Archive of Our Own ^beta

The apartment is always cold when Osamu comes home. It used to be warm, back when Osamu had full reign of the thermostat and was able to hot-box himself inside his flat. Now, with Rintarou being a full-time resident instead of just a part-timer, the house is frigid. 

It’s a Tuesday, which means that Osamu comes home early from his restaurant just as Rintarou returns from physical therapy. Once both of them are back, they silently change into nicer clothes to eat dinner at Atsumu’s place. That’s how it usually is, but when Osamu opens the door to find Rintarou huddled under the sheets, he knows that even that will be a struggle today.

He walks to Rintarou’s side, mindful of the volume of his steps. With tentative fingers, he lifts the duvet and sheets to reveal Rintarou cradled on his side like a baby, his gaze unfocused as he stares at the wall. Osamu crouches down to meet his eyes and feels his knees pop as he settles into a squat. Rintarou’s eyes gain some clarity as his lips crinkle into a weak smile. 

Osamu smiles too, forced. “Do you want to go to ‘Tsumu’s place tonight?” he asks instead of a greeting. 

Rintarou nods and tries to sit up but winces before falling back down. Osamu reaches out to help him but is stopped by Rintarou’s firm gaze. “I got it,” he mutters. 

Osamu leaves his side, letting him be.

They arrive at Atsumu’s place thirty minutes late, but neither Atsumu nor his fiance, Kiyoomi, point it out. They must’ve smelled Rintarou’s sour mood before they even opened the door. 

They’re greeted each by hugs, less force in their grips as they wrap their arms around Rintarou. Rintarou hates when people act like he’s fragile, but with a fucked-up back like his, Osamu knows he secretly appreciates it. 

The food is already set on the table when they sit down. Osamu digs in, noting every spice that hits his senses while completely oblivious to the conversation between the others. He feels when Rintarou moves his hand to grip Osamu’s knee; his hands are hotter than coals even through Osamu’s jeans. He faintly feels the familiar ache to grab that same hand, to revel in the way his burn scars rub against Rintarou’s calluses. He reaches down and notes how soft Rintarou’s hands are now, so much so that they feel alien in his palm. 

“So, how’s wedding planning going?” Rintarou asks, tightening his grip on Osamu’s hand.

Atsumu’s eyes narrow towards Osamu, and Osamu nervously chuckles. “All good on our part, but ‘Samu here hasn’t done much.”

“Atsumu, don’t be rude. You didn’t do much for his wedding either, and besides, he’s busy enough as it is, running Onigiri Miya and starting up his new place in Tokyo,” Kiyoomi interjects. Osamu mouths a silent “Thanks” across the table, and Kiyoomi nods.

Rintarou chuckles. “Well, if it's any consolation, I can take over some of his responsibilities. I have nothing to do anyways.”

Atsumu and Kiyoomi laugh light-heartedly, but Osamu can’t make himself follow suit. Especially since he can hear the resentment laced in every word Rintarou utters. He gives a small smile instead and squeezes Rintarou’s hand under the table.

Osamu finishes his plate, first as per usual. The food on Rintarou’s plate looks hardly touched, simply moved around to give the illusion he ate. When they were in high school, Rintarou hardly ate, always scraping his bento into the trash as his eyes scanned around him, waiting, searching to be caught. His reluctance to eat would flare up and disappear with every passing month until their coach told him that he was ten under, and had better gain the weight before nationals. 

It never flared up again, especially when he started seeing a nutritionist provided to him by EJP. Osamu didn’t know why Rintarou never told him that he struggled, despite it being clear as day; he just hoped when he prepped Rintarou’s weekly meals that it was enough to show that he cared. 

Rintarou excuses himself from the table, familiar enough with the layout of Atsumu’s apartment to not ask where the restroom is. Atsumu and Kiyoomi entertain him with a conversation about his restaurant, Osamu spitting out some exaggerated stories about his saucier’s affair and the older woman who always seems to be bringing in another grandkid for another birthday as a response. He hopes they don’t pick up on the way his eyes keep darting to Rintarou’s empty chair, or how his knee bounces under the table without Rintarou’s firm hand to keep it still. 

After a couple of minutes, Osamu excuses himself as well, claiming he should check up on Rintarou. He doesn’t wait for a response; he increases the speed of his steps before rounding the corner where the bathroom door is. No light pours from the crack under the door, and when he presses his ears to the painted wood, no sound can be heard either. He briefly wonders if Rintarou is even in there, if somehow Osamu missed him on his walk to the bathroom, so tunnel-focused that he didn’t even spot the subject of his anxiety. But when he turns the handle, the lock forces him out, and he knows Rintarou is in there, maybe silently waiting for his arrival. 

He raises his fist to knock, but before he can, Rintarou opens the door. The ceilings in the apartment are low, making Rintarou look taller than he already is. Despite the few inches that separate them, Osamu can’t help but feel that Rintarou towers over him.

“Hey, just checking in,” Osamu says.

“I’m fine.”

Even through the dark, Osamu sees how Rintarou’s eyes are trimmed with red. He spots a wet track down his cheek, reflective in the hallway’s light. He reaches up to wipe that trail with his thumb, but Rintarou catches his wrist before he can. “I’m fine,” he repeats, before dropping his hand.

Maybe every chef is inherently temperamental. Maybe that’s what it takes. Or maybe working in an anxiety-riddled hell multiple hours a day cuts your amount of patience short. Who knows.

“Yeah, and the sky is red. Drop the shit, Rin.”

“Fine. I’m a fuck up, a good-for-nothing, piece of shit while my husband and friends continue to be successful. I sit on the couch all day in chronic pain wondering why I wasted my life away for a sport, and then I see Atsumu and Kiyoomi and wonder why I had to be the one to not make it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Christ, get a therapist and stop moping in the bathroom. You got a fucking injury, okay? You didn’t choose to get it, or not follow through on all of the supposed steps to not get one. It’s normal to be upset, but not,” Osamu waves his hands through the air, “this.”

Osamu gives him one last glance as he turns away before being stopped by Rintarou’s voice. “Are you sure I’m the one who needs a fucking therapist? You’re the one who can’t be empathetic for shit, who isolates himself in a kitchen to avoid-”

“Not here,” Osamu interrupts. “Please, let’s just not do this here. Later, okay?” 

Rintarou takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Okay.”

