toya?” Hana counters.
Their metallic laughter fills the space. Embarrassment lances through him cold, sharp, and quick, so quickly he has no time to stop the words from boiling over.
“I’m bringing my boyfriend.”
Hana recoils a little in shock. Motoya realizes a beat too late; he could have said literally anything else. That he’d bring a date or tell them to fuck off or literally anything else. The shock doesn’t last, Hana’s eyes narrowing suspiciously at him.
“When did you get a boyfriend?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Yukiko piggybacks, latching onto him, “What’s his name? What’s he like? Are you bringing him to the wedding?”
“It’s um,” Motoya stutters, “it’s new?” He sheepishly looks over at Noa.
She doesn’t look like she believes him in the slightest, her mouth sitting in an unimpressed flat line. “Whatever,” She rolls her eyes before pointing her phone at him, “I need an answer by next Friday so talk it out with them because Dad has a client he wants to invite.”
Her phone pings, she looks at it grimacing. “Alright, all of you go change, we gotta leave.”
Motoya finally looks over at Kiyoomi but wishes he hadn’t.
His face is split with a grin that’s almost manic, delighted. Because unlike the sisters, they spend all their time together and Kiyoomi knows the truth. That he just told the worst possible lie he could tell to people that never forget.
Motoya wants to die.
Kiyoomi is kind enough to wait until they make it to the drink shop before letting out a little snort.
“Boyfriend, eh?”
Motoya groans loudly. “I’m such an idiot.”
“You are,” Kiyoomi says between quiet giggles.
Motoya hates that everyone thinks his cousin is this stoic, phobia-ridden hard ass. He isn’t. He is a sadistic bastard who gleefully delights in the pain of others. Mostly Motoya’s pain because no one else believes Kiyoomi can experience things like joy.
He drags his fingers down his face with a frustrated noise. The employee calls their names so Motoya goes and grabs both of their drinks. They walk out of the store together, awkwardly maneuvering around another gaggle of college kids.
“Why did you let them get to you like that?” Kiyoomi asks bluntly.
Motoya flushes. “I just… I haven’t really been talking to anyone other than you or classmates. I’ve been tired and busy.”
“So? That’s okay,” Kiyoomi shrugs, “Just cause they talk to people all day long doesn’t mean you have to. I don’t.”
“Yeah but you hate people.”
Kiyoomi bobs his head, “I do.”
“I don’t hate people,” Motoya says, he sighs, “I just…”
A couple walks past them laughing, something green bubbling inside him. It’s not like he doesn’t want that. It just hasn’t happened yet. He hasn’t wanted it to happen yet. Motoya picks at the label on his cup, double checking for cars because red lights and cross walks were treated like they were invisible in their city. He stretches his gait to keep up with Kiyoomi as they cross.
“You could just say you broke up cause he chickened out,” Kiyoomi suggests, “or that it was too new and he didn’t wanna come.”
Motoya contemplates it. That would be the easy way out, a family wedding is a big deal for a relationship. They were also in a new relationship per his own words so it’d be easy for them to just not work out. He recalls their faces, the dubious look they shared. Embarrassment melts into annoyance into rage.
“No,” Motoya says, “I’ll just find a boyfriend to bring to the wedding.”
Kiyoomi looks at him with a doubtful raise of his brow. Motoya smacks his arm.
“It’s not that hard. I can totally find someone who wants to go on an all-expenses paid luxury trip to the Seychelles for a week.”
“Uh huh,” Kiyoomi says. He takes a long, condescending sip of his drink. “Who are you going to ask?”
Motoya opens his mouth but it just hangs open for a moment, no names materializing. Who was he going to ask? He waves his hands flippantly, scoffing.
“We have a huge volleyball team, tons of classmates, someone will say yes.”
He hopes.
Kiyoomi sighs, burdened, “This is dumb.”