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There are moments when Osamu is riddled with a feeling of wistfulness. Intermittently it will froth like foam in the pit of his stomach, brewing and boiling until it spills from the sides. Finally, it gurgles in his throat, layering his tongue with a sour film that won’t wash away no matter how many times he scrubs it with the rigid side of his toothbrush.
The pangs of emotion are irritating in the same way an itch is. One that Osamu has to twist and contort to scratch but is just beyond the reach of his hands. His inability to decipher the cause frustrated him more than anything else, unable to relieve that crawling feeling that his fingers just barely skim.
The breeze drifts through the sliding window of Osamu’s near-empty classroom. It’s warm, brushing over his exposed arms with a constancy that has the capability to lull someone to sleep. Osamu suspects this is what happened to the person sitting in front of him. Suna’s brown hair sticks up from where he has buried his face into the crook of his arm, occasionally rustling when the light air touches it.
Suna looks seconds from death, sometimes. There are days when thick purple circles will border his eyes, contrasting with the sharp green irises. After Osamu woke up to a string of poorly crafted memes, only humorous to a person who was delirious with sleep, he suspected it might be a day of heavy limbs for Suna. He’d spent the day slumped in his chair, looking ready to melt into a puddle of goop on the floor. Osamu isn’t surprised that he finally slumped over, drooling all over the wooden tabletop.
Osamu might have let Suna nap for a bit longer, lounging in the sun that pools through the window. Except, it happens to be approaching dinner time. Not only do they risk getting locked into the school, but Osamu’s stomach is starting to grumble demands.
“Suna,” Osamu calls out to him, observing for signs of life. Suna doesn’t so much as twitch, breaths undisturbed. Osamu retrieves a pencil from his desk pocket, positioning it in front of his right eye for a better viewpoint of its projected path. When confident enough, Osamu tosses the ammo at his target.
Bullseye. It bounces off of the crown of Suna’s head. Eraser side, obviously, Osamu isn’t a monster. Still nothing, Suna lays as still as before. Osamu will have to resort to his final tactic, the cruellest of them all.
Osamu musters an outstretched sigh, exaggerated with disappointment for full effect. “I guess I’ll have to have dinner all on my own… too bad Suna is too sleepy to come along with me.”
If this were a cartoon, Osamu thinks Suna’s ear would have grown in size, his attention finally grasped by the mention of food. He peeks his head behind him above his arm, one scheming eye visible to Osamu. “You buying?” he asks in a gravelly voice.
“You’re such a faker,” Osamu jabs an accusatory finger in the air toward Suna. “Also, I paid last time.”
Suna hums uncaringly, wiping away his slobber with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You threw a pencil at my head…and I forgot my wallet.”
“Figures,” Osamu tilts his head toward the ceiling, letting out a real sigh this time. Suna grins devilishly, probably feeling accomplished in scamming Osamu out of another meal. Bastard.
Suna stretches his arms above his head in a way that can only be described as cat-like, his midriff poking out from where his sweatshirt rides up. “Noodles?” he asks while he pops his joints.
“Noodles,” Osamu confirms.
“No fucking way,” Suna’s mouth hangs agape, sitting across from Osamu in the corner of their favourite noodle shop. This little family-owned restaurant was usually where they ended up when dinner was proposed. It was a hidden gem they’d found together, quickly becoming their spot after the first visit.
The relaxed atmosphere and kind smiles from the owners made it an optimal spot for him and Suna to simply exist together. They were able to ping-pong feelings off of each other, feelings that were typically deemed confidential. It was a place where they could keep out of sight for a little while, escaping the potential judgment of their friends and teammates.
It was also optimal for them to talk about Atsumu behind his back.
Neglected noodles trapped between Suna’s chopsticks slip back into the bowl below, the splashback of soup splattering onto his face. Osamu slurps up another mouthful of his own while Suna wipes the broth from his face with his slobber sleeve.
“So, you’re telling me that some jaded asshole told your brother screw off, and now he’s planning their wedding?”
“Pretty much,” Osamu mumbles past his mouthful, doing his best to fend off an impending laugh. Everything is funnier when Suna says it, for some reason.
“Talk about love at first sight,” Suna groans, falling back in his seat as if he’s been defeated. “That can’t be scientifically possible, can it?”
Osamu shrugs, placing his chopsticks to the side. Atsumu has always been a sap despite his outward behaviour. He’s fond of those poorly scripted romance films, sniffling as soon as the love interest makes their first appearance. So, of course, he’d hold hope in concepts like soul mates or love at first sight. Osamu just hadn’t expected the fixation to settle on someone who sounded like a bigger jerk than Atsumu himself.
Before he has time to react, a screen is shoved under his nose. “Common consensus is that it takes eight weeks to fall in love.”
Osamu is going cross-eyed, trying to study the very credible research that has been presented to him. Nevertheless, he can make out from the blurry words that Suna’s claim is accurate. Maybe not scientifically speaking, considering this seems to be a public forum filled with anonymous strangers, but accurate nonetheless.
“I’ll make sure to let ‘Tsumu know,” Osamu says with a roll of the eyes, ready to retire the conversation. Except, that devilish twist to Suna’s upper lip is telling him that isn’t an option quite yet. Suna leans an elbow on the table, leaning in closer to the centre. The shine in his eyes tells Osamu all he needs to know. He has a proposal on the tip of his tongue, a grand idea that he’s ready to start executing. Osamu mirrors his pose, leaning in with him. Suna means business; he had something up his sleeve.
“Wanna test the theory?” Suna’s brow quirks up to emphasize the question.
Huh?
“Huh?” Osamu repeats, out loud this time.
“I bet I can get you to fall in love with me,” Suna says, twisting his wrist in circles that make the joint crack with each rotation. “In three months, of course.”
Making bets with Suna wasn’t anything new. It was somewhat of a monthly occurrence. Always something new and exciting, usually creative.
Osamu squints in Suna’s direction, falling back into his chair once again. This was equally ridiculous as it was creative. It was absolutely absurd, even coming from Suna.
“What, you dabbling in science now? Suna, that’s so stupid,” Osamu fiddles with the loose threads of his uniform pants. Suna’s cheeks puff out a little, glowering at Osamu while he formulates his retort.