Once Rintarou returns, he and Atsumu walk into the living room, starting up a game of Mario Kart while their partners clean up. Osamu makes sure to discreetly throw away Rintarou’s food without Kiyoomi noticing; he doesn’t need him to get the wrong impression. Osamu is scrubbing a pan when Kiyoomi walks in from the dining room, a tower of plates in hand. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Osamu nods, so Kiyoomi continues. “Are you and Rin… are you guys you know, doing okay?”

Osamu’s scrubbing startles to a halt as he bites his lip, hard . Are they doing okay? Yeah, they have to be. Osamu and Rintarou are never in a rough patch . “Yeah, we are,” he chokes out. 

Kiyoomi sighs. “You know, you can talk about it with me. It’s normal for marriages to get ro-”

“I’d rather not talk about it, but thanks,” Osamu interrupts.

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply, and they go back to their washing. Osamu glares at a stain as he scrubs it to filth. 

When Osamu is done wiping down the counters he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He has got to get his poisonous tongue in control. He can practically feel the tension rolling off Kiyoomi’s shoulders. 

“Hey, Kiyo. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kiyoomi replies, curtly. 

Rintarou’s cheers can be heard from the kitchen just as clear as Atsumu’s groans. They must’ve been too impatient to wait to play, but Osamu doesn’t mind. He wasn’t feeling up to it anyway. Osamu pats Kiyoomi’s back awkwardly before walking to the pair on the couch. He sees Rintarou’s hair, wild and sticking in every direction peeking from the top of the seat, reminiscent of their high school days. 

He plops down next to his husband and his hand immediately goes to his untamable locks, just like he’s done an uncountable amount of times before. He runs them through his fingers as he watches Atsumu get blue-shelled, Rintarou’s Daisy passing him on her motorbike. He holds back a laugh. 

Rintarou ultimately wins the race, as he always does. Osamu can count on one hand when either he or his brother beat Rintarou in any game, ever. Rintarou turns to him with a smile. “Thanks.” Osamu knows he means, “Sorry.”

“What are you thanking me for?” 

      “Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who fucked up.”

“Being my lucky charm.” Rintarou leans down and kisses Osamu’s temple before running his thumb over the crease between Osamu’s eyebrows. 

      “Because I want to. Because I love you. Because-”

“You don’t need me,” Osamu mutters. He hopes Rintarou doesn’t catch his double meaning, but as always Rintarou seems to read his mind.

“Yes, I do.”

The train ride from Osaka to Tokyo is a little over three hours. Osamu rides the now familiar path four times a week. His first train leaves on Sunday morning, with a coffee in hand; it’s made by Rintarou who still keeps an early schedule despite no longer being an athlete. He works on Onigiri Miya’s spring menu and calculates ingredient prices while he waits for his stop to be called. When his stomach growls, he reaches into his backpack and finds a wrapped bento box packed with onigiri, a yellow post-it with a simple I love you written in Rintarou’s messy scrawl stuck to the furoshiki wrapping. 

He returns on Monday night, having stayed in a tiny flat he is renting for the year as his new restaurant, the name still being decided, is being renovated. He walks into his Osaka apartment, their apartment , to the smell of comfort food only his mom and Rintarou know how to make.

When they got married, Rintarou asked his mom for her recipes. She gladly handed them over, despite her continued reluctance to allow her own sons to see. 

He leaves again on Wednesday morning, this time before the sun rises. He is woken up by the alarm Rintarou sets. He can never seem to remember to set his own. 

On the train, he’s bound to realize he forgot something, only to see it in his bag with a note. Rintarou. 

He works on the menu for his new restaurant until his phone buzzes. Rintarou.

He’s reminding Osamu to eat, noticing he forgot to grab something on his way out. Osamu reassures him that he’ll stop by a coffee shop once he arrives. 

He returns home late Thursday night. Onigiri Miya needs him, especially on Fridays and Saturdays. He’s greeted in the doorway by silence, Rintarou already asleep. Sometimes Rintarou waits for Osamu’s arrival. Those Thursdays are Osamu’s favorites. Last Thursday was not one of those. 

The cycle repeats, week after week.

When Rintarou was active with EJP, he lived in Shizuoka City, just two hours away. Shizuoka is one of the stops on Osamu’s way to Tokyo, and sometimes he wants to get off if only to see the places they fell in love with each other. Every time they would get a drink at that coffee shop or go clubbing at that bar, it was like they were normal twenty-somethings, instead of the burnt-out and chronically stressed couple they were. It didn’t matter if they had a screaming match over the phone earlier that week, or got so angry that they didn’t text for a whole day, when they went into those places, they were freshly in love.

 Rintarou sometimes visits to see his old teammates, but Osamu hasn’t visited since before the injury. Without Rintarou there, he sees no real reason to walk through what to him is now a ghost town of the past.

Rintarou’s injury was during practice, on one of those crip early-autumn mornings that Rintarou revels in. Osamu was in Osaka, in Onigiri Miya , and not where he should’ve been. Rintarou had been feeling some back pain for a bit but was reassured by the team’s physical therapist that with some increased stretching it would go away. Then he was in the air, where his back and core did that freaky thing only Rintarou could do, where he repositioned himself midair to evade blockers or block an incoming spike, and he felt it. 

When Osamu got the call, he rushed down to the nearest train station, desperate. And this time, it wasn’t the desperation to lose himself in Shizuoka and play the role of the fun-loving husband as they wasted their nights bar-hopping. It wasn’t the carnal desire to kiss Rintarou until their lips were bruised and they were out of breath. It was the fear that the most important person in his life, the sun that he orbited, burnt out. It was his fear of watching Rintarou’s dreams shatter that caused his heart to race as he ran to board the departing train. It was the guilt that he was not holding Rintarou’s hand and whispering reassurances in the moment that finally caused him to cry once the train left the station. 

Upon arriving at the hospital, a whole two and a half hours later, he was told that Rintarou had suffered from a compression fracture, and probably would not play volleyball ever again. As he walked into the room and was greeted by Rintarou’s empty stare, he knew that he would feel that guilt for the rest of his life. 

Piano keys fill the air with a sweet melody as Osamu walks into his apartment. Rintarou has always played the piano, but especially after his injury, he’s played incessantly. Osamu doesn’t mind it, he prefers the soft sounds of the classical music he plays over the inevitable bickering they’re bound to have.

Rintarou stops playing when he hears Osamu’s footsteps approaching. “Hey.”

Osamu bends down and brushes Rintarou’s hair out of his eyes before kissing his temple. “How was your day?”

“Motoya called after practice.”

