Archive of Our Own

1. denial

“Have a nice day!” Osamu calls out, wiping down the front counter as his last customer exits through the door. Outside, the sparsely-lit Amagasaki streets play a stark contrast to the bright interior of his shop, and a quick glance at the wall clock proves just how late it’s already gotten.

He lets out a short, satisfied sigh, taking in the empty room around him. It had been a risk, choosing to leave behind his studies and open Onigiri Miya in a little district near his hometown. The first couple of years had been pretty tough on him, fresh out of high school and trying to stay afloat in the cutthroat world of business. For a good while, he stayed as a simple food stand near one of those shopping centers and did some side gigs for random events every so often, but it wasn’t enough for him. Eventually, he got a loan and built up his first real branch, working his way into the passing strangers’ hearts (and stomachs). That was around a year ago.

Now, his hard work is finally starting to pay off; today was his busiest day yet, and he’d been catering to a steady stream of people since the lunch rush. It’s pretty amazing what loyal customers and word of mouth can do in a town like theirs.

Osamu rolls his shoulder blades, sighing when he hears a sharp crack. In all honesty, the grunt work is beginning to tire him out. If this keeps up, he’ll probably start hiring extra hands to help him around the place. And isn’t that a thought, that he’s both in demand enough and financially able to get more staff.

Smiling to himself, he moves to untie his apron from behind his back. He’s just about to slip it off, too, when the bell above the door lets out a soft chime.

Internally, he groans. It’s less than ten minutes to closing, and he was already looking forward to clocking out and enjoying the warm bed that’s waiting for him at his apartment just above the shop. But, terrible timing aside, a customer is still a customer.

Osamu plasters on a smile and says, “Welcome to Onigi—ew, never mind.”

His friendly customer service voice dies off as the door swings shut, an unfortunately familiar figure standing before it. Osamu counts to ten inside his head and reconsiders the limits of his patience for the day.

“Hey, you oughta be glad that a celebrity is hanging around this dump,” says an affronted Atsumu, eternal bane of Osamu’s existence. He struts inside like he owns the place, mouth curved in the shape of a lazy smirk. “It’s free advertising.”

Osamu fixes him with a deadpan stare. “Nobody wants to see your ugly mug here.”

“We have the same face, asshole!”

Undeterred, Atsumu goes right up to the counter, swinging his legs over the nearest stool. He leans forward against the table and picks up a laminated menu with idle, bored motions.

“Are you gonna order something or should I just leave and lock ya in here?” Osamu asks, looking at the clock again in silent despair. There go all his plans for the night.

Atsumu hums, eyes scanning over the menu text like he hasn’t seen it hundreds of times before. “Got any tuna left?”

“Sold out,” Osamu shrugs.

“Fine then, gimme two of the salmon ones.”

Osamu sticks out a hand. “That’ll be 450 yen.”

Atsumu pouts. “Ain’t there a family discount?”

“My bad. 900 yen, please.”

Atsumu glowers, shoving a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out a shiny 500-yen coin, which he flicks into Osamu’s open palm. “You’re an absolute scam and I hope ya eat shit.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. He places the coin inside the register and digs around for the crappiest looking change to give to his brother, before turning to the faucet. Atsumu remains silent while he opens it, the sound of running water filling the room as it hits the bottom of the sink.

“Alright,” Osamu says, as he lathers his hands with soap and scrubs viciously, “why in the hell are you even here?”

Though his shop is only a short train ride away from Atsumu’s place in Osaka, it’s still fairly out of the way. He’s pretty sure Atsumu doesn’t have all the time in the world to go prancing around between cities.

But Atsumu just blinks slowly, like Osamu had asked some kind of deep, incomprehensible question.

“Uh, I was hungry?”

Osamu’s eye twitches. Not for the first time, he wonders what his life would be like if he had only murdered his brother in the womb as destiny had surely intended.

“You only visit when ya wanna whine about something,” he says instead, turning off the faucet with a sharp squeak and moving towards the counter.

“Excuse you, I’m living the big life here!” Atsumu interjects, puffing out his chest.

“Uh huh, sure,” Osamu replies distractedly. He gathers his ingredients, scooping up a handful of rice and molding it in his palm.

Atsumu goes on with his tirade anyway. “And nothing’s wrong, ya hear me? I ain’t bitchin’ here or whatever.”

“‘Course you’re not.”

“But god, ‘Samu, guess who showed up for our tryouts today.”

Osamu takes a container of minced salmon and drops some in the middle of the rice, then closes the onigiri into a triangle shape with both hands. “I dunno,” he says when it becomes clear that Atsumu’s waiting for him to answer. “Kita-san?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Atsumu says, scrunching up his nose like the five-year-old he is.

“Seriously, just tell me who’s got yer panties in a twist this time.”

Atsumu drapes himself against the counter dramatically, looking up at Osamu with an exaggerated scowl. “It’s Sakusa freakin’ Kiyoomi.”

“Wait,” Osamu says, setting down his onigiri, “you’re not shitting me right now?”

“No!” Atsumu cries indignantly. “He was really there!”

“Huh, small world,” Osamu muses. “Can’t believe he saw you on the team line up and still considered it, though.” Then again, the Jackals are a pretty good Division 1 team, so maybe it’s not so unbelievable on Sakusa’s end anyway. There are pros and cons, he supposes. Personally, he’d think Atsumu’s presence was a hell of a large item on the con side of the list, but whatever floats Sakusa’s boat.

“Piss off,” Atsumu grumbles, clearly not sharing this sentiment.

Osamu grabs another handful of rice, forming the second onigiri as he speaks. “So what, yer gonna be teammates now?”

“Like hell he’s getting on the team!” Atsumu squawks, giving him a look of utter disbelief. Osamu rolls his eyes.

“Dunno if ya noticed, but he’s been dominating the college circuit for the past couple years,” Osamu points out, not looking up from his work. He’s willing to bet Sakusa’d been scouted by the Jackals in the first place. After his last collegiate tournament, Osamu knows they’d be insane not to. Atsumu should know this too, actually, considering they watched Sakusa’s team dominate the finals together.

“Doesn’t mean he’s good enough for us.”

“Kinda does, actually.”

“Shaddup,” Atsumu shoots back, sulking. He stays like that for a few moments, limp against the counter like some helpless shoujo character.

Sighing a little louder than is probably acceptable, Osamu slides the plate of onigiri across the table. “Here ya go, ya little shit,” he says, interrupting his brother’s self-pity party.

At the smell of food, Atsumu sits straight up and makes grabby hands. He shoves one of the onigiri straight into his mouth and—to Osamu’s disgust—says a muffled “Thanks!” around the food.