“What? Scared you’ll become infatuated by my charm? Never took you to be a quitter,” Suna’s rakish smile is back, eyeing Osamu knowingly. “Hm. I bet that girl who sits in front of you in class would take me up on the offer; maybe I’ll give her a call.”
Suna makes Osamu feel like a puppet on a string a lot of the time— Always knowing just the right thing to say to make him tick, to get him to agree and go along with his schemes. As a result, Osamu often second-guesses himself, wondering if his actions are really of his own volition or if Suna has somehow manipulated the environment around him to turn in his favour.
“Fine, fine,” Osamu extends his hand to the centre of the table, waiting for Suna to take it in his own for a firm shake. “You have a deal.”
Osamu realizes two things when he walks home that night. One, they had never actually discussed the stakes or reward of this bet. Two, the thought of Suna falling in love with their classmate makes his skin feel prickly.
Everything starts with casual touches. So casual that Osamu isn’t sure he would have noticed them if it weren’t for their bet. Or experiment? Either way, friendly touches linger longer than they used to. Suna starts fore-going high-fives in the first week. Instead, he’ll clap Osamu between the shoulder blades. He rests his hand there for as long as it takes to vocalize short praise.
Suna starts sitting closer to him, too. On the bench, their knees knock when Suna leans in to talk to him. When they sit on the roof during lunch, their shoulders brush as they eat. Suna expanding his cache of touches is a new development; Osamu knows that, but nothing about it feels strange. On the contrary, it almost feels like a natural progression.
What he does find strange is the lack of reaction from the people around them. Not even their teammates seem to take notice of Suna’s sudden tendency toward skinship. There are no blinks of confusion or quizzical glances cast out of the corner of their eyes, not even a single snide comment from Atsumu.
Osamu wasn’t going to complain. Instead, it gave him the chance to strategize. Or rather, figure out if he was supposed to be strategizing at all. When playing a game of fire with Suna, it was crucial to formulate a plan to prevent burning.
At this point, Osamu isn’t sure if this is a game. If it really is a bet, he’s on the opposing side. But, then, should he be resisting? Of course, but if he resists, and this really is just an experiment, he would be preventing its accuracy.
Maybe all he needs to do is simmer alongside Suna, unbothered by the flames. Osamu can’t see the harm in indulging a little.
The heels of Osamu’s feet drag across the concrete as he walks. His shoes are loose, separating from his heel with each step. He hadn’t bothered to tie them out, tucking the laces into the sides of his shoes with the unstable hope that no one would stomp on them if they were to slip out.
The rest of the team is walking in a disorganized group ahead of him. He can hear them babbling amongst themselves, likely debating over a topic Osamu is not interested in engaging in. Opening his mouth and using it for one of its intended purposes would be a pain, one that Osamu has little patience for.
“Someone looks grumpy today,” Suna’s head swings into his field of vision, sing-songing his words together. His sudden emergence makes Osamu flinch backward, a delayed jolt. How long had Suna been behind him? He was certain he’d been part of his rough headcount, tapping away on his phone while Atsumu drawled on.
“Shut up,” is was Osamu snaps back without thinking, adopting the stern tone he associates with his mother. Suna’s smile falters, the corners of his mouth twitching with a kind of despondency as he retracts his head.
It’s silent again. At least in the air surrounding Osamu. The fog that hangs heavy in his mind is the same that dusts the streets ahead of them. It's weightless, fluffy, but makes the morning feel leaden. Suna’s hand extends toward him.
“Here,” he says. When Osamu looks into his palm, he finds a plastic-wrapped onigiri there. One from the convenience store. “You looked hungry.”
“Did you..” Osamu trails off to survey their surroundings, gauging where they are in relation to the store. He swallows the spit in his mouth, somehow hoping it will lubricate his throat, which has dried up with realization. Suna had disappeared from the group, only to reappear with a snack and beads of sweat collecting by his temples.
“Sorry there isn’t more,” Suna shrugs, shoving the item into Osamu’s hand. When Osamu looks back at Suna, he won’t meet his eyes. Instead, his gaze stays trained in front of him. The tips of Suna’s ears are pink. He must have exerted himself, being flushed and sweaty like this. “I only had enough change for one.”
“S’okay,” Osamu mumbles, cringing at the realization he’d snapped at Suna, who’d gone out of his way to retrieve food for him. Osamu unwraps the package with care, peeling away the plastic to create a cradle to hold it safely. Suna was always so perceptive. Whether that be in a game, analyzing plays to execute the perfect block or situations like this. He always just seems to know exactly what Osamu needs. “Do you want the first bite?”
Suna stares at the onigiri curiously, nodding in response. Osamu pushes it toward Suna, assuming he would take it in his own hand. Instead, Suna leans down to sink his teeth into the rice. When he rises again, there’s a smile on his face. One of his cheeks is puffed out, storing his bite away like a chipmunk. “Thanks, Osamu.”
Silence fills the space between them after this, walking alongside each other. Every few strides, Suna will bump his shoulder. Osamu always bumps him back, trying to elicit a short chuckle out of Suna. It works every time, and Suna spends the rest of the walk with that smile on his face. One that is unusual this early.
Morning is Suna’s least favourite part of the day. Osamu thinks it's because he always stays up too late, engrossed in reading online discourse but never engaging. Suna always denies this, claiming it has nothing to do with his sleep schedule. Yet, somehow, despite this time being Suna’s adversary, it suits him.
Osamu thinks it might have something to do with how the rising sun hits the crown of his head, Suna’s mussed brown hair shining under the new day's light. Suna’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, trying desperately to blink away the sleep that’s there. And the air, it has this slight chill to it. Enough to want to pull a sweater over his head, but still fresh and dewy.
It just feels so, Suna.
Osamu doesn’t particularly like mornings either, but they aren’t so bad when Suna is around.
Lithe fingers curl around Osamu’s upper bicep, squeezing in rhythmic pulses that hold the request for attention. Osamu sets his lunch to the side, turning to face Suna. They’re on the roof, trying to soak in as much sun as possible. The forecast claims it will rain before the end of the week.
“What?” Osamu says dumbly, wondering if Suna had been talking the whole time he’d been stuffing his cheeks. Suna’s hand slips from his bicep, trailing down to hook the crease of his elbow. Osamu fights the urge to track the movement with his eyes.