“That’s good, how’s he been?”

“He’s been okay, I think. He only ever wants to talk about me.” 

Osamu sits on the edge of the bench. “And what do you say?”

      “I’m wondering, too.”

“I say that I’m just happy I get to spend more time with you.”

Osamu smiles weakly. “Only a few more days a week.”

Rintarou reaches down to grab Osamu’s hand. “Once you open up your new place, I’m sure it’ll be better.”

Will it be better? Will Osamu finally get used to Rintarou’s constant presence, will he really get used to no longer spending his nights alone, wanting so desperately to feel Rintarou’s warmth beside him? “Yeah, maybe,” Osamu mutters. 

He doesn’t think it’ll happen. He waits, every day for Rintarou to pack his bags and leave, realizing that without an equally busy schedule to keep him busy, Osamu is not enough. The time he has to spend is not enough. The amount of emotion he allows to paint his features and leave his mouth is not enough. Osamu, the concrete wall, the emotionless twin, is not enough. 

“Why are you acting so sad about that idea?”

Osamu snaps to attention. “What do you mean?”
“You’re so… tense, I don’t know,” Rintarou says, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“I’m not tense,” Osamu claims. 

Rintarou rubs at a knot in Osamu’s shoulder. “Sure.”

“Why do you always assume I’m not doing fine?” Osamu asks, letting go of Rintarou’s hand. 

      According to him, I should be fine. Why have I let it slip? He doesn’t need any more stress. 

“I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

      Fuck, he’s catching on to the fact that I know that he knows. He’s retracting. 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“I know what you fucking said,” Osamu spits out. 

      Don’t lie to me. Don’t sit here, in my apartment, and pretend that you don’t see me as some neurotic fly that you want to squash.

Rintarou’s eyes go wide. “Calm down.”

Osamu launches himself off the bench and walks to the kitchen. He rummages through the refrigerator doors and finds a couple of vegetables to cut up. He grabs some meat too, he’s noticing that Rintarou is getting skinnier and skinnier by the week. 

He knows reasonably that it’s because he’s losing muscle mass, but the irrational part of his mind keeps screaming at him that he’s not eating again; if Osamu wasn’t so busy with his career he could properly take care of him. But no, he’s in a different city for half of the week, and in his restaurant for half of the remaining time. When he does end up finding himself at home, his haggard tongue runs free, and his mean streak screams to the world, “Look at me! Look at how bad of a husband I am! Look how I can’t keep it together!”

He turns the stove on, his sanity ticking away with each click the stovetop makes. He tries over and over again and is met with more clicks and no flame. 

      Fuck!

He pounds the countertop three times, strong enough to release some of his anger, but not enough to alarm Rintarou. 

He takes a deep breath and tries for the final time. The stove alights, and he throws his ingredients in a pot with some pre-made broth. 

He leans against the counter as the soup cooks, trying to recollect himself. 

      This isn’t Onigiri Miya. This isn’t a restaurant. You are not in charge; there is no emergency about to occur at any time. This is your home, and that is Rintarou. 

Rintarou. 

He rounds the corner to where Rintarou has continued playing. His hazel eyes are focused on the sheet music ahead of him, and when he messes up, Osamu watches his back arch in a deep inhale as his fists ball on top of the keys.

“Hey, dinner’s ready.”

Rintarou’s eyes snap to his own, surprised by his voice. Osamu smiles at him, hoping he’ll understand. 

      “I’m sorry.”

Rintarou turns off the keyboard and meets him in the archway of the kitchen. They stare at each other for a few seconds, neither knowing what to say. 

“I made soup,” Osamu settles on. He wants to slap himself across the face the second he says it. 

“I see,” Rintarou replies, his eyes roaming over to the pot on the stove. A frown pulls at his face.

“And, I’m sorry. For you know-”

“Losing your temper?”

“Yeah, sorry.” 

Rintarou looks at Osamu’s hair, and a smile creeps onto his face. “Greys, huh?”

Osamu laughs. “Oh, fuck off.”

Rintarou reaches for it, twisting a strand around his fingers. “Remember when you wanted these?”

“Dyeing your hair silver because your brother wanted gold hair isn’t the same as wanting grey hairs.”

“And look at where that got you both, one with faded grey and the other with piss-yellow.”

“At least we didn’t watch Twilight in theaters because we were obsessed with the book series, which by the way is just strange, and then didn’t bother to style our hair because it kind of looked like Alice Cullen’s.”

“I wasn’t obsessed with the books!”

Osamu laughs. Of course, that’s the thing he’s denying. “Sure, and I wasn’t there when we watched Breaking Dawn Part Two and you screamed at the screen that they weren’t staying loyal to the series when they were showing one of Alice’s visions.”

“The writers knew what they were doing when they included that!” Rintarou exclaims. 

“Sure, babe.”

“At least I am not Team Jacob.”

“Did you even watch New Moon ?! Jacob and Bella are perfect for each other!” Osamu says. 

“Furry,” Rintarou says, laughing.

“What?!”

“He imprinted on her baby!” 

“At least he didn’t watch her as she slept,” Osamu settles on.

“Touche.”

Osamu notices what Rintarou is wearing, and in a ratty grey hoodie that once belonged to Osamu, he looks soft. His hair isn’t even sticking out sharp today, simply flopping down on his head.  

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Rintarou asks, chuckling.

“Because I love you,” Osamu answers honestly. He feels a familiar whoosh in his gut; years of learning that he’s okay, he won’t be turned away , never seem to fully settle in.

“You’re such a sap.”

“I know, it’s thanks to you.”

Rintarou cups Osamu’s face with his hand and leans forward for a kiss. Once their bodies are flush together, Osamu reaches up to card his fingers through Rintarou’s hair. It’s smooth and free of tangles, tapering off in the back with a cute flip.

“I love you too,” Rintarou mumbles against Osamu’s lips. Osamu smiles; he’ll never get sick of the way those words roll off of Rintarou’s tongue. 

Osamu discovered that he liked cooking when he was five years old and his mother allowed him to help her bake their New Year’s pie. From the beginning, he reveled in the feeling of cutting up ingredients, rolling out the dough, and sprinkling the sugar. 

It was methodical. If he followed all of the correct steps, he was guaranteed an excellent meal with a side of the wide, grinning faces of his family. Nothing could compare, he thought. 