“At least swallow before ya start yammering again.”

Atsumu ignores him, finishing off his food at a remarkable speed. Osamu’s both surprised and disappointed that he doesn’t choke himself.

“Why’re ya so against him, anyway?” Osamu asks, leaning against his side of the counter. It’s a valid question, in his opinion.

Atsumu does not share this view, and his eyes narrow into slits. “Uh, ‘cause he’s Sakusa freakin’ Kiyoomi! Remember when he kicked us out of the finals in our last Interhigh?”

“I mean, yeah, but it was a high school competition.” And also literal years ago, for fuck’s sake. “What was he s’posed to do, not spike the ball?”

“Ugh, how can ya not get it?” Atsumu cries, looking up at Osamu with crazed eyes. “There’s no way I can work with him properly!”

“He’s a good player though, with the freaky spikes and all,” Osamu says. The thing is, he knows just how much his brother enjoys playing with fun spikers like that, and he’s pretty sure that once Atsumu gets over himself, he and Sakusa could become a power duo on the court. “And ya worked with each other in those youth training camps a coupla years ago.”

But Atsumu only frowns, curling his hands into fists over the counter. “I don’t care! And that asshole doesn’t deserve to have my tosses anyway!”

“Gimme one reason why. Something that isn’t really petty,” Osamu clarifies, as soon as he sees Atsumu open his mouth.

“Sakusa just ain’t Jackals material, ya know? And it’s not like we need him, either. I mean, with Bokkun and Barnes-san and all, there’s no space on the team,” Atsumu explains, voice wavering a bit near the end. His forehead is creased into a slight frown, too, like he doesn’t believe what he’s saying.

“Yeah, no, I’m not convinced and I don’t think you are either,” Osamu deadpans. “How ‘bout ya stop deluding yourself?”

“Ya don’t understand, it just can’t happen. I won’t let it,” Atsumu grumbles. “If I gotta see that face every fuckin’ day, I’ll have a stroke.”

Osamu eyes his brother critically. “Hey, ‘Tsumu, don’t cha think you're bein’ a little too obsessed?”

“I—no, what the hell are ya implying?”

“I dunno, I’m not the one keeping teenage grudges here,” Osamu smirks. “Ya sure you’re not just thirsting over Sakusa and like, really repressing it?”

Atsumu sticks out a tongue in disgust, face contorting into an ugly grimace. “Heck no! Why’d ya even say that?”

“I’m just saying, I get that Sakusa’s pissy and all, but ya don’t see me spewing curses at him all day,” Osamu adds, shrugging. “It’s like, you know how little kids like to mess with the people they like? Yer brain’s at the same stage of development anyway, so I’d say it’s pretty likely,”

“Alright, first of all, I have better taste than that dead-eyed scrub,” Atsumu huffs, crossing his arms over the table.

Osamu raises an eyebrow. “I distinctly remember that time in middle school when ya had a thing for that weirdo kid with the—”

“Second of all,” Atsumu interrupts, “it doesn’t even matter ‘cause there’s no way he’ll make it on the team!”

“Are ya sure about that?”

“Uh huh,” Atsumu nods vigorously, with an amazing level of sheer, baseless confidence. “I swear, that Itachiyama bastard won’t have anything to do with the Jackals as long as I have any say in it,” he adds, digging into his second onigiri with a newfound vengeance and leaving no more room for argument.

Osamu decides it’s not his problem to inform Atsumu that he does not, in fact, have any say in it.

2. anger

The next time Atsumu barges inside Onigiri Miya without warning, it’s mid-afternoon and there are actual paying customers around to witness it.

Around half a dozen of them jump at the sound of the door blasting open, its bell ringing ferociously from above. Fukuda-san, Osamu’s newly hired apprentice, pauses in the middle of serving a couple’s order, hands frozen around the tray she’s carrying. Osamu looks up from where he’s refilling the seaweed strips and lets out a long sigh.

At the entrance, Atsumu stands with one hand slammed against the glass door. He’s half-wearing his practice attire, his rubber trainers and athletic shorts paired with a light cotton shirt that sticks against his skin. The arms of his training jacket wrap securely around his hips, keeping it rigidly in place as he stalks over to the counter amid the confused stares of everyone around him.

Osamu only has time to raise one eyebrow at his brother before—

“Please tell me ya have the tuna ones right now, else I might actually die,” Atsumu says, with a genuine strain in his voice that makes Osamu blink owlishly for a moment. There’s a smattering of sweat visible on Atsumu’s forehead, and his hair is starting to get plastered against his head despite the ungodly amount of product he uses every day.

Also, he’s frowning. Not that that’s unusual by itself, but alongside everything else it’s somewhat noteworthy. By all accounts, Atsumu looks haggard, actually, which is pretty uncommon considering how much shit Osamu gives him for his vanity on a daily basis.

Which means it’s one of those days, then. This is moody Atsumu at his finest.

Osamu doesn’t bother replying, already reaching for the container of rice over by his side. Atsumu’s shoulders slump a little in relief. Now slightly mollified, he settles in one of the seats in front of the counter.

The other patrons of the shop shrug this behavior off and continue with their prior business, filling the room with a steady stream of chatter. From the corner of his eye, Osamu spots Fukuda-san softly shutting the door that his brother failed to close, and he wonders if it’s too soon to give her a raise.

“Just sayin’,” says Osamu, finishing his onigiri with a sprinkle of spring onions, “ya reek of sweat.”

“It’s hot as balls outside, alright?” Atsumu grumbles, still hunching over himself. “Try running around all day this summer and let’s see if you don’t sweat buckets.”

Osamu hums, figuring he might as well get to the point. “Speaking of, don’t cha have training? Like, I dunno, maybe right about now?” he asks lightly, like it’s not the elephant in the room.

Atsumu gives him a sullen look, pressing his lips together. Osamu slides the plate of onigiri over silently, a peace offering that Atsumu takes with a grumpy huff. He bites off the top with a notable ferocity, maintaining his frown even with rice stuffed inside his cheeks.

As Osamu had expected, however, the food gets his brother to finally start talking.

When Atsumu’s done swallowing, he sets the onigiri back down and stares at it for a moment. Osamu crosses his arms and says, “If you frown any more, you’ll be gettin’ permanent wrinkles. What’s the deal?”

Atsumu’s lip twists slightly before he admits,“Got kicked out ‘cause Coach wanted me to fuckin’ cool off.”

“Ah,” says Osamu, nodding sagely. “Whaddya do this time?”

“I didn’t even start it!”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s not my goddamn fault, alright?” Atsumu spits out, slamming a fist on the table. His face is blotchy now, and getting redder with every second of his angry tirade. “He’s the one who’s messing everything up!”