“I said, do you want to hang out on Friday?” Suna’s head tilts just a tad to the side, painting the picture of innocence that Osamu knows better than to fall for. He feels there’s a challenge behind those green irises, one that wants Osamu to draw his attention to the placement of his hand.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Osamu nods, redirecting his gaze away from Suna altogether. Those eyes are still boring through him, observing him like a predator. They’re too enticing. “My place? Mama and ‘Tsumu will be out.”
“Hm,” Suna withdraws his hand, dropping his head to nuzzle into Osamu’s shoulder. He rubs his cheek against the hard muscle there. The action is reminiscent of a cat. Osamu tries not to think too hard about how easily he leans into it. “Sounds good.”
Suna comes over on Friday just as they’d planned, crossing the threshold of Osamu’s front door with resolve. He navigates through the family home like he is also a resident, which is practically expected of him, considering how often Osamu invites him over.
Suna rummages through the kitchen cupboards, plucking out snacks that resonate with him the most—even if they quite literally have Atsumu’s name written all over the package. There’s probably a revenge plot involved, somehow. Osamu leaves him to it, ascending the stairs with confidence Suna will find his way eventually. While Suna scavenges, Osamu assigns himself as movie hunter.
Suna is oddly captivated by anything so terribly outrageous that it comes off as comical. Osamu has seen him scroll lists with hundreds of entries detailing the worst films ever created, mirroring a cinephile's excitement for a box office production. Osamu can’t say he understands the appeal, but he likes how Suna snorts whenever a scene is particularly disastrous.
“It’s freezing in here,” Suna whines when he emerges through the doorway, carelessly dumping his snack selection to the floor beside Osamu’s bed. Osamu can see him rubbing his palms against his upper arms out of the corner of his eye. “Can I borrow a hoodie?”
Osamu grunts his approval, even if Suna is already digging through his drawers before he has time to respond. He lays back, one arm pillowed under his neck. Unlike Suna, he hasn’t quite grasped how to decipher between a bad-bad movie and a good- bad movie. It seems complicated, far above what Osamu will understand, so he simply clicks whatever the cursor hovers over first. Suna shuffles onto the end of the bed with his knees, wedging himself between Osamu and the wall. When Osamu looks up, he seems to be sizing up the splinter-sized space of exposed bed.
“Can I lay?” Suna asks with one outstretched finger. Osamu analyzes the empty spot himself before looking back to Suna, who is graciously awaiting a response. If anyone was able to find a way to squeeze themselves into a spot as tight as that, it was Suna. One too many videos of liquifying cats do that to a guy.
This wouldn’t be the first time Osamu witnessed Suna taking up less space than he needed to, curling in on himself simply for no other reason but because he could. Suna manages to compress himself against his side, all without robbing Osamu of any of his space. It still takes him a moment or two to get comfortable, shifting around in that tiny space until he’s found a position that won’t make his limbs tingle twenty minutes from now. When he finally finds that sweet spot, his final movement is settling his head in the junction of Osamu’s shoulder.
Suna deflates with relaxation, and Osamu forgets how to blink.
Osamu’s bedroom carries some similarities to the noodle shop. It was a place of shared secrets. If the worn sheets of the bottom bunk were once a shield from imaginary monsters, they were now a veil to entrap the fragile vulnerabilities of two boys seeking fellow feelings. It could come in the form of shaky voices, quietly revealing fears of the future. Or, at times, coexisting is just as innermost as divulging intimate details. They sit within close quarters of each other, soaking in the alleviation that comes with closeness and understanding.
However, Suna has never been this close to him. Not close enough for Osamu to feel his dead weight or have his hair tickling his cheek each time Suna nudges Osamu’s chin with his nose. The reason for the tiny trees Osamu has seen on Suna’s deodorant packaging makes a lot of sense now, with the smell of pine that’s wafting in his nose.
Suna’s head pokes up again, and he can feel Suna’s breath against his chin. His lips are pursed, quietly considering, “Is this okay?”
Osamu has accidentally gone stiff under Suna, he realizes. His jaw is locked, clenched hard enough for his teeth to hurt. The casual-turned-overt touch must have thrown him into some kind of bodily shock. Not because Suna was making him uncomfortable. Rather, Osamu has never cuddled with anyone outside of his family. Especially not his best friend, who he is currently involved in a love experiment with.
Osamu sucks in a deep breath into his stomach, releasing the built-up tension limb by limb as he exhales.
This wasn’t a big deal; he reminds himself.
It wasn’t all that different from the whispers they shared between them, the secrecy that only they had the capability to cradle between their palms. Even if Osamu were to tell, no one would be able to understand the way Suna does. This was no different than all of the other times they lingered in private settings—the same unidentifiable emotion Osamu attributes to Suna and the unique functions of their dynamic.
“Yeah,” Osamu nods, smiling in Suna’s direction. This was okay, very okay. Anything was okay when it was with Suna. Even if it was new and maybe even a little scary. Suna studies him for a moment longer before he flumps back down, tapping the play button.
“Hey Osamu,” painted fingernails tap on his desk in groups of threes, calling his attention away from the math problem he’d been copying. Suna is lying on the corner of his desk that isn’t being tapped on, his face hidden between his arms.
He stayed up too late again. This time, he can’t deny it; Osamu saw the meme sent to him with a timestamp of well beyond midnight. Though at least he managed to complete the homework assignment, unlike Osamu.
“Can you quit with the fucking noise,” the man of the hour speaks, muffled into the cavity he’s created. Osamu wants to cringe, feeling the embarrassment Suna won’t for talking to someone like that. When he lifts his head to greet the owner of the fingers, it's the girl who sits in front of him when Suna isn’t hogging her seat.
“Sorry about him,” Osamu apologizes, full well knowing that Suna won’t. “He’s..tired.”
“Clearly,” she responds, a frown creasing her lips. If girls weren’t put off by Suna’s unkind expression, general apathy toward life, and intimidating aura—his bad attitude would undoubtedly do the trick. However, Osamu never found himself bothered by it; most of the time, he actually found it quite charming. Just one of many quirks that Suna possesses.
“Could I talk to you,” the girl—Yua, he thinks — speaks again. Osamu raises a brow, looking around at his surroundings. She was already speaking, wasn’t she? Yua giggles at his evident confusion, covering her mouth with her hand. “In private, I mean.”