It wasn’t until he was fifteen that he discovered his love for food. He watched a re-run of Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown on the couch with his mother; a fever left him shaking under his brother’s hot pink blanket. When he watched the way that Bourdain spoke to people from different countries across the world with such ease, he realized that food was the thing that tied people together. No matter what language you spoke, what you looked like, or how rich you were, food was the common ground. It was the one true love of anyone’s life.

It wasn’t just cooking anymore. It was creating something magical. 

While Osamu spent his weekends practicing recipes in the kitchen, Atsumu was figuring out a different genre of love. He would return home late, hours after the summer’s cicadas started their cacophony of song, and whisper the night’s secrets as Osamu pushed a full plate across the tiled counter.

Osamu watched his brother’s face brighten every time he would describe the way Boy A’s hands brushed his cheeks, or how Boy J was such an awful kisser but still made Atsumu feel wanted. He hoped that when he talked about cooking, he looked like that. 

When he met Rintarou, Osamu knew that for as much that cooking set him alight, it was nothing in comparison to the vibrato of Rintarou’s rare laugh or how his long fingers felt as they raked through Osamu’s undercut into his mop-ish grey hair. Nothing compared, or ever would.

When he saw the way Rintarou’s mouth quirked and his eyes widened in joy as he sank into one of Osamu’s onigiri, he knew he was too far gone. He knew there was no hope for return the first time Rintarou snuck his arms around Osamu’s waist and watched over his shoulder as Osamu cooked breakfast. 

“I want to do this for the rest of my life, ” Rintarou said into the crook between Osamu’s neck and shoulder. They were only nineteen, but Osamu knew that when Rintarou mentioned the rest of his life, he meant it. Forever wasn’t just a word to him, it was a promise. 

“ I’ll be here .”

Osamu is lying on the couch when Rintarou announces that he is going to grab the mail. He says that he is expecting a package, so Osamu just nods and returns to watching the TV, slightly disassociated. It’s an off day, but after such a tiring week, all Osamu has the energy to do is lie in bed and binge trashy dating shows. 

Rintarou returns soon after, the soft click of the front door alerting Osamu of his presence. He cranes his neck to look at him, and he sees a broad smile lifting Rintarou’s cheeks. 

“Recieve good news, babe?” 

Rintarou looks up, nodding. “Emi is graduating next month.”

Osamu sits up; the coach creaks as a throw pillow falls to the floor. “She’s already eighteen?”

“Seventeen, but yeah. I forget about it too, it’s like she stopped aging at nine.”

“This is making me feel old.”

Rintarou chuckles. “Tell me about it, when I was her age she was barely starting kindergarten.”

Osamu smiles, remembering those days. He would sneak away from Atsumu after practice to go to Rintarou’s house, where he was guaranteed to encounter Emiko, his younger sister. She barely reached his waist, but still acted like the boss of the house. And in a way, she was. Rintarou and their mother bent to her every wish, treating her like the sunbeam she was. Osamu couldn’t help but soon follow their example, she was just that charming.

How time flies. 

“When is the ceremony?” He asks.

Rintarou flips over the invitation. “May 2nd. It’s a Sunday. Think you can make it?”

Rintarou’s eyes scan his, begging. Osamu’s gut plunges.

He can’t. That’s the day he has an interview with Bon Appétit . Their original choice of chef canceled, and just last week they reached out. “Sorry, I have that interview,” he explains. 

Rintarou’s face drops for a quick second before smoothing over like marble. “It’s fine, but I’ll still go,” he says, stone-cold.

Osamu nods, wary. The way Rintarou eyes him, like a puzzle he can’t put together, puts him on edge. “I’ll make sure to buy her a gift, and I’ll try to facetime after the interview is over,” he says, hoping it’ll ease the tension building in Rintarou.

“It’s the least you could do, I suppose.”

Osamu’s hands fidget in his lap as he plasters on a sickly sweet smile, one he knows Rintarou can’t say no to. He pats the spot on the couch next to him as he says, “Wanna talk about it?”

Rintarou eyes the cushion before he relents and sits down. Osamu keeps his hands at his side, unsure if Rintarou is okay with touch at the moment. Sometimes, when he is anxious or angry, the last thing Rintarou wants is Osamu’s hands traveling across his back or shoulders. 

“I’m really sorry that I can’t make it, Rin. I would love to go, but I have this Bon Appétit interview, and I can’t miss it.”

“It feels like you can never just be here ,” Rintarou says, his voice rough.

“This is an opportunity of a lifetime . I’ll never have the chance to do this again.”

“Just like how you’ll never have the chance to see Emiko graduate.”

“But this is my career , Rintarou. It isn’t just some high school graduation.”

“My dad’s going to be there,” Rintarou says. On their graduation, Rintarou’s dad was away in the States for a business trip, and none of Rintarou’s extended family bothered to make it down to see him. It was just another graduation, they all said. He only had his mom and sister in the crowd, while the rest of the Inarizaki volleyball team’s third years had large groups of their friends and family cheering them on. 

“So?”

“So, I want Emiko to experience a full crowd of people who love her at her graduation,” Rintarou says, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The “Like I never got to,” is left unsaid.

“I’m sure she’ll be okay with a gift and a facetime call.”

Rintarou widens his eyes, exasperated. “Osamu, you aren’t just some brother-in-law to her. She considers you one of her siblings, you’ve been in this girl’s life since she was three years old!”

“Is this about you, or is this about her, Rintarou? I can’t tell anymore,” Osamu asks.

Rintarou exhales through his nose, and his mouth curls into a scowl. “And what if it is about me, huh? Is it so bad that I want you to be present in my goddamn life? God, ‘Samu. I move down to Osaka and it feels like I’m still hours away from you.”

“I’m trying to juggle all of this too, you know. You’re not exactly easy to live with,” Osamu retorts, his voice raising in volume. 

“You know what? Fuck you,” Rintarou seethes. “I married you , not your fucking job. But what did I expect? It’s not like you’ve ever been good at this. When was the last time you called your brother? Your mom?”

“We eat dinner with my brother every goddamn week,” Osamu says.

“You used to talk every day.”

“Yeah, well things change! Neither of us has the time to call each other.”

“He calls me. I talk to him more than I do with you half the time.”

      Does he really? When did he stop calling? 

“And what do you want me to do about that?” Osamu asks. He’s sick of this, of all of these accusations. He might not be the best husband or brother, but that doesn’t mean he’s the fucking villain. If it wasn’t for him, Rintarou wouldn’t be able to sit on his ass all day and recover. He should be grateful for one second.