“Whoa there, what’s goin’ on now?” Osamu asks, slightly bewildered. Sure, Atsumu had had several tiffs with his team in the course of his stay, but he’s never been this affected before. There’s definitely something Osamu’s missing here.

“I just wanna serve the ball right into his prissy face!”

“What?”

“Ya know, Sakusa!” Atsumu clarifies, and the puzzle pieces click into place.

Osamu lets out an amused huff. He does know, thanks to the several hundred updates that Atsumu sends him every day. He knows that Sakusa had officially been accepted in the team last month, despite all of Atsumu’s convictions. He knows that his brother had absolutely despised it at first, and spent the first week whining every chance he got.

(“How the hell did this even happen?” Atsumu had cried the second he got the news, distress evident even through the speakers of Osamu’s phone.

“How the hell did you not see it coming?” Osamu had replied, before promptly hanging up.)

But he also knows that his brother, though incredibly immature, realizes the value of Sakusa as a spiker in his arsenal. Probably. At least, somewhere deep inside, where he’ll never consciously acknowledge the thought.

At any rate, they haven’t really had any problems working together in the last month, so Osamu had naively thought that Atsumu was over it.

“I thought you were getting used to him already.”

“Well, turns out I’m not! We had a fuckin’ practice match today, and this bastard could barely even match my tosses!” Atsumu complains, drumming his fingers atop the table. “Like, we were doin’ fine in regular practice, but the second there’s an actual opponent he just crumbles. And then he had the fuckin’ guts to say it was my fault!”

“Let me guess.” Osamu rolls his eyes. “You went nuts.”

“It wasn’t nuts! I was totally justified.” Atsumu’s frown deepens even further, and he gnaws on the edge of his lip. “Then the captain tried to keep the peace, and I was like, okay, sure. But it wasn’t getting better! And that’s when I fuckin’ realized, the only reason why we weren’t syncing up was ‘cause that asshole was thinking too much!”

“Er, how?”

“Okay, back when we were still playing together, what went on in yer head when ya went for a spike?”

Osamu thinks about it, then shrugs. “Just matching up and where to hit it, I guess,” he admits. Most of the time he was just going with pure instinct, but he could see how a more meticulous person like Sakusa could be more calculating about it all.

“Right? That’s the normal stuff,” Atsumu presses. “But this guy was overanalyzing every possible thing, which made all his spikes kinda late, which made the team go off-balance, which made us lose.”

Osamu blinks. “Okay…”

“And there ain’t no way I’m tossin’ to scrubs! I didn’t even think Sakusa of all people woulda been a scrub, but here we are!” Atsumu finishes viciously. He rakes a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands with a white-knuckled grip.

Osamu gives him a quick once-over, tucking one hand underneath his chin. “So basically, ya threw a hissy fit when yer sets started missing the mark and then got booted out,” he summarizes.

Atsumu pouts, crossing his arms petulantly. “Ugh, shut yer trap.”

Well, considering Atsumu’s history of hissy fits, Osamu supposes it could’ve been worse.

“Seriously though,” he says, giving Atsumu a searching look, “I think he just got under yer skin too much. Otherwise, the rest of the team shoulda been fine. Hell, ya shouldn’t even have had the syncing issue in the first place.” It’s as close to an acknowledgment of his brother’s setting skills as Osamu’s willing to give right now. Based on the wry twisting of Atsumu’s mouth though, the message was received.

“I know, I know. I’m too good to let somethin’ like this trip me up,” Atsumu sighs dramatically. “But it’s just—I hate him, alright?” he continues, ignoring Osamu’s flat stare. “I tried my best to be civil, but the guy’s insufferable!”

“You hate a lotta people, and most of ‘em hate ya back in return. It never bothered you before,” Osamu points out. “So what makes Sakusa so special?”

“I just can’t figure him out! It’s like the guy has no emotions at all. If I screw up a set, the most he’ll do is gimme some serious side-eye. If we manage to connect properly, he won’t even smile or anything, like some goddamn robot,” Atsumu says, brow furrowing. “Also his personality sucks. Hurlin’ insults with that stupid monotone voice of his…”

“Look who’s talking.”

Atsumu glares, but continues. “But yeah, how am I s’posed to set to the dude when just seeing him makes my blood boil?”

Osamu hums, turning the situation over and over in his mind. His brother isn’t exactly wrong in saying that Sakusa’s difficult to read, but Atsumu specializes in figuring his spikers out. If he really wanted to work with the guy, he’d manage.

“I dunno,” Osamu tells him, “but I really think you two could be friends if ya tried.”

“Don’t fucking test me right now, ‘Samu.”

“I’m serious,” Osamu presses, looking Atsumu in the eye. “I reckon he’s level-headed enough to balance you out when ya get too wild. And you know how strong the guy is; we’ve been on the receiving end of that nasty spike too many times not to. He’ll make a good partner on the court once both of you get yer heads outta yer asses.

“But I can’t work with someone who doesn’t believe in my tosses,” Atsumu whines, slumping down against the table.

Osamu sighs loudly. “You know, trust is a two-way street,” he says, flicking a finger on Atsumu’s forehead and receiving a yelp in return.

Atsumu rubs at the affected spot sourly. “Huh?”

“You got mad ‘cause Sakusa doesn’t trust yer sets enough to just go for it, right? But do ya trust him to figure out his own thing, and give him the sets to match that?” Osamu asks, raising an eyebrow as if daring his brother to respond.

Atsumu takes a disgruntled bite out of his onigiri, not meeting his eyes.

Osamu smirks. “Thought so. Anyway, just give it a try. Communicate a little. I mean, if anything, your relationship can’t possibly get any worse than now, so ya have nothin’ to lose.”

“Ugh,” Atsumu groans loudly. “Fine, I’ll talk to him. But if I get murdered in the locker room by that asshole, it’s on yer conscience.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be sure to give a tearful speech at yer funeral” Osamu waves him away. “And if you and Sakusa become some sorta power team, ya better thank me in the interviews.”

Atsumu gives him one last glare and swallows the rest of his onigiri in one go. He brushes away the stray bits of rice stuck along the sides of his mouth with a hand, then bounces off his seat.

“Fine. Whatever. Thanks for the food,” he says. He’s already halfway out the door when Osamu jolts with realization.

“Hey, ya haven’t paid for that!”

“Just put it on my tab,” Atsumu replies, raising his hand in one last wave before he’s out of sight.

“You don’t have a damn tab!” Osamu shouts angrily, hands cupped around his mouth. “Get back here, ya rat!”