Suna’s head shoots up like he’s been shocked, jolting into an upright position that was sure to make him dizzy. His eyes are wide, frantically searching for an unknown entity. Then he’s jabbing his fingers into Osamu’s worksheet. “Your homework isn’t done.”
“Eh, I was never going to finish on time anyway,” Suna’s nose wrinkles like Osamu’s answer reeks atrociously, staring at Osamu with betrayal. Osamu doesn’t know why Suna has decided he cares about his academic success at this moment. Half the time, he doesn’t even care about his own. “I’ll be right back.”
Suna’s eyes glaze over lethargy once more, slumping back into his chair. He waves a hand dismissively, annoyance somehow rolling off with the twist of his wrist. “Whatever, suit yourself.”
Yua has a skip in her step as she scampers off through the halls, only glancing over her shoulder once to confirm Osamu was trudging along behind her. And while Osamu knows he should be focused on deducting what she could so desperately want to speak to him about, his mind lays on Suna. Suna’s gaze was trained to the floor when he'd shuffled backward in his chair. He didn’t look up even as they exited the doors. He’s worried about being given the cold shoulder, shrugged off by Suna because Osamu decided to ditch him.
He’ll make this quick, then. Let Yua say whatever she needs to say so he can re-establish his place next to Suna. Hopefully, before lunch ends.
Yua halts once they’ve reached the end of the hallway, turning around on her heel to face him. There’s determination in her eyes; Osamu can recognize that. Yua looks at him the same way Atsumu looks when he’s about to serve. He hopes he isn’t the ball she plans to smash across the court.
It’s the same sort of routine. First, she inhales deeply, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it, then takes one step closer. Then she opens her mouth and says…
Nothing. Yua says nothing. Actually, she’s just staring up at Osamu. And the longer she stares, with Osamu staring right back down at her, the more the confidence on her face seems to waver. Osamu isn’t even sure if she’s still breathing, looking stiff.
“Um!” She shrills, squaring her shoulders. “Osamu, I think you’re really cool!”
“Oh, thanks, you’re pretty cool too, I guess,” Osamu says honestly. Yua is cool, from what he knows. She gets good grades, and he’s never said anyone say something negative about her. He’s pretty sure he’s seen her at their games once or twice. “Well, I gotta go. Suna is probably waiting for me.”
“Wait!” As Osamu turns, Yua catches his wrist in her hands, gently tugging him backward. Osamu looks down at where his wrist has been trapped. She has to use two hands. It kind of feels weird. Suna always circles it with one. “I uh–I’m not done! What I mean to say is that I like you!”
Oh.
“Oh,” he repeats aloud. It seems that this has been meant to be a confession this whole time. Osamu feels a little stupid for not having picked up on it. He was never too great with clues. Murder mysteries always frustrated him for that reason.
Osamu rubs his hand against the back of his neck, thumbing the short hairs that frame his nape. Yua is looking at him expectantly, squeezing his wrist. Osamu likes girls, and having a girlfriend doesn’t seem half bad.
Except, when he tries to imagine himself with Yua, all he can focus on is the sacrifices he would have to make. If he were to accept her confession, she would want to walk home with him and spend lunches together. Would Suna join them? Or would Osamu lose that time with him? He’s pretty sure that dating someone else infringes on his bet with Suna, deviating from the rules they never actually outlined.
What if Yua insisted on joining the two of them at the noodle shop? It would no longer be confidential. The meaning would change in a way Osamu isn’t sure he’s okay with. Would Yua be able to cure the longing feeling that Osamu has the same way Suna does?
As Osamu opens his mouth, unsure what will come out, Yua’s face falls. Her eyes cloud with something of an annoyance, looking past Osamu completely.
An arm hooks around Osamu’s shoulders, weighing him down with the mass of an upper torso. Osamu knows it's Suna without needing to look to the side, but he does anyway. Suna drapes over him like a sign is taped to Osamu’s back that invites him to do so.
“So sorry to interrupt,” Suna’s voice brushes against his ear, providing an apology that isn’t apologetic in the slightest. He’s looking at Yua with cold kindness, a bite attached to his rickety smile. “Atsumu is in the nurse’s office.”
“So, what happened exactly?” Osamu mumbles, passing Atsumu tissues to replace the soaked red ones. Atsumu’s lower lip is poked out, dried blood crusted over his upper lip from where it’s dripped from his nose. Atsumu’s brows might be drawn to scrunch in the middle, but he’s much calmer than Osamu thought he’d be.
“Dunno, maybe you should ask Suna,” Atsumu grumbles in an accusatory tone, tilting his head back with his fingers pinched over the bridge of his nose.
Suna is in the corner of the room, putting distance between them and himself. He’s been slumped over his phone the whole time, seemingly unbothered but with an aura of guilt surrounding him in a cloud. “Suna?”
His stance stiffens when his name is called, looking everywhere but toward Osamu. He collapses further into the wall, sliding down in what looks like an attempt to seem just a tad smaller. “There was… a bug?” he isn’t convincing in the slightest, a culpable twitch to the smile he flashes toward them.
Atsumu scoffs, and Osamu can only sigh. He doesn’t push for more, knowing Suna won’t provide it.
Suna is sort of different outside of school. Not in some drastic way in which he transforms into someone who isn’t Suna at all, but in little ways that make him more authentic. His presentation shifts when the regulations of school uniforms don’t constrict him. His pants become ripped, tattered with purpose. Sometimes he wears cropped shirts or slips chunky rings onto his fingers. Osamu always thinks it's a treat when he sees Suna like this, expressing himself freely.
Some clues point to this, obvious enough for even Osamu to pick up on. Suna’s lobes are littered with rings and studs, all shining silver. School administration reprimands him for them, but he is yet to conform to their demands to remove the earrings. He suspects Suna had done them impulsively while overlooking repercussions, remaining uncaring even as they closed in on him.
It’s a Saturday afternoon when Osamu sees Suna all dressed up again. They’re on the curb outside the convenience store that sells slushies that are more liquid than slush, trying to enjoy the warm sunlight that pools on the concrete while its source droops further into the horizon.
Atsumu had been invited to join them, but he seems to be avoiding Suna after the nurse’s visit. Osamu is still mainly in the dark about the details.