“I want you to start putting your ego aside and start focusing on your family for once,” Rintarou says, suddenly calm. Osamu knows it’s a ploy to get him to calm down too, but his impassive face only serves to make Osamu angrier. Rintarou opens up his palm, an invitation. 

Osamu stands up, ignoring the olive branch passed his way. “I’m not going to her graduation, Rin. End of story. This is crucial to my career, my future , and I couldn’t live with myself if I passed it up.”

Rintarou bites his lip and closes his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths as Osamu just watches. “You know my dad? Like my real dad?”

Rintarou’s “real” dad left him and his mother when he was only four years old. They had him at a really young age, his mother was only twenty, and from what little Rintarou is willing to share about his biological dad, Osamu was able to deduce that he was a self-absorbed asshole. Ten years later, his mom got married to Haru, his stepdad, who Rintarou just refers to as his dad, and soon after, Emiko was born. “He is more of a dad to me than my actual dad, so I don’t know. It feels weird to not call him my dad, because that is what he is, right?” He said once when Osamu asked. 

“I don’t remember what he looks like. But what I do remember are the fights he would get into with my mom. He’d be gone all the time, I think he was a sales guy or something. Anyway, when he left, he told Mom that if he stayed there with us, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself because ‘he had a future goddamnit!’” Rintarou says, mocking his dad. “And I don’t know, you saying all of that stuff because of the interview, which I am proud of you for by the way, just reminds me of that? Just a bit? And I think that’s why I panicked and lashed out because I just don’t want Emiko to have to deal with that, with feeling like a burden because of somebody else’s fucking career, you know?”

Osamu sits back down, his hands folded in his lap. He’s at a loss for words, but spots Rintarou’s still open palm and laces their fingers together. Rintarou sniffles and lets out a small, broken laugh. “And now I’m trauma dumping! God, what is wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you. I’m here for you, always, and it’s my fault that I don’t make that clear enough,” Osamu says. He shuffles closer to Rintarou until their arms are pressed against each other. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re worth less to me than my job. If I lost you I’d-”

“Let’s not think about that,” Rintarou interrupts, “because I’m not leaving.”

Osamu smiles softly. “I’m not either. Not ever. And, I’ll try to spend more time with you.”

Rintarou brushes Osamu’s hair out of his eyes before kissing the spot between his eyebrows. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you.”

Osamu would never admit it, but the number of albums and artists he’s pretended to like through the years just because some boy liked it is astounding and humiliating. 

He doesn’t know why he did this, he swears. It’s not like he was incredibly insecure (he was), or didn’t have a grasp of his own identity (he definitely didn’t) or anything. 

So, when Rintarou walked into Inarizaki’s gym on the first day of practice, and Atsumu watched Osamu’s face transform into a brilliant shade of red just by talking to the guy, Atsumu knew that his brother’s personality was due for a radical change. 

Within a month, his Taylor Swift , One Direction , Britney Spears -loving brother was wearing copious amounts of eyeliner and exclusively shades of black and grey. 

Within two, Atsumu stopped riding in the car with his brother, who now only played My Chemical Romance and Paramore . It wasn’t entirely horrible, Atsumu himself even got into at least some of Paramore (and at one point had a secret fan account for Hayley Williams ), but if he had to hear Osamu sing with an emo accent or try to hit Hayley Williams’ high notes one more time he was actually going to have an aneurysm. 

Within the third month, Atsumu could no longer enjoy his favorite fatty tuna onigiri because all Osamu talked was about how good Rintarou’s onigiri were. Every time he bit into the delicious riceball, he would remember his brother’s incessant crush on his teammate and feel nauseous.

During the fourth month, Atsumu was scrolling through Instagram when from over his shoulder, he heard a low whistle. It was Rintarou, and when Atsumu turned around to ask what was up, Rintarou simply said, “The guy on your feed is hot.”

On-screen was a guy at some music festival from the looks of it, and his hair was a bright shade of silver. He wasn’t exactly Atsumu’s type, but he understood Rintarou’s point of view, just a bit. When he turned to Osamu for his opinion, he saw Osamu pulling his hair into view, a pout on his face. Ah, shit .

The next day, Osamu walked into their bedroom, a bag from the local convenience store in hand. “I think we should dye our hair. I’m sick of people confusing us.”

Atsumu scoffed. “We? If you just dye your hair, then no one would confuse us.”

“But-”

“What color were you thinking, ‘Samu?” Atsumu asks, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Silver.”

“Hm, I wonder why.”

“Shut up!” Osamu exclaims, his cheeks pink. “I want you to dye your hair too because I don’t want to be obvious, you know?”

“You’re plenty obvious. And by the way, Sunarin isn’t so slick either, he’s constantly staring at you with this dumb little smile, it's gross!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, it probably means nothing. You see how obsessed he is with that girl, you know, the one with those pink highlights?” Osamu asks, his hand getting tighter around the plastic bag’s handle.

“He talked about her like twice.”

Osamu explodes. “Just- dye our hair already, goddamnit!”

Atsumu throws up his hands in surrender. “Fine, but you better have chosen a good hair color for me.”

Atsumu walks over to Osamu and peers inside the bag. “You got me… blonde?”

“I know you don’t like unnatural hair colors, so this is what I got.”

“Well, at least it won’t look that bad.”

Oh, how wrong he was. The next day at practice, Osamu showed up with gray hair that looked like a dirty mop, and Atsumu’s hair was a dark shade of gold because somebody forgot to buy toner. 

When Aran asked whose idea it was, Atsumu took the blame. He did do this so Osamu wouldn’t look desperate.

After practice, when he overheard Rintarou tell Osamu that he “looked really good,” Atsumu couldn’t help but smile.

During the fifth month, Osamu finally got the guts to kiss him, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

“Hey babe, ‘Tsumu’s calling,” Rintarou shouts from the living room. Osamu is in the kitchen, cooking them breakfast. 

“Yeah? Answer it, see what he wants.”

He returns to his cooking, and the sizzling of the eggs and bacon on the stove tunes out Rintarou’s conversation into jumbled words here and there. He puts down the wooden fork he’s using to stir and walks to their fridge, taking out berries. 

When he starts washing the blackberries, he feels Rintarou’s hand grip his waist before perching his chin on his shoulder. His phone is shoved in Osamu’s face, and he has to blink in rapid succession to focus on Atsuumu’s face in front of him.

“‘Samu!” 

“Hey,” he replies. “I’m cooking breakfast right now, sorry I wasn’t there when he replied.”