But it’s too late. The door swings shut, preventing any further attempts at getting Osamu his well-deserved money back. Now, he’s faced with the mildly concerned stares of every single person in the shop, and his face burns with embarrassment.

“Nothing to see here, folks,” he coughs out, forcing himself to straighten up to regain at least some semblance of professionalism.

Fukuda-san appears at his side silently, empty tray in hand and probably a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue.

“So, um, Osamu-san,” she begins hesitantly, like she’s still unsure what just happened, “that was your brother? He seems… interesting.”

“Ya reckon it’s too tacky to put up a ‘No Atsumu Allowed’ sign on the front door?”

“Just a little bit, Osamu-san.”

Damn it.

3. bargaining

“Good morning!” says Osamu brightly. He’s in the middle of opening the shop for the day, pulling up the metal roller shutters outside his shop with a dull clang.

Fukuda-san smiles from across the street, walking up to the storefront briskly. “Good morning, Osamu-san. Better get inside quickly, by the way. It’s starting to drizzle.”

Osamu sticks up a palm and feels the barest hints of cold raindrops hitting his skin. “I’m just about done out here, anyway,” he says, following her towards the doorway. She pulls out the spare set of keys that he’d given her, and after another moment, he hears the telltale click of the lock opening.

Inside, he fumbles a bit for the switch, bathing the shop in fluorescent lighting when he flicks it on. It’s sparkling clean, of course, just like they left it last night.

Within the last few months, he’s made some major improvements to the place. Including a promotion for Fukuda-san, who is now a regular fixture of the shop and has saved him from overworking himself more times than he can count. Aside from that, he got a new fridge that’s bigger than his last and—according to the salesman—pretty energy efficient. After the heatwave they had in the summer, it’s been a godsend. He has a television set now, too, hanging on a wall for customers to enjoy at their leisure. All in all, Onigiri Miya is really picking up steam, and it brings a spring to his step every time he heads to work.

Fukuda-san starts bringing down the chairs from their neat stacks and placing them beside the tables, and Osamu’s quick to follow, spurring him out of his reminiscing.

“Ready for another day behind the counter?” he asks conversationally.

Since the start of autumn, he’s been letting her handle most of the food prep, which is a first. She’d helped around before, of course, but always just as an assistant to him. Now, though, she’s just about ready to take on the load without any more hand-holding.

Clearly, she shares the same sentiment, because there’s a sturdy set to her shoulders when she says, “Of course. You can count on me.”

He stifles a bit of a laugh. At this point, Fukuda-san is probably more reliable than him.

“Although,” she adds, as an afterthought, “I have to admit that yesterday’s group was particularly difficult.”

“Ah, right,” Osamu laughs. “Sorry ‘bout that. My friends can get pretty intense.”

(Yesterday being the date of the MSBY Black Jackals’ first game of the season. He’d christened the television by playing the match live, and somehow a few of his old teammates at Inarizaki had chosen that exact weekend to stop by.

Needless to say, they spent the rest of the afternoon hanging around, stuffing themselves with Osamu’s entire menu and cheering every time Atsumu managed a service ace.

It was definitely good business, but they may have gotten a little too boisterous for respectable company.)

Fukuda-san shrugs, shooting him a small smile. “It’s alright, I get it. Atsumu-san was pretty cool out there.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re getting the hots for my brother, ‘cause frankly I dunno if our business relationship can survive that.”

“Don’t worry,” she laughs, “he’s not my type at all. No offense.”

Osamu grins, letting her know what he thinks about that.

They make quick work of setting up the rest of the dining area, and then move on to prepping up the kitchen. At some point, Fukuda-san goes to pick something up from the back, leaving him to his own devices. Osamu’s just about to start filling up the rice cooker when the bell above the shop chimes.

“Sorry, we’re still closed,” he calls out behind his shoulder.

“It’s jus’ me,” replies a familiar voice, and Osamu turns around in surprise.

Speak of the devil.

Atsumu stops at the welcome mat, shaking droplets of rain off his umbrella before folding it closed. He sticks it in the umbrella holder by the entrance, where it continues to drip silently onto the floor.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Osamu comments, eyebrows raised. “Finally got a day off?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, shooting him a small smile. “Coach felt nice enough to let us rest a bit. Perks of winning.”

He grabs a seat by the counter as usual, and Osamu gives him a raised eyebrow from behind it.

“Ya better behave for now,” he says, waving a dishrag in his brother’s direction. “We’re still fixing stuff up.”

Atsumu waves him away, already pulling out his phone from his pocket. “Yeah, yeah, no worries.”

While his brother busies himself with his social media feed, Osamu turns back to the kitchen. He slips into his daily routine of readying the shop for the busy day, prepping ingredients and making sure all his tools are in the right order. Upon returning from the storage room, Fukuda-san blinks once at the sight of Atsumu, then shrugs it off and begins work on the table settings.

By the time everything is finished, Osamu does a quick check of the clock and finds that he still has a good twenty minutes or so before the people start flooding in. He tells his employee to rest up for a bit, and then turns his attention back to Atsumu at the counter.

“Finally,” Atsumu says, raising a brow. “Ya sure took yer sweet time there.”

Osamu rolls his eyes, pulling up a chair. “It’s called having a job to do, unlike some lazy slackers.”

“Uh, excuse you, didja not see the epic win yesterday? We totally creamed those guys!”

“It was a good match,” Osamu relents, lips quirking upward just a little.

Across the counter, Atsumu grins broadly. “Yeah. But I can’t take all the credit,” he adds, in a surprisingly honest tone. “Omi-Omi’s spikes were on fire.”

Osamu blinks. “Omi-Omi?”

Atsumu looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Sakusa, duh.”

“Hold on,” Osamu says incredulously, “ya actually gave him a nickname?”

“Ha, yeah!” Atsumu crows, delighted. “He hates it, but too fuckin’ bad.”

Osamu struggles to wrap his head around it all, and asks, “So yer friends now, is that it?”

Sure, he knows Atsumu and Sakusa had been getting along lately, based on all the stories Atsumu has told him during their calls. But Osamu hadn’t paid attention to any details, and he’s beginning to realize that maybe he should’ve listened harder.

Atsumu shrugs a little. “I mean, I guess he ain’t too bad.”

“Uh, you were ready to gut him for months,” Osamu feels the need to point out.

“People change.”

“Okay, you have to tell me this story.”

“It’s not much of a story, honestly. I guess we just realized we had to be mature ‘bout it.”

Mature? Atsumu?

“Bullshit,” Osamu declares immediately. “I ain’t believing that for a second.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” Atsumu relents, lips curving upward a little bit. “So basically, it started at the apartment, where I was totally just mindin’ my own business.”