The light reflects off the silver in Suna’s ears, glimmering enticingly at Osamu. There are six in total, three on each ear, creating a subtle balance. One the left side, the one facing Osamu, one dangles below the rest. There’s a little dagger charm attached to it, jingling along with each movement of Suna’s jaw as he gnaws on his straw.
“Did it hurt?” Osamu says as soon as the question enters his mind. Suna lazes his head to the side, flicking the flattened end of the straw with his tongue.
“When I fell from heaven?” he responds, amusement behind that apathetic expression. Osamu scrunches his face up in faux disgust, scorning at Suna. He grabs his lobe wordlessly, giving it two tugs for emphasis.
“Oh,” Suna nods slowly, blinking absentmindedly while he intakes the actual context of Osamu’s question. Then it happens. That grin. The grin that curls Suna’s lips, the one that tells Osamu that perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut. He’s unknowingly knocked over the first domino, the rest tumbling as Suna latches onto the troublesome idea he’s been waiting for. “Wanna find out?” He purrs, creeping closer to inspect Osamu’s ear as if he is a curious specimen.
Osamu hesitates to decline straight away. His intention hadn’t been to gather first-hand experience, but he could accept. Osamu could permit Suna to impale him with something sharp, as clumsy and untrained as he is. The puppeteer could pull on his strings once again, sucking Osamu in with that facetious smile.
“No, thanks,” Osamu shakes his head, playing it safe no matter how tempting it is. He isn’t impulsive like Suna is, seeking any and every opportunity to gain a fragment of amusement, and he shouldn’t start now.
No matter how appealing the prospect of matching earrings is.
“Whatever, then,” Suna says with a lazy shrug, leaning back with his palms on the concrete. It’s strange. Osamu would have thought Suna would push him a little more, try to sway him into indulging a little. Suna has been strange today, quieter than he would generally be, almost like he’s holding onto something. Osamu wants to ask, to prod until Suna caves and confesses to whatever is bothering him. But, he also doesn’t want to push a button that isn’t ready to be pressed.
“I heard that if you stare into someone’s eyes long enough, you fall in love with them,” Suna’s eyes stay trained on the horizon while he speaks, scraping the tips of his fingers against the pavement.
“From who? Akagi?” Osamu gives Suna’s shoulder a playful shove, trying to relieve the strain of the sudden topic change. “You know he just says that shit to screw with ‘tsumu.”
“Nah, not Akagi,” Suna doesn’t react to the shove, maintaining his chilly complexion. It’s starting to unsettle Osamu. Even Suna’s previous jokes lacked merit, words coming from Suna’s mouth as if they’ve been scripted, studied beforehand, all in the hopes he could pass for normal.
The slushy in his stomach feels like it's starting to congeal, curdling like sour milk in his stomach cavity. Suna’s reservation toward him is creating a thick syrup there. When he releases a stiff laugh, he’s confident he feels it trying to spit up his throat like acid. “You feelin’ crunched for time or somethin’?”
Keeping up with the teasing is evidently the wrong decision, he discerns when Suna lets out a dry laugh. He sounds vexed, irritation being directed toward Osamu that he can’t say he’s ever been acquainted with. Suna finally turns to him, his eyes penetrative. No longer are they indifferent or troubled by recurring thoughts. Now, they’re hostile, pricking Osamu with an accusation that has not been spoken. They’re also testing him, begging him to discover what started it.
“Are you going to tell Yua you don’t like her?”
Osamu recoils, jerking his head back. What did Yua have to do with this? Osamu hasn’t talked to her since she confessed, never finding the opportunity to. He knows he should, but he can’t connect why now is the time Suna would bring that up.
“What does that matter?”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Suna sneers at him, jutting himself forward and off his hands. “A dense idiot,” he adds as he lifts himself from the ground, swiping the items he’d brought with him from the ground.
Suna’s words hit the same way Atsumu does, socking him in the gut and forcing him to surrender. Except Osamu isn’t sure Suna wants him to surrender. Something tells him that Suna is hoping he will withstand and reach out to him, to grab onto him before he has the chance to go. And Osamu wants to. He wants to pull Suna back to him, to reassure him that he has no feelings for Yua—That he would never let anything wedge itself between them.
Yet, he doesn't. He lets Suna slip through the spaces between his fingers.
“Tell your new girlfriend I wish her well, or whatever,” Suna says as a goodbye, shuffling away from Osamu without looking back.
Suna leaves him there with nothing but unanswered questions and melted slushies.
Much like a child who has been scolded might, Osamu finds himself covering under his covers upon returning back home. The monsters are back, and this time they came in the form of his best friend’s unhappiness. Initially, he thought he might be able to sleep this sinking feeling off. In the morning, he could revisit the topic. Unfortunately, he didn’t account for the sensation of personal dread to keep him awake.
This arrangement he and Suna had arranged didn’t seem so complicated at first. They were testing a hypothesis, imitating the actions of conventional couples in the name of discovery. After the duration of three months, they would come to their conclusions and continue as normal.
Osamu was sure that the theory was so bogus that positive results were next to impossible. How could they fall in love? They were friends. Best friends in Osamu’s perspective. They spent most of their days together, joking and finding solace in each other. Yes, maybe Suna was the only person who made that nagging yearning dissipate from Osamu’s system in just one smile, but that didn’t mean they held romantic feelings toward each other.
If they were to fall for each other, it wouldn’t be because of some stupid bet that is supposedly pushing them together. It would’ve happened organically, and it would’ve happened months ago.
“I think Suna is jealous of Yua,” Osamu says toward the top bunk, hoping he will be heard with everything in him. He’s met with silence and building worry that the one person he knows he can trust at the moment may have already fallen asleep.
The shuffling of a body heavy with fatigue sounds from above him, and in a matter of seconds, the outline of Atsumu’s face is visible as it hangs over the side of the bed. And while Osamu can’t necessarily see the features of his brother’s face, he has a pretty good inclination that he’s most likely wearing a frown.
“Are you a fuckin’ idiot?” Atsumu asks him. Though there is no malice tied to the words, they still sting a little. It’s the third time he’s been referred to as an idiot today. “I sure hope he’s jealous. Otherwise, he slugged me in the face for no good reason.”
“Slugged?” Osamu repeats in confusion.