“Eh, I don’t care. Sunarin’s better company than you are most of the time,” Atsumu teases.

“Oh fuck you. Also, you’re like a decade behind, it’s Miyarin , not that Sunarin nonsense.”

Rintarou groans. “Can’t you guys ever go five minutes without bickering? Atsumu called to give some news.” 

“Thanks,” Atsumu says. “Yeah, so I called because Coah Hiromata called me yesterday and asked if I could speak at the old gym, and I was wondering if you both wanted to come down with me. It’s next Friday.”

Next Friday Onigiri Miya is bound to be jam-packed with customers. He really shouldn’t go, but-

“Yeah, I’ll be there. It’ll be nostalgic to be back.”

“Kiyoomi is coming too! He’s obviously not an Inarizaki alumn, but it’ll be good for them to hear about going pro and stuff. Also, he wants us to help with their practice for the day and stuff, so I don’t know, it should be fun.”

“You need to get down here quick, Miya-san. His back- something happened. He can’t move. The ambulance is on its way.” 

“You know that Rintarou can’t play, right? Like not a spike or anything,” Osamu says, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Atsumu opens his mouth to reply when Rintarou cuts him off. “I’m sure he knows, babe.” His voice is clipped, and a shiver runs up Osamu’s spine.

“Put him on the phone.”

“The paramedics are here, they’re putting him on a stretcher. I don’t know if I can.”

“Then get into that fucking ambulance with him, he can’t go alone Motoya!”

“Okay, okay. He’s here.”

“Rin, baby?” Osamu asks, immediately losing any harshness he had with Motoya.

Rintarou’s voice is hoarse. “Osamu? I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I’m running to the train station now. I’ll be there soon. I love you.”

“It’s okay! I’m sure he can explain anything those middle blockers need to know,” Atsumu is interrupted by something behind the screen, “But anyway! I’m happy you can make it. Omi needs me to help with something, so I got to go. See you Tuesday!”

“Bye,” Rintarou says, before hanging up.

“It hurts, ‘Samu.”

“I know, I know. Just hold out for me okay? We’ll figure this out together.”

Rintarou unpeels himself from Osamu’s back and leans on the counter, scrolling through something, silent. Osamu spots that the food is done cooking and turns off the stove before finishing washing the berries. He takes glances out of the corner of his eye, checking for any sign of anger. Rintarou’s jaw is tense, his eyes sharp. Both signs lead to a rocky next couple of minutes.

Osamu plates their food. He is about to say something, but when he turns to face Rintarou, he notices how his husband’s eyes quickly dart back down to his phone from staring at him. 

He walks over, looping his arms around Rintarou’s neck. Once their eyes meet, he leans in to press a kiss on Rintarou’s cheek. “I’m sorry, I just got nervous.”

“Rintarou unfortunately will most likely never play again. With the injury he had, the risk of it happening again is too high.”

Rintarou releases a deep breath. “I know, and you have the right to be.”

“I’m happy you’re doing this. After everything you went through, it’d suck if you were

completely separated from volleyball forever.”

Rintarou leans forward until their foreheads are touching. “Are you really coming? It is a Friday and I know the restaurant is usually busy.”

“Eh, it’s just one week. I’m sure they’ll survive.”

Rintarou smiles. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me, it’s the least I could do.”

Rintarou chuckles and slips his hands under Osamu’s hoodie, resting them on his lower back. His eyes rake across Osamu’s face, and Osamu feels his cheeks heating up. “Whatcha staring at?”

“Have I told you how pretty you are?”

Osamu covers his face with his hands. “I haven’t even washed my face,” he groans.

Rintarou pries away Osamu’s hands. “Don’t hide!”

“You’re embarrassing.”

“What’s so embarrassing about liking your husband’s face? You’re downright gorgeous, I’m surprised you didn’t become a model.”

Osamu laughs. “If I became a model, you wouldn’t be eating well. Be happy I’m a chef.”

“Oh, I am. I wouldn’t want everyone to see this anyway.”

“I knew you had a jealous streak.”

“When you score this good, you can’t help it.”

Osamu gives Rintarou a quick peck. “Let’s eat before our food gets cold.”

Rintarou pulls him in closer and buries his face into Osamu’s shoulder. “Microwaves exist for a reason.”

“Microwaved eggs are disgusting and you know it. Now, let me go so I can eat!”

“Okay, okay.”

The train hums as they ride their way to Fukusaki. The morning sun blinds them as it rises up from the coastline. The car is silent except for some faint whispers, all passengers too nervous to break the tenuous peace between them. 

Osamu’s head rests on Rintarou’s shoulder. He’s dozing off while Rintarou listens to a podcast through his headphones. As his eyes open and close repeatedly, he hears the muffled voices of the podcasters. Rintarou huffs out a quick breath; Osamu smiles. 

No more than twenty minutes later, the conductor announces through the speakers when they arrive at their station. Rintarou shuffles Osamu off his shoulder as Osamu groans about being woken up. 

“Hurry up, babe. They’re about to close the doors.”

Osamu follows Rintarou with heavy feet out of the train, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder haphazardly. Once he is basked in daylight, he feels his tiredness washing off him, even if just barely. 

“Home sweet home,” Osamu says, before being broken off by a yawn.

Rintarou starts heading off in the direction of the parking lot, where Osamu’s mom is waiting for their arrival. Every step he takes is familiar, like every time he visits this train station engraves into his brain a perfect map of the confusing terminals. “Feels like years since I’ve been here.”

“That might be because it has. Our families went to ‘Tsumu’s for Christmas last year, remember?” The gates of the exit come into view, and he starts walking a bit faster. 

Rintarou chuckles. “Yeah, and we were all cramped in that tiny apartment. You two were at each other’s throats.”

“It’s because he wouldn’t let me cook! Said I ‘needed a break’ or whatever.”

Rintraou gives him a sideways glance and opens his mouth before a piercing yell rings through the air.

“‘Samu! Rin!”

They spot Osamu’s mom’s silver sedan in the closest place to the exit. She leans against the hood, waving. “He’s just jealous he didn’t get the cooking gene,” Rintarou says, before walking up and hugging Osamu’s mom. 

Her arms are wrapped tight around Rintarou, and despite her small stature, she manages to hold all of Rintarou in her tiny arms. “Good morning, Himari. Thanks for picking us up,” Rintarou greets.

“Oh, it’s no problem! I missed you boys so much!” Himari chirps.