Ah yes, Osamu avidly recalls the infamous MSBY apartment complex. The first—and only—time he’d ever visited was when he was helping Atsumu unload all his stuff. In that one day, he’d faced the whirlwind of those monsters his brother calls teammates, and it pretty much affirmed his decision to not go pro. Sure, Osamu’s as social as the next person and all, but he can only take so much of Bokuto Koutarou before having to tap out of the conversation.

Sometimes, he thinks he pities Atsumu for having to deal with all those freaks every day. Then he remembers that his brother is the biggest freak of them all—one that he himself had to deal with for his entire young life—and he decides to believe in karma instead.

“And then,” Atsumu continues, oblivious to his musings, “I started hearing Bokkun and the others going crazy downstairs. And like, that ain’t really too weird, so I figured they’d cool down eventually. But they didn’t, and those walls are kinda thin, y’know, and I kept hearing shit. So I went down to check on ‘em, and guess who I see in the lobby.”

Osamu snorts. “No fuckin’ way.”

Atsumu grins. “Yep! None other than Omi-kun himself! He had all these suitcases and shit, too.”

“I woulda thought he’d hate to live with all you crazies.”

“Oh, yeah. He was so not happy to be there,” Atsumu nods. “Back when he first showed up, he told us he’d eat his own sock before spending a night in our place. Which, comin’ from him, is a pretty intense statement.”

“So why?”

“Apparently, they discovered a cockroach infestation in his old building and he booked it asap.”

“Okay, that I believe,” Osamu grins. “But hold on, that doesn’t explain how the hell ya got all buddy-buddy so fast.”

“Eh, we kinda got used to each other, I guess? I mean, before, he didn’t really talk to anyone outside of practice. Like, he’d zip out as soon as training ended and all,” Atsumu explains. “But after he moved in, he kinda ended up walking back with the rest of us and all. And it’s pretty hard to keep hatin’ someone ya see in pajamas every night, y’know?”

Osamu snorts at the sudden mental image of Sakusa in fluffy slippers.

“Plus,” Atsumu adds, leaning back, “he makes really great omelettes. Like, god-level stuff. I would kill for ‘em.”

Now that makes Osamu pause. “And how, exactly, d’ya know this?”

“I barge in for breakfast sometimes,” Atsumu says. “After a while, he stopped tryin’ to kick me out.”

“Breakfast. You were just at each other’s throats and now ya get fuckin’ breakfast together,” Osamu deadpans.

“Hey, food is food, y’know?” Atsumu defends. “And we get along outside of practice. Coupla weeks ago he mentioned he’s never seen a Ghibli movie before, and like, what the hell man? Obviously, he needed t’be educated. We do movie marathons now.”

Osamu thinks he might be hallucinating. “Uh, is this with the whole team?”

Atsumu tilts his head, considering. “Sometimes. But when everyone else is busy with like, having actual lives and shit, it’s just the two of us.”

“Wait, okay, so. Yer tellin’ me ya actually like hanging out with him?” Osamu asks, eyes wide.

Atsumu snorts. “It’s only called hanging out if we’re friends, ‘Samu.”

Osamu almost can’t believe Atsumu could be this stupid. Almost. “Uh, you have regular movie nights and he cooks ya breakfast. Whaddya call that?”

Atsumu scrunches up his nose and looks away.

“And doesn’t he have the germ thing going on?” The more Osamu thinks about it, the less it makes sense. “I can’t believe he’d even let yer disgusting ass step near him.”

“It’s not a big deal, jus’ means I gotta shower before going in and stuff like that. ‘Cause of him, I’m starting to carry sanitizer like, everywhere I go now.” To prove his point, Atsumu—as in, the guy who had been picking snot out of his nose when he and Osamu had last visited their folks—reaches in his pocket and pulls out a travel-sized bottle of rubbing alcohol, already half used. He spritzes his hands a little for good measure before putting it back. Osamu stares, trying and failing not to gape.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“If I didn’t know better,” Osamu begins slowly, turning the words over in his mind, “I’d say this whole thing was pretty damn domestic.”

“Hah, he wishes he could be disgustingly domestic with me,” Atsumu says, but Osamu’s keen eyes catch him smiling ever so slightly. And, okay, now Osamu’s starting to get a different picture here.

“You sure ya don’t just have a crush on the guy?” he asks, his voice light even as his eyes zero in on his brother’s face.

“Eh, well, Omi-kun’s not really bad-looking or anything, I guess,” Atsumu says almost jokingly. “Maybe if he was a little nicer to me, I could be into that.”

“Are ya serious right now?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Don’t get too worked up. It ain’t happening, so there’s no use thinkin’ of all that.”

Osamu frowns.

He’d watched the match yesterday, from start to end. At the time, he thought nothing of the beaming grins Atsumu had been throwing at Sakusa after every perfectly timed spike, chalking it up to good-old adrenaline.

But now, he can’t help but wonder…

Atsumu, always too shrewd when he shouldn’t be, notices. “What’s that look for?” he asks suspiciously.

“I just—you’re sure yer not…?”

Atsumu sighs tiredly. “I already told ya, we ain’t like that. It was just a thought.”

“Yeah, like I’m trusting anything you’re thinkin’ about,” Osamu huffs.

His brother tilts back his head in a full-bodied kind of laugh. “For real, though. Ya don’t need to get so fussy ‘bout it.”

Osamu clicks his tongue. “Sure, it’s a joke now, but what about tomorrow, or the next day?”

Atsumu narrows his eyes, shoulders tensing. “This isn’t gonna be like before.”

Before.

Atsumu has never been lucky in love, and Osamu can attest to this, having witnessed it all firsthand. He’d trailed after countless boys and girls throughout the years. Some of them he actually dated, only to inevitably break up with them once the person found out how much of an asshole he really was. Others were left as feelings never to be acted upon, like that time with Kita-san back in their first year (much to the team’s collective embarrassment).

But either way, Atsumu always fell too hard, too fast. And that never worked out too well.

The thing is, Atsumu and relationships? Not the best match. Osamu’s half convinced that his brother’s just not built for lasting human connection. So for him to start going on like this about yet another person… that’s a problem. Whatever this thing with Sakusa is, it’s making warning bells flare up in Osamu’s mind.

Eventually, the silence stretches thin, and Atsumu wets his lips before chiming in. “I know what yer thinkin’, but I swear it’s not gonna end up like that this time. We’re, like, barely even friends. And besides, I know better than that now.”

Osamu pinches the bridge of his nose. “You always say that.”

“Ugh, just drop it already. I don’t wanna spend my one free day talking ‘bout this.”