“God, you really are a fuckin’ idiot,” Fourth time, ouch. “Did you seriously believe there was a bug?”
Osamu hadn’t thought of the day in the nurse’s office since they’d been there. Sure, Suna’s explanation was flimsy at best, and he’d felt it wasn’t the whole truth, but Atsumu hadn’t made an effort to dispute it.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Osamu asks, genuinely wondering why the guy who throws a week-long tantrum if a bystander interrupts one of his serves wouldn’t have held a grudge against a friend who has physically assaulted him.
“I know about the bet,” Atsumu says with a drawn-out sigh, one that tells Osamu he wasn’t proud of this confession—he was supposed to keep his knowledge a secret.
“How?” he asks despite there only being one feasible option.
“He told me, obviously,” Atsumu scoffs, and there’s an insult there. Osamu knows it. “I kinda feel bad for him, always runnin’ round in circles tryin’ to hold your attention.”
Osamu doesn’t understand this. He doesn’t see how Suna is scrambling to hold his recognition when he is often the only person Osamu ever sees. Suna soothes that strange void inside of Osamu, reminding him that no matter how lost he feels, someone is always willing to scout the trail with him.
“You better figure it out,” Atsumu speaks again, filling the silence Osamu left him. “If you aren’t into him, hurry up and reject him before he punches me again.”
“I don’t want to reject him,” Osamu sits up, shaking his head even if Atsumu can’t see him.
“So you like him then?”
“Do you think I like him?”
“You’re hopeless,” Atsumu draws himself back into his mattress, settling in while Osamu sits dumbfounded. His mind is consumed by the DVD symbol bouncing off the sides of the TV. He gets so close to the corners of revelation but can’t seem to hit it spot on.
“Y’know most people wouldn't have agreed to that bet in the first place,” Atsumu hums in contemplation before continuing. “I can’t tell you your feelings…but whenever he’s around, you’re always followin’ him with your eyes. Like you’re keepin’ track of him, making sure he doesn’t disappear.”
Osamu is ready to argue that there is no accuracy to this claim, that Atsumu is full of shit, and that he would never do something like this. Except the mention of eyes catches his attention. He is reminded of Suna’s comment about falling in love, his flippant speculation that seemed to have been more severe than Osamu thought it was.
He tries to imagine what would have happened if he’d just agreed to the staring contest, even if he can’t fathom it being anything other than awkward. He can admit to himself that Suna’s eyes are captivating. The icy green is constantly analyzing their surroundings, shooting harsh glances that ingest the situation for everything that it's worth. Sometimes, when Suna lets his guard down just a little, Osamu can see them soften. Like when he eats sweets or spots a cute cat. Or even when he looks at Osamu.
At a close distance, Osamu wonders what else he could see in Suna’s eyes. If there are flecks of brown in the green, or if the softness would lead Osamu to lean forward a little more. Lean forward until he was close enough to feel Suna’s breath against his lips.
Oh.
Oh.
“I really am an idiot.”
“Yep!” Atsumu responds, popping the ‘p.’
There is no time for Osamu to rejoice in his staggering revelation. In many ways, it was exciting to finally come to terms with this apparent crush he’s been entirely oblivious to. But, in the same way, it is also terrifying. Mainly because the recipient of his feelings is still angry with him, hiding away. Osamu imagines Suna is probably plotting his downfall, exploring various potential methods to ensure Osamu knows he’s upset.
He can’t blame him. Honestly, Osamu might join in on Suna’s plans' groundwork, considering how insufferably dense he’s been for way too long. That is, once he manages to find Suna. He was much better at hiding than Osamu could have guessed.
No one seemed to know where Suna had wandered off to, leading Osamu off on what was starting to feel like a hopeless quest. He’d started at the most obvious place, Suna’s dorm. From there, he’d visited the little stream Suna likes tossing rocks into, the long grass he’s caught Suna napping in once or twice, and the narrow alleyway where stray cats collect in a group.
He’d come back empty-handed from each destination.
Osamu is starting to think that he might just return to Suna’s dorm. By now, he could have returned; if not, he could always stake out there for a while. He would have to come back eventually, especially with curfew approaching fast.
He has one last place to check, and although he doesn’t have much hope, it was better to check than not. Osamu cups his hands around his eyes as he leans close to the glass windows, peering inside and scanning the faces of eating patrons.
There, in the corner, tucked away neatly at their usual table, is Suna. He’s slumped over a bowl of noodles, staring into the broth as if it will somehow speak to him. Osamu catches his bottom lip between his teeth, squeezing the soft flesh until it hurts. He spent this whole time frantically searching for Suna without considering what he would say once he found him.
He’s sweating. The fabric of his shirt is sticking uncomfortably to the crevices of his armpits, nervousness finally settling in and making his legs feel like jelly. But he has to do this, and he has to do this now. Not later, tomorrow or next week. Right now.
Suna doesn’t look up when the door chimes, which Osamu is thankful for. If their eyes meet now, he’s worried he might dash. He waves to the owners as he makes his way over to Suna, smiling politely.
“May I?” Osamu’s voice shakes as he pulls out the chair across from Suna, letting his presence be known. Suna doesn’t look up to him, nor does he show a twinge of surprise that Osamu is here. Instead, he just sits still, gazing into his noodle bowl. Osamu wonders how long he’s been there, and whether or not those noodles have long been cold.
Osamu sits down despite the lack of response. He knows what the silent treatment looks like, even if it wasn’t exactly his own or his brother’s preferred method of conveying conflict. Actually, Osamu doesn’t think he’s ever encountered a problem that hasn’t involved Atsumu in some way or another. And unlike those circumstances, violence and competition will not solve this. So the only thing he can think to do is start talking and hope that he will find the right words somewhere along the way.
“Look, you can ignore me for as long as you want. I wouldn’t even blame you if you did,” Osamu starts, tripping over his words but still trying to maintain a fraction of confidence. He leans in closer to the center of the table. “You were right; I am dense. Totally an idiot, too. This whole time you laid clues out for me, and I somehow managed to miss every single one of ‘em. For fuck’s sake, Atsumu picked up on it before I did…Which really pisses me off, by the way.”
Osamu takes a sharp breath, giving himself just a second to collect his thoughts before continuing.