Her eyes fall onto Osamu and her smile drops, ever so slightly. Osamu smiles awkwardly, his wave flimsy. “‘Samu! How could you go so long without seeing me? I never expected you to be a person who would leave an old lady alone by herself.”

Osamu hugs her. “Sorry, Mom. I’ll make sure to visit more from now on. Work’s just been busy, that’s all.”

“You better! I want to see you a couple of more times before I die!”

      And she wonders where Atsumu got his melodramatics from.

“Mom! You’re like sixty, you’re not dying any time soon!” Osamu exclaims.

“You hope so! Anyways, get in the car you two, we gotta start heading home so you can settle in before having to go to Inarizaki.”

Osamu gives her one last squeeze before getting in the backseat. Rintarou takes up the passenger; his feet are propped on the dashboard as he chews his gum obnoxiously loud and types on his phone. Osamu smothers his laugh, he knows his mom will comment on it later. 

She gets into the car and eyes Rintarou. “Rin, take your dirty shoes off the dash.”

Rintarou complies, moving faster than Osamu has ever seen him, not even in the most intense of volleyball rallies. “Sorry, Himari.”

She speeds out of the parking lot and onto the dirt roads that lead to the main street. Any visitor would think she was a madman for driving as fast as she is, but anyone who has lived here long enough drives around the streets at a frightening speed. The pebbles and dust that fly up the sides and front of the sedan eventually stop scaring seasoned Fukusaki drivers. 

Osamu prefers it; he wants to see his brother and Kiyoomi, who arrived last night. When they park in the driveway a couple of minutes later, he rushes to grab his duffel bag and Rintarou’s suitcase out of the trunk. Another pro of getting home quickly? The sooner he gets to eat and take a nap. 

They’re not expected at the gym until after school practice starts, and it’s barely eight in the morning. They all got there early to spend a day with Himari, and after the talk with Inarizaki, he and Rintarou planned to stop by his house to visit Emiko and his mom. He’s excited to take a day off and relax with his family. It’s been ages since he has.

Kiyoomi greets them at the door; his hair is still frenzied with sleep. “Hey, guys. Sorry, Atsumu is still asleep.”

 Osamu walks into the entryway and drops off his bags. “No problem. Got breakfast cooking?”

Kiyoomi walks to the kitchen and comes back with a mug of coffee.“I would, but I woke up literally a minute ago.”

Rintarou laughs from behind Osamu. “I wish, me and ‘Samu have been up since five.”

“Geez, you guys probably need the sleep more than us.”

“You bet. I’m heading upstairs and probably going to take a nap. Did you guys take the guest room or me and ‘Tsumu’s?” Osamu asks.

“Guest,” Kiyoomi replies.

Rintarou narrows his eyes at Kiyoomi. Sharing the twins’ old room means they have to squish together on a twin-sized bunk three inches off of the ground or sleep in different beds. Getting the guest bedroom means a king. Since Kiyoomi and Atsumu started dating, it’s always been a battle to get the guest room when they visit Fukusaki. “Bastard,” Rintarou says, half-jokingly.

Kiyoomi laughs light-heartedly. “You guys would’ve done the same.” 

Osamu yawns. “I honestly don’t even care what bed I’m in, as long as I’m able to sleep.” He waves goodbye to Kiyoomi and heads up the stairs. 

Rintarou grabs their bags. “Why couldn’t you guys have had separate rooms? Then we wouldn’t have to deal with this problem.”

“I don’t know, we liked sharing,” Osamu says. “It’s easier to clean.” He enters his old bedroom and smiles. It’s never changed. The same posters are hung on the walls, and their old CD player still sits on their dresser covered in a thin layer of dust. 

Rintarou enters soon after. “I'm so tired- wow this place never fails to give me whiplash.”

Osamu turns around. “I know right? It feels kind of surreal in here.”

Rintarou walks over to the CD player and finds the CD rack next to it. He filters through the cases and gasps when he finds a blank disc with a faded sharpie on one side. “My playlist!”

“It’s mine, technically. You gave it to me as a gift, remember? I distinctly remember you saying something like, ‘When I hear these songs I can’t help but think about you,” Osamu says, laughing.

Rintarou groans. “Oh fuck off, you were just as obsessed as I was. Let’s play it.”

“I’m trying to take a nap if you recall.”

Rintarou puts the CD back. “Fine. Can I join you?”

Osamu nods. “Sure, but it’s only going to be twenty-five minutes, not one of those two-hour-long naps you love.”

He hops onto the bottom bunk and shuffles close to the wall. Rintarou falls beside him, and it’s so tiny that their feet hang off the edge and Rintarou is practically on top of Osamu. How he slept on this for a little under eighteen years is beyond him.

Osamu turns on his side, away from Rintarou to make some space.

“Come back here,” Rintarou says.

When Osamu flips back around, he sees Rintarou on his back, gazing at him out of the corner of his eyes. “You’re such a baby.”

“You always sleep so far away, I just want you closer.”

Osamu grins and rolls until he is directly on top of Rintarou. Nose to nose, chest to chest. “Like this?”

Rintarou releases a breathy laugh; his arms wrap around Osamu’s waist. “Yes, just like this.”

Osamu knows there’s an embarrassing amount of fondness that sparkles in his crinkled eyes. He doesn’t care, not when Rintarou smiles up at him so wide it makes his heart ache.

Osamu leans forward until their lips brush one another. He stays far enough though; Rintarou’s eyes dart between making eye contact and glancing at Osamu’s lips. Osamu feels giddy and stupid on the attention he still receives from the man below him, even after fourteen years. 

Lost in examining the smallest of Rintarou’s facial features, he hardly notices when Rintarou pulls Osamu to him until not even a millimeter is between their bodies. His kisses are long and deep, and Osamu’s hands immediately find purchase anywhere they can reach.

When they finally pull apart, Rintarou’s lips are cherry-tinted and shiny, and Osamu crumples next to him. His head lies on Rintarou’s chest, and their legs intertwine. No words need to be said, not when their presence grounds the other. It’s moments like these when Osamu wonders how they ever fight. How they argue until the puzzle pieces are jammed together with a hammer, the final product revealing an abstract, jumbled painting. How that coexists with the love that rushes through every vein.

Half an hour passes uneventfully. They don’t speak, letting their deep breaths ground them for a while. Osamu couldn’t get himself to sleep, even when he was fighting to keep his eyes open when he got into the bed in the first place. The alarm he set on his phone buzzes, and he gets up, mindful of not hitting his head.