Osamu gives him another look. “Don’t cha dare say I didn’t warn ya.”

Atsumu shrugs, posture shifting out of the hard lines of earlier and back into something more relaxed. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he drones.

Osamu sighs. He knows when he’s fighting a losing battle. “Well, anyway, was there somethin’ else you were gonna say?”

At that, Atsumu brightens considerably and leans forward over the counter. “Okay, so I gotta tell ya about what happened in the lockers before the game yesterday! It all started when Barnes-san started talking ‘bout instant ramen…”

4. depression

Osamu wakes up to the sound of his ringtone blaring like crazy and groans, crawling deeper into his covers to block out the noise. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work too well. After a couple more seconds of tossing and turning, he gives up on it and snatches his phone from his nightstand. He doesn’t even spare a glance at the caller ID before swiping to answer, forcing down a yawn.

“Hello?” he asks, a little groggy. There’s silence on the other end.

A little more forcefully, he repeats himself. “Hello? Anyone there?”

There’s a bit of shuffling, and then he hears an unfortunately familiar voice saying, “‘Samu?”

Osamu blinks, trying vainly to figure out why Atsumu would be calling him at—he checks the digital clock on his cable box—almost four A.M. More specifically, four A.M. on new year's day. Fuckin’ hell, Osamu hadn’t even been asleep for that long yet, having allowed himself to stay up to witness the fireworks since the shop’s closed for the morning. And just a few hours ago, Atsumu himself had sent in a drunk voice message, his loud shouts of “Happy new year!” almost drowned out by his background noise.

“The fuck are ya calling for at ass o’clock?” Osamu asks grumpily. If his brother just needs someone to pick up his wasted ass from whatever party he’d been at, Osamu’s hanging up.

“Oh shit, it’s that late?” Atsumu mutters, voice scratchy in a way that gives Osamu pause. “Fuck, sorry, this was a really bad idea.”

Osamu straightens up, forcing away the remnants of his sleepiness. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” Atsumu groans from the other end of the line, and Osamu hears some kind of muffled thud. “I didn’t think this through.”

“Did somethin’ happen?”

“Ha. You could say that.”

“‘Tsumu, I swear, just spit it out already.”

“Uh, okay, before that, couldja come down and open the door? It’s kinda chilly out here.”

Osamu stops. Blinks. For a moment, he thinks his sleep-addled brain might have malfunctioned for a second. “Down as in… downstairs?”

Atsumu lets out a small, weak laugh. “Down as in at-yer-front-door downstairs.”

Cursing, Osamu stumbles out of bed, making his way down his apartment in the dark. When he rips open his front door, he’s indeed greeted by the sight of his own brother leaning against the wall. Atsumu’s shivering violently, clad in a thin dress shirt that does nothing to protect him from the winter chill.

“What the fuck are ya doin’ over here?” Osamu growls, more out of concern than actual anger.

Atsumu looks up, and it’s then that Osamu realizes that the uneven rise and fall of his shoulders might not be because of the cold. Osamu’s heart drops.

“Hey, c’mon, let’s get you warm,” he says, voice softer now, stepping back to let Atsumu shuffle his way inside. Osamu itches to reach out and wrap him in a blanket or something, but he’s sure Atsumu’s pride would never allow it. He settles for opening the kitchen lights and starting up the kettle to brew some tea.

Atsumu stays silent and curls up on the couch while Osamu steeps the tea leaves. Osamu, for his part, is now sure something’s wrong because Atsumu has never before let go of an opportunity to complain about the ratty, threadbare sofa set that serves as his guest bed (in other words, literally just existing for Atsumu whenever he decides to crash here).

“So,” Osamu begins, setting down two steaming cups of tea in front of them and pulling up a chair for himself, “weren’t cha s’posed to be at some party?”

Atsumu wraps his palms around his cup but makes no move to actually drink it. “Yeah, I was at Bokkun’s fancy new place but, uh. Well. Left the party early.”

The gears start turning in Osamu’s mind. Atsumu had mentioned that Bokuto was moving a few blocks away from the MSBY apartment complex, back when he was complaining about hauling some boxes for him. And though the Jackals’ home base is only a half-hour train ride away, it’s way too late for any lines to be running. Which means—

“Did you walk all the way here?” Osamu demands. His mind flashes with images of a clearly intoxicated, rumpled-looking Atsumu wandering around unsavory side streets past midnight. Oh fuck, their ma is gonna kill Atsumu when she hears about this. And then she’ll kill Osamu for letting him do it, never mind that they don’t even live in the same area.

Though, if he’s being honest with himself, Osamu’s already kicking himself for it anyway, logistics be damned.

Atsumu groans, sinking lower into himself. “Fuck, I’m sorry, jus’ couldn’t face any of them right now.”

“Okay, you gotta stop saying sorry. It’s so wrong coming from yer mouth,” Osamu says. “And whaddya mean, them?”

“The others,” Atsumu says, waving a hand in some vague gesture. “Y’know. Everyone else at MSBY. I couldn’t stay home, not after—”

He stops abruptly, but Osamu hones in on the slip up, frowning. “So something did happen.”

Atsumu fidgets and turns away from Osamu’s critical eyes.

“Or,” Osamu prods, “was it… someone?”

Atsumu flinches.

Aha, gotcha.

“It’s Sakusa, ain’t it,” Osamu says. It’s not a question.

“Please don’t say ya told me so,” whines Atsumu. “I’ve already gotten enough shit today ‘cause of it.”

Osamu takes a long sip of his own tea to calm himself down, but he can’t keep the tightness from his voice when he asks, “What did he do?”

“Aw, you care? How sweet of ya,” Atsumu teases, lips curving into a wry smirk. Osamu can practically see his walls coming back up now that he isn’t in danger of death via hypothermia.

But Osamu can also see the redness in Atsumu’s eyes even in this dimly lit room, and he’s not having any of it. “You’re deflecting. Answer the damn question or I’m throwing this cup in yer face.”

Atsumu turns away from him and looks down at the steam rising from his tea. And then—

“Omi-kun tried to kiss me,” he says, biting his lip as soon as the words are out.

Osamu opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again just to say, “What.”

“I told ya! He tried to fuckin’ kiss me, that’s what happened.”

“I’m confused,” Osamu says. “Is this not a good thing?”

“No!”

“But I thought…” Osamu trails off.

“Yeah, ya thought fucking right,” Atsumu growls out. “Turns out I’m head over heels for the guy.”

Osamu isn’t running on enough sleep for this. “So how did your crush making a move become a bad thing?”