“The point here is that you mean a lot to me, and I’m sorry.” Osamu claps his hand around Suna’s, risking the sting of rejection that might be in his future. “I wanna be around you all the time. Watching movies, walking to school, eating noodles even if you forget your wallet every time! Fuck Rin, I wanna be your boyfriend.”
That last part surprises both of them, it seems. It wasn’t part of Osamu’s patched-together mental script, slipping out on impulse. Suna twitches at the declaration, showing his first sign of life tonight. At least Osamu knows he’s been listening to his monologue.
Suna’s fingers curl against the table under Osamu’s hand, scratching at the wood. Suna displays hesitance when he flips his hand over, pressing their palms together. It’s a small gesture, a touch that could be seen as insignificant compared to what they’ve achieved. Yet, Osamu’s heart skips.
“Osamu…?”
“Yes, Suna?” Osamu says, his leg starting to bounce under the table. This was the moment he’d been anticipating. Suna is gearing up either to flat out reject him or agree to mend the crack that has presented itself in their relationship. Suna looks up at him, his lips pressed into a tight line that gives Osamu no insight into what he’s thinking.
“I forgot my wallet.”
Osamu scrunches his brows together, gawking at Suna with his mouth ajar. He knows he shouldn’t be astounded. It was just like Suna to pull that above all else from the conversation. Yet, he lets his disbelief simmer. It was a nice shift from their previous tension. “You’re fuckin’ jokin’ me, right?”
That’s when Osamu can start to see it—Suna’s struggle to maintain his deadpan. His face is beginning to twitch, cheeks puffing out until the laughter imprisoned within them has no choice but to escape as a snort through Suna’s nose. He turns his head away, trying to shield away whatever seriousness he has left. It’s too late, though. The damage has already been done, and Suna’s silky laughter echos in the space around them in intermittent hiccups.
Osamu doesn’t hesitate to join him.
Suna walks three steps ahead of Osamu on their way back to the dorms. There’s this giddy skip to every other step he takes, filling Osamu with fondness that generally comes from having pleased Suna. Honestly, he thinks Suna might even be humming a gentle tune to himself. Of course, if Osamu could identify the rhythm, he would be humming along with him.
The previous conversation is still pending, placed on the waitlist when Osamu had to cough up the money for Suna’s meal. If it is to be brought up again, Osamu will be the one to breach the conversation. Suna has spent who knows how long making the first move, only for the true meaning behind his actions to be shrugged off. For once, Osamu needs to be the one to reach out, to hold onto Suna the way he deserves.
So he does reach out, literally, catching the fabric of Suna’s garment in his fist in order to yank him backward. Suna throws his head over his shoulder, eyes just a smidge wider with soft confusion. Osamu looks down at the cloth he’s grabbed, rubbing his fingers over the faded grey. Then, back up at Suna’s face.
“You’re wearin’ my hoodie,” Osamu states, a smile twitching his lips upward.
Suna’s face flares with colour that wasn’t there before, whipping his head away from Osamu’s view. “Yeah, and what about it? Didn’t realize it was a crime.”
“It’s not,” Osamu responds, letting go of the sweater to circle back around Suna, facing him this time. “Just think it’s funny, wearin’ my clothes while you plot my demise.”
“I wasn’t plotting your demise, jackass!” Suna whines, punching Osamu in the shoulder. It doesn’t hurt; it never does. When he retracts his hand, Suna shoves them both in the front pocket as he rocks on his heels. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “Call me crazy if you want…but I was hoping you would show up with some grand plan to win me back. Apologize a little, maybe confess, I dunno.”
“And I did.”
“And you did,” Suna nods in agreement, finally planting his feet flat on the ground again. The streetlights have turned on since the start of their walk, and Suna is certainly breaking curfew right now. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush to get home, though, and if Suna isn’t worried, neither is Osamu.
“You are crazy, by the way,” Osamu says, taking a step closer to Suna. It’s a leap, and he’s not sure where it will take him, but it’s worth a shot. If not now, then when? Osamu was determined to pull his socks up to prove himself to Suna. He could’ve lost him; he reminds himself. Osamu refuses to let that happen. “My kind of crazy.”
“If this is your attempt to flirt with me, it's both stupid and totally not working,” Suna says with a grin, and despite his words, he’s taken a step closer as well. Osamu takes another step forward until they’re so close Osamu’s shoe could bump against Suna’s. Osamu’s heart is starting to pick up with activity again, working overtime to keep him afloat and give him that final push he needs.
“Rin,” Osamu calls out to him, voice only just above a whisper. Suna hums in response, tilting his head just a tick to the side. “Be my boyfriend, please.”
Suna blinks languidly, twice. Almost like he’s mentally calculating something, trying to decipher what the best response could be. Then, he surges forward suddenly, planting a chaste kiss on Osamu’s lips. It’s a little off-centre, placed more toward the corner of his mouth. Not that Osamu minds. He’s just been kissed by Suna Rintarou, after all. He’s just savouring every little movement, storing it away in his memory bank for exactly what it is.
“Is that a good enough answer?” Suna asks, bonking their foreheads together softly. “Or do I need to spell it out for your stupid brain?”
“Oh fuck off,” Osamu grumbles at him, but he doesn’t mean it. Being this close to Suna allows him to investigate. The dim light of the night is not the best time, but this can’t wait. Suna’s eyes close to being wholly green, Osamu realizes. There is just one speck of brown in the lower portion of his left eye. He feels warm, finally knowing this, and moves his right hand to cradle the back of Suna’s skull. He pulls him in. Osamu realizes he’s inexperienced and probably sloppy when their lips make contact again.
It might’ve been embarrassing if it were anyone else, Osamu might have rushed to iron out his slip-ups and achieve what he thought was the ‘perfect kiss.’ With Suna, he doesn’t feel the pressure to be flawless. He can go at his own pace, piecing out the right movements while Suna does it with him.
Suna’s lips are soft against his, pressing tenderly whenever Osamu does the same. It’s slow but steady in rhythm. Each time Osamu thinks it’s time he pulls away, Suna chases back after him, smashing their lips together all over again. Osamu knows it isn’t true, but it feels like they are trapped in time. Now and forever, they will be chained under the flickering yellow of the streetlamp. Osamu will feel nothing but Suna’s warmth for the rest of eternity.
