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In the quiet of an ordinary Sunday morning, Suna comes to the realization that there’s only one place he’d like to wake up every day, for as long as he breathes.
Osamu has a leg haphazardly thrown over Suna’s under the crumpled blankets—a result of his childhood sleeping habits he hasn’t grown out of—and his head resting snuggly in the crook of his neck. Suna’s legs are numb, not an unusual occasion with Osamu around. It is a comfortable kind of feeling, one that anchors him to reality and reminds him of where he is.
Their fingers are loosely tangled together, lying in the little space between them. Suna knows Osamu is awake despite his demeanor, he has spent many years diligently learning Osamu’s habits after all. He is sure Osamu knows he is awake too, but neither of them make a move to disrupt the tranquility.
There are no hearts leaping out of chests or sweaty palms, no nervous eyes darting around, figuring out how to break an awkward silence. They have long since surpassed that stage, even before they started dating—a consequence of falling for your best friend. His heart still flutters to Osamu's smile, his palms still shaky like the time he got down on one knee last autumn, but that is different.
Instead, they lay quietly, comfortably, and Suna contemplates as he basks in Osamu’s sunlit presence.
It’s the same view from eight years ago, back in high school when he’d follow Osamu home after school and stumble into the bottom bunk together, exhausted after a long day of spiking practice. They’d fall asleep then and there, long limbs all cramped up in that small space, snack wrappers from yesterday left on the floor next to abandoned textbooks that haven’t even left their school bags. There are far more comfortable places to sleep than on the same sheets as a serial blanket hogger, but that’s yet another part of Osamu that he’d quickly learned to love, no matter the unforgivable temperatures he’d woken up to on some mornings.
There was a time in which this part of Osamu, somewhere along the way, he had learned to hate instead.
During their messiest moments, the stress and tension tugged harshly on both ends of their relationship—fraying, tearing, and on the verge of snapping. Lost in the pain that came with the strain, he let bitterness blind his senses, and in the haze all he could think about was how aggravating were the callous sneers, sardonic smiles, and selfish demands thrown his way during the few times of the year they could meet. Patience worn thin, he would willingly prod and push on any fights that brewed, feeling justified, taunting and tossing scathing remarks over the little things hardly even mattered in the grand scheme of things, until only an empty house remained.
Both of them had let go, too tired to keep trying for something that felt long lost, unable to salvage like the pieces of a shattered vase.
But what ended up breaking him the most was not the pure venom and resentment thrown at each other in the most heated of moments.
Being set free from a sense of obligation that kept him trying to piece back together a relationship that repeatedly slipped through his grip felt gratifying for the first three, four months. Even though their shared friend circles had them crossing paths on occasion, there was a silent agreement to refrain from speaking to each other. They were always good at that—understanding one another without the need for words—or at least, that was how it used to be.
The petty, ugly side of him wanted to pin the spotlight on Osamu then and there, see how Osamu would try to defend himself in front of their friends. How dare he be so silent now, when he had so much to say about Suna before?
He held it in.
The empty months following had him quietly wishing for Osamu to show him an ounce of emotion beyond apathy.
“Rin.”
Suna blinks, the gentle call of his name immediately clearing him out of his thoughts. He glances over at the state of Osamu, face still half hidden in the crook of Suna’s neck, but eyes finally open. Osamu lazily untangles their hands and reaches up to pinch Suna by the nose, to which Suna instinctively scrunches up in response.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Osamu states simply. The metal band wrapped around his finger glints in the sunlight as he moves.
“I was reminiscing. I’m getting old, let me have this,” he mumbles, voice muffled by Osamu’s hair.
“Well, stop. Thinking doesn’t suit you. You’re not even old, back in my day—”
“Ha ha, three months ago, so funny,” he drawls monotonously. Osamu has found Suna’s hand again, mindlessly attempting to bend his fingers in ways that were not meant to be bent on a human hand.
“Besides, didn’t we agree to leave it in the past? There’s no need to think about it anymore.” There is a hint of dismay in his tone that Suna doesn’t miss. Osamu has a way of finding out when Suna is thinking of unpleasant memories—one that not even Suna realizes.
“I know. I really was just reminiscing. It was a part of us, I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen,” he reassures.
Osamu only hums in response, and whether it is a hum of approval or doubt is only for him to know.
He allows himself to become mesmerized with the way Osamu's hands move. They are littered by scars from volleyball, kitchen knives, Atsumu, and stove burns alike.
He remembers the first time he intertwined their fingers together, in the Miya home kitchen after sampling the onigiri Osamu made. Having not been rebuffed, he kept at it again and again, each time Osamu would invite him over. Osamu would chide him about hygiene, but they’d remain warm in his grasp.
He supposes not much has changed, only that these hands have become older, adorned with a ring he owns the matching pair for (when they aren’t working). These hands still shape onigiri with care and hold his own with all the patience in the world.
They are the same pair of hands he held as a teenager who didn’t know a thing about what it meant to love, the same pair of hands he once foolishly let go, too young and brash and prideful to hold on.
It is still the same pair of hands he holds onto now, in the morning when he wants to lay in bed just a couple minutes more, but the heathen likes to get up by eight o’clock.
And as much as Suna wishes it were not the case, life is unpredictable. It is too soon to say that they won’t ever let go again. But, Suna thinks, there isn’t a point in time in which he would give up on learning to love Osamu all over again.