Atsumu sighs, his shoulders falling again. “‘Cause he was drunk, ‘Samu. As in, full on, ready to pass out, never gonna remember this in the morning kinda pissed.”

“Oh.”

“And the worst part is,” Atsumu continues, unable to stop now that he’s started, “he tried to kiss me at midnight. For the new year’s kiss bullshit. And I just—I couldn’t handle it, okay?”

He rubs at his eyes furiously with the base of his palm, hunched over in his seat. Osamu sighs, setting down his cup and making his way to sit beside his brother on the couch, even though it’s probably too small for them both. It creaks under his weight but he ignores it, choosing instead to lay a hand over Atsumu’s shoulder. The touch makes Atsumu shudder.

“I know it’s stupid,” Atsumu says, “but I dunno, I just thought, hey. I can handle havin’ feelings for a teammate. Thought it’d go away or whatever. And I was okay to just. Keep it in. Have him as a friend. Do our movie nights and only slightly think about the way his hair looks when he falls asleep on the couch.”

Osamu really doesn’t like where this is going. Atsumu’s still not done, though.

“But the piece of shit showed up at the goddamn party looking like some Greek god, and I wasn’t ready ‘cause, hell, since when did he even attend parties?” he says, frantic and with a concerning hint of hysterics. “And then we drank and talked and fuck, if I wasn’t down bad already I would’ve fallen sometime tonight.”

“And then the almost kiss,” Osamu sighs.

“Yeah. That. I couldn’t do it anymore,” Atsumu confesses, so soft it’s almost a whisper. “I couldn’t stand there and drunkenly flirt like none of this was real for me. It was—it was just. Too much. Too overwhelming. And also, well, not enough.”

Osamu’s stomach sinks. When he’d teased Atsumu before, he’d thought it was just a crush, but—

“You love him,” he says dumbly. His words linger in the quiet of the apartment for a while, so heavy they seem to take up all the air in the room.

After a beat, Atsumu groans, “It’s so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ stupid,” Osamu says, without any real bite. “So what, ya just fled the scene? Hightailed it here for hours?”

“Oh, uh,” Atsumu says, licking at his lip. “Well, I got some more drinks first. But then Omi-kun looked too far gone, so I. Um. May have offered to get him home?”

Osamu purses his lips. “You mean to tell me that you, drunk off yer ass, brought an even drunker guy a few blocks around?”

“Okay, yeah, that wasn’t the greatest idea, I know.”

“Ya think?”

“Shaddup,” Atsumu says. “But yeah, anyway, we got home and I dropped him off and y’know what, I really thought that was the end of that.”

Silently, Osamu despairs.

“But before I could leave, he—well. I won’t go into the details, but he basically propositioned me. At his fucking doorstep. And still reeking of alcohol and looking like he was two seconds from passing out, ‘cause apparently my life is a joke.”

Osamu lets out a low whistle.

Atsumu laughs miserably. “So yeah, obviously I couldn’t very well stay in the same building as him after that, right? And, well, I don’t exactly remember how, ‘cause I wasn’t even planning to go anywhere, but somehow I ended up here. And that’s it. That’s the story. Go ahead and laugh at me now if ya want, fuckin’ deserve it.”

Sighing, Osamu moves to ruffle Atsumu’s hair. He doesn’t know what to say. As much as he expected things to end badly once he clocked Atsumu’s blossoming feelings, he was hoping Sakusa’s reclusive nature might prevent anything too big.

“I’m honestly jus’ surprised Sakusa went and got blackout drunk,” Osamu admits, after a beat. “Doesn’t seem like the type.”

Atsumu snorts. “Yeah, he really isn’t. Not the party type, either.”

“Did he say why he was there?”

“Nah, I’m just as surprised as you. ‘Snot like he even did anything all night.”

Osamu blinks. “Huh?”

“I mean, I told ya,” Atsumu says, with an exasperated tone. “He was talking with me all night. Whatever he was planning to do there, guess he wasn’t able to.”

Osamu bites the inside of his cheek, considering. On the one hand, this guy did just break Atsumu’s heart and all. On the other hand…

“Ya mean to tell me,” he says slowly, “this guy who you know hates parties and alcohol and people went to something like that, only to spend all his time with you. One-on-one. Just talkin’. And then he made a move on you specifically.”

Atsumu’s brows knit together. “I guess, yeah? Alcohol makes people do stupid things, y’know.”

Osamu hums. “Maybe it might mean a little more than you think it does. Especially with a guy as reserved as Sakusa.”

“Don’t bother tryna give me hope,” Atsumu sighs, sinker deeper into the couch. “It’s a hopeless case. As usual.”

“Are you sure—”

Atsumu snaps, “Yeah, okay, drop it already. You know the drill. I’m in love with another totally unattainable person and it’s shit, alright? Just let me mope my heart out or somethin’ for a while, and I’ll be outta yer hair in the morning. I just—I need some space.”

“Well, if you say so,” Osamu says, still dubious. But clearly, his brother’s had a long night, and Osamu himself is still pretty tired from being woken up so abruptly. He’s not going to poke at this anymore, not right now at least.

Then, after a beat, Atsumu pipes in with, “Got any ice cream for me to cry over?”

“Fuckin’ freeloader.”

“That ain’t a no.”

“…Second shelf in the freezer. And grab me a spoon too, will ya?”

5. acceptance

It’s been one week. A whole fucking week of radio silence from his brother, and Osamu’s just about ready to tear out his hair. If it weren’t for Sunarin dropping a text after a practice match the other day to tell him Atsumu was even alive, he’d have already stormed into the MSBY gym.

Look, he’s given the guy his space, alright? He let Atsumu make his way back home with promises to try and talk to Sakusa and keep Osamu updated. Promises which, by the way, the little shit has not been keeping. Osamu has sent him a few texts, sure, but Atsumu hasn’t even opened them if the read receipts are to be trusted.

Would it be a bit obsessive to send another text right now? Osamu had just sent one this morning, and it’s only noon, but Atsumu’s been telling him so much about life with Sakusa these past months that the silence is actually killing him. He needs to know what’s happening. It should be his reward for dealing with all of Atsumu’s whining.

…So maybe Osamu’s a terrible gossip, okay, sue him.

He’s just about to type in another text—in the middle of business hours, yeah, he can see Fukuda-san giving him a judgmental look—when the bell over the doorway clings.

“Welcome to Onigiri Miy—oh,” says Fukuda-san.

Osamu looks up from his phone, blinks, and then blinks once more, a little harder.

Atsumu’s standing at the entrance, which is weird enough considering his latest bout of silent treatment. But what really makes Osamu do a double-take is the tall figure behind him.