Which doesn’t sound so bad.
Especially when Suna smells of that pine deodorant and also Osamu’s home. He likes this, a lot, as Suna is slowly becoming a more significant part of his definition of home.
“Do you ever wish you were as popular as your brother is?” Suna asks abruptly, having just broken away from their kiss. His head is tilted to the side, the sun highlighting the damp sheen of his lips. They’re on the back step of Osamu’s house again, hanging out and…chatting.
They kiss pretty often now. Whenever they find themselves alone, they seem to take the opportunity. Osamu even thinks he’s getting better, or at least more comfortable with the movements he has to take.
“Do you have to bring him up now?” Osamu responds bitterly, going to lean in and continue their ‘chat’ from before. It was much more enriching than whatever Suna is trying to bring up now. But, unfortunately, a hand comes to block his face, paired with Suna turning, so he is no longer accessible.
“Answer the question.”
Osamu sighs, tracing his eyes over the shape of Suna’s nose. It’s a little bent, a bump protruding in the bridge's centre. He’s always wondered if something had caused the bump or if that was simply the structure of Suna’s nose. His gaze drifts to his ears. He changed his earrings again, no more dangling dagger. Suna said it gets in the way when he plays volleyball, so he’s resigned to rings and studs instead but still refuses to take them out when he’s told to. Suna turns toward him, raising a brow that says out with it.
Right, the question.
“Not really,” Osamu answers, kicking at the step below them. “I don’t need a fan club when I have you.”
Osamu might have reservations about blurting out verbal affections, but he catches Suna grinning at him. He’s said just what Suna wanted to hear without even thinking about it beforehand.
The glass door behind them slides open with too much force, giving away who was standing there without any need for further clues. Atsumu looks between them suspiciously, as if he’s caught them doing something scandalous.
Maybe it was good Suna had proposed that question.
“Ma said Sunarin has to go home,” Atsumu announces with all the confidence in the world. Suna leans his chin against his knee, eyeing both Atsumu and Osamu. He looks as equally unconvinced as Osamu feels.
“Liar. Mama said he could stay for dinner, dipshit.”
“Trying to get rid of me, Atsumu?” Suna adds, a devilish smile curling his lips.
“Can you blame me for trying?” Atsumu snarls without any real anger, visibly cringing in a way that can only be described as melodramatic. “You’re always out here bein’... gross.”
As much as Osamu would hate to admit it aloud, Atsumu almost has a point. They’re a little attached since they’d declared the nature of their relationship, making up for the lost time Osamu created by being majorly dense. Suna glances at Osamu, and he barely catches the glint lighting up Suna’s eye.
“Osamu, I think your darling twin hates gay people.”
“I do not! Fuck off, Sunarin!” Atsumu snaps back, latching onto the bait as soon as it is cast to him. Atsumu makes this movement with his arms, which perfectly resembles a fish attempting to break away. “Reel him in, would you ‘samu!”
Suna glances at Osamu with a brow raised, jutting his chin to the side in a not-so-subtle way. Prodding and pressuring Osamu to join in with him. It will escalate the situation further and work up Atsumu even more, but… How is he to say no to that smug face.
“Nah, I think Rin has gotta point,” Osamu says without looking at Atsumu, grinning toward Suna instead. “You’re kinda bein’ homophobic right now.”
When Osamu does look back at Atsumu, his face is bright red like he’d been holding his breath. Or maybe he was ready to explode, smoke blowing from his ears as he deflates onto the floor. There are times Osamu almost felt bad for his brother, being ganged up on by the two of them. But Suna’s reaction that comes afterward is too valuable to pass up.
“I hate both of you,” Atsumu snarls at them, glaring between them in an attempt to be menacing. “Try not to suck each other’s faces off,” he grumbles right before he slides the door shut with a bang. He’s trying to prove a point, to the extent of possibly being scolded by Mama for being forceful with the door. They’d broken it too many times as kids.
Suna is smiling at him again, if he had ever stopped, to begin with. It's bright, and he looks so proud of himself. He always looks like this when he manages to piss Atsumu off, happy with himself in a way that only Atsumu’s melodramatics could invoke. Osamu can only smile back.
When Suna finally snorts, it’s loud and ugly. It tells Osamu that he is no longer strong enough to hold in the laughter he’s been trying to keep tucked away. Osamu starts laughing before Suna even has the chance to start, unable to contain himself with the knowledge that soon, Suna will leak with soft giggles. They laughed like that for a while, loud and uncensored. They laughed so hard that Osamu’s ribs hurt, his cheeks too.
“Hey, wanna make another bet?” Osamu asks when the laughter has lulled, only stray giggles bubbling intermittently.
Suna responds with a sharp nod, entrapping one of Osamu’s hands within his own. He’s drawing figures on his palm, scrapping a dull nail over the surface. “Shoot.”
“I think we’ll be together five years from now,” Osamu says seriously, gazing into Suna’s searching eyes. Osamu wonders if he’ll know exactly what he’s looking for one day. That way, Osamu can have it ready before Suna even needs to seek it. Maybe, if that day comes, he’ll also have acquired a mental inventory of Suna’s tells and mannerisms. One that is even more expansive than it is now.
Suna swipes his fingers over the fleshy underside of his own, prodding at the skin to squish in whichever way he wills it to. He sinks the lower half of his face into the crook of his arm, trying to conceal the redness that his ears have already given away.
“Only five?” Suna mumbles, muffled into the skin of his arm. Osamu is pretty sure it's supposed to be a quip, that he’s trying to tease Osamu again, but he sounds sheepish.
Osamu flips Suna’s hand over, drawing the same shapes on his palm that Osamu had been graffitied with only minutes ago.
“What’s the fun in a wager that can’t be renewed?”
Suna hums, and it's such a pleasant sound. Something of contentment rumbling deep in Suna’s throat, making Osamu feel nothing but fondness. He banks this sound the best he can, hoping it can be at his disposal with as much vividness as it is now.
“Alright then,” Suna nods, finally pulling his face back into view. Even if it had only been a matter of moments, Osamu had missed that face. “I look forward to seeing your plan for our fifth anniversary.”
And plan for their fifth anniversary Osamu will. Right after he plans the first one and all of those leading up to it.
“Course, anythin’ for you, Rin.”