Rintarou has no such conscientiousness though, as his head hits the wooden support beams with so much force that Osamu yelps. 

“Babe, are you alright?” 

Rintarou groans and rubs his head, mumbling expletives. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

Osamu crawls over to him, his heart pounding. “Let me get you some ice.”

“Please,” Rintarou replies.

Osamu finds his way into the kitchen and opens the freezer. He doesn’t even notice Atsumu sitting at the counter shoveling down a bowl of cereal. “Everything good?” he asks, still chewing.

“Rin hit his head on the bunk,” he explains as he pulls out a bag of frozen peas. He closes the freezer door with a bit too much force. “Why doesn’t Mom just get rid of our shit and install a king in there?” 

“Hell if I know. But you should hurry up, you know how much hitting your head on that piece of shit hurts.”

Osamu nods. “Yeah, I should.”

When Osamu pushes open the door to the bedroom, Rintarou lets out a sigh of relief, reaching out his hand for the peas. “Thank God. What demon built this bed anyway?”

“Who knows, but I’ve always had a grudge against it. Pretty sure the amount of times I hit my head is the reason ‘Tsumu was so much better at school than I was.”

Rintarou rests his head next to Osamu’s once he lies back down. “I think part of that had to do with me if I recall right.”

“I’m surprised my mom still loves you after how much we’d skip class together.”

Osamu turns to meet Rintarou’s eyes, but when he does he is only met with a blank stare. Any electricity that was blooming between them immediately dissipated, leaving behind stale tension. 

“Why don’t we ever talk about the present? It seems like the only time we aren’t arguing is when we bring up high school,” Rintarou says.

Osamu doesn’t reply. He’s sure he’d be unable to with the pressure building in his throat anyway. 

      I want to remind you of a time when I was enough.

“Baby, please answer me,” Rintarou says, bordering on begging. His hazel eyes, piercing as ever, seem to puncture Osamu’s gut, one jab at a time. 

      I want to remind you of a time when you were happy.

Osamu’s heart pounds as bile rises in his throat. Osamu glances at the slightly ajar door behind Rintarou, and as he begins to sit up to leave, Rintarou grabs his wrist. “Please talk to me. Please don’t run away.”

Osamu gently lifts each of Rintarou’s fingers until he’s able to bring Rintarou’s hand up to his mouth. He kisses the inside of his wrist before whispering, “Can we please talk about this at home?”

Rintarou’s mouth twists into a sullen line as he rips his hand back to his side. Osamu loses feeling everywhere in his body except for the heavy lead sitting in his chest.  “But we won’t, will we? When I bring it up, you’ll ignore me, or you’ll run off to Onigiri Miya , or you’ll yell until I can’t help but lose my temper too. When will you recognize that something’s wrong? I love you, but I can’t do this forever, Osamu.”

Osamu’s sure he tastes vomit now. “What does that mean?”

Rintarou’s eyes shift to the window, then back to Osamu. “I think you know what I mean.”

Osamu’s voice shakes. “Rin, baby, please don’t say things like that.”

“I want to work on it, ‘Samu. I do. But I need you to want this too,” Rintarou says, eyes pleading.

      Fuck it. Time to talk.

Osamu closes the bedroom door and then walks back to the bed. “What am I supposed to say to that?!” he exclaims, cupping Rintarou’s face in his palms. Then, in a hushed whisper-yell says, “Do you really fucking think that I don’t want to work on this? I have never wanted anything more than I’ve wanted us to work. But I also want Onigiri Miya and my new spot to be successful, because I quit everything I ever knew and risked everything for my career. And it feels like I can never fucking win because I can’t be the husband you want and still have my restaurants, baby. I’m just me, and I’ll never be easy and a hundred percent available.”

      Fuck, he knows. If he didn’t know before, he knows now how shitty and lousy-

Rintarou pries Osamu’s hands from his face and holds them in his lap. “Who said I wanted easy?”

Osamu’s breath gets caught in his throat. “It’s what you deserve. An easy, peaceful life.”

“If I wanted easy, I wouldn’t have married a Miya. We have problems darling, and those are something that need to be fixed, but don’t you dare think that when I married you I expected an easy time.”

Osamu weakly chuckles, eyes wet. “Rude,” he chides.

Rintarou continues, “I didn’t expect an easy time, but I knew that every hurdle would be worth it because it’s you . It’s you I want to wake up to every day. You hear me?”

Osamu wipes his cheek. His hand comes back wet. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up with that nonsense.”

“It’s true! You deserve someone who can be there for you, not someone who is always off running a business with no time to spare.”

Rintarou’s eyebrows furrow. “What is this really about? Because last time I checked, I haven’t always been there for you either. You opened Onigiri Miya in Osaka because when I graduated college, I was supposed to sign onto the Jackals and join Atsumu. Then I didn’t. I wanted to be with EJP, and I forced us into long distance. And you took it in stride. You never once complained, instead you understood, helped me look for apartments in Shizuoka, and planned who visited who during what weekend. So what exactly are you referring to?”

“Your injury,” Osamu mumbles under his breath.

“Baby, what?”

Osamu’s eyes snap to Rintarou’s. “When you fucked up your back, I was in Osaka. If we were any other couple, I could’ve gotten to you immediately, but instead, I had to ride that damn train. For two whole hours, you were alone, hurting, waiting. And you haven’t been exactly yourself since, and I feel so fucking guilty that even at your worst hour, you couldn’t have your husband at your side.” Each word opens up a wound he has tried too hard to hide, but now that he’s bleeding, he feels lighter, somehow.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
Osamu sighs. “You were recovering; you didn’t deserve the extra weight of my guilt. I sometimes can’t sleep because the image of you lying in the hospital bed pops up in my brain, unprompted. Sometimes when I look at you, I can’t feel anything but guilt. That injury should’ve never happened to you.”

Rintarou takes a moment and litters kisses across Osamu’s face, thinking about what to say next but still wanting to provide comfort. “It shouldn’t have,” he starts. “But I’ve come to peace with it. I had an amazing career. I made friends I wouldn’t have had I given up earlier. I wouldn’t have met you if it wasn’t for volleyball. That sport changed my life for the better, and it’s a shame it ended early, but I’m grateful for the twenty years I got to play it. And today I’ll be able to help some other kids and hopefully make them better. Isn’t that great?”

“Yes, it is,” Osamu says, a small, grateful smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“And now I get to focus on my family. I get to focus on my gorgeous, ambitious, passionate