The familiar, masked figure with curly hair and a volleyball jacket over his shoulders.

The formidable figure of one Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“What the fuck,” says Osamu, dropping his phone on the counter. Fukuda-san shushes him, sending an apologetic smile to the customers in the store.

“Hey,” says Atsumu, as if that explains anything. He saunters over to the counter, Sakusa following obediently behind him.

Or—wait. Osamu looks again.

Sakusa’s being tugged along, actually. By the hand. His hand, which is currently in Atsumu’s own, fingers intertwined and everything.

What the fuck, indeed.

Osamu crosses his arms, giving the pair his best stern glare. “Finally decided to let me in on whatever’s been goin’ on lately?”

Atsumu smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, uh, sorry ‘bout the texts. Been a bit busy lately.”

“Mmm, yeah, so I see,” Osamu says, raising an eyebrow. Then, he turns to Sakusa, who’s been studiously avoiding his gaze this whole time.

“So,” Osamu drawls, “yer the bastard who’s been making my baby brother even more stupid lately.”

Sakusa’s ears color. “I, uh—”

“Hey!” Atsumu interjects. “For your information, I’m the older one.”

“Whatever helps ya sleep at night,” Osamu shrugs. “Anyway, are you guys ordering or not?”

Atsumu nods, resting his free hand on the counter. “Yeah, gimme two fatty tunas and another two umeboshi ones for Omi-Omi.”

Osamu watches as Sakusa startles, looking at the back of Atsumu’s head with wide eyes.

“…How did you know what I was gonna order?” asks Sakusa, almost too softly to hear. Atsumu turns back to him, and Osamu can actually see his brother’s face lose some of its sharp edge, eyes softening around the edges.

“‘Course I know yer favorite food,” Atsumu says. There’s something tender in his voice, something that sends Osamu reeling a little bit. There are a million questions inside him, all begging to be asked.

“Okay, lovebirds, pay to Fukuda-san while I handle it,” he says instead.

While Sakusa’s ears go impossibly redder, Atsumu only chuckles. Osamu busies himself with preparing the onigiri, and he can’t help but listen in as snippets of the pair’s conversation filter through the sounds of his chopping.

“We don’t have to stay if you’re uncomfortable,” he hears Atsumu murmur.

“What?” Sakusa says. Osamu can almost imagine the confused scowl on his face.

“There’s a lotta people here.”

“Weren’t you the one complaining about how hungry you were?”

“I mean, we can just get takeout and head over to my place.”

A pause, and then Sakusa’s sly, “Was that supposed to be an invitation?”

Osamu muffles a laugh.

“Wait, no, that’s not—I just meant—I wasn’t tryin’ to imply—argh!”

He takes back all his misgivings about Sakusa, because this is entertainment gold. Osamu makes a mental note to share the story with their parents next time he visits.

“What I meant to say was, we can go bring the food somewhere better fer ya,” Atsumu says quickly, the way he tends to ramble when he’s nervous. “Doesn’t hafta be my place or anything, but I haven’t showered yet and ya wouldn’t want me getting germs all over yer apartment or something like—”

“I really don’t mind.”

“Huh?”

“If you haven’t already noticed, I’ve been holding your sweaty hand for the past half hour.”

“I—I mean…”

“Let’s just go to my place. It’s okay. It’s just you.”

And of course Osamu turns around right then so that he can witness Atsumu’s wide-eyed, cherry-red, dumb-as-hell face in all its glory. He wishes he could snap a photo.

Osamu grins, packing their order into a small plastic bag. “Here ya go.”

Sakusa takes it from him, and Osamu might be imagining it, but he thinks he might just see the barest crinkle of a smile behind the guy’s surgical mask. “Thank you, Miya-san.”

Osamu laughs. “Just call me Osamu. Looks like we’re practically family now, anyway.”

Atsumu sputters, but Sakusa just nods, curls swishing with the movement.

“Hey, couldja gimme a second to talk to this loser?” Osamu asks, nodding towards Atsumu.

“Sure,” Sakusa says. And then to Atsumu, “I’ll meet you outside.”

He untangles his fingers from Atsumu’s and makes his way out of the shop, the plastic takeout bag looped around his elbow. Atsumu, almost mechanically, turns to watch him leave.

Osamu snorts. “So, gimme the story. What happened to you guys?”

Atsumu turns back to face him, a shy smile on his face. “I mean, honestly, I hate to say it but you were right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” says Atsumu, too happy to even fight him. “Turns out the whole party drama was ‘cause he actually liked me. Go figure.”

Osamu called it.

“Glad yer finally communicating and not, y’know, getting lost in your own head.”

“True,” Atsumu laughs. “Remind me to tell ya all the details one of these days.”

“You fuckin’ better. I did not stand here listening to all your bullshit just to be left outta the loop,” says Osamu pointedly. He’s incredibly glad he won’t have to deal with all the pining anymore, but he deserves his dues in the form of gossip.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll drop by again sometime soon,” Atsumu says, giving him a two-fingered salute. “But for now, I gotta scram.”

“Mhm, yep, lover boy’s waiting,” Osamu teases, punching Atsumu in the arm. “Go get yer man.”

Atsumu just rakes a hand through his hair, grinning wide. “God, I love him.”

“You’re totally whipped.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Osamu smiles. “You okay with that?”

Atsumu pauses, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

omake

“Hey, could ya get the food ready? I’ll just go wash my hands.”

Kiyoomi smiles to himself at Atsumu’s words, reaching for the Onigiri Miya bag on his kitchen table. He pulls out Atsumu’s order first, placing the balls of rice on a plate.

As he reaches for one of his own onigiri, however, something flutters out of the plastic. Eyebrows rising, Kiyoomi plucks the thin piece of paper from the table, only to be greeted by thick, hasty pen strokes.

“Don’t think I don’t remember what you did last week,” reads the first line, and Kiyoomi blanches, shoulders tensing. “I’m watching you, bastard. Hurt him again and they’ll never find the body.”

Gingerly, he sets the note down and pulls out his second onigiri. Another slip of paper brushes against his fingertips.

Kiyoomi braces himself for the worst and looks down.

“P.S. Here’s my number. I’m willing to trade baby pics for news of him doing anything stupid,” and then a string of digits.

Slumping in relief, Kiyoomi can’t contain his small huff of amusement.

“What was that?” asks Atsumu, finally padding back into the room.

“Nothing,” Kiyoomi responds, smiling as he pockets the notes under the table. “Just thinking about how much I love you.”

Atsumu gives him a lopsided grin that makes Kiyoomi’s heart stutter in his chest.

Osamu-san definitely doesn’t need to worry. He’s never letting this one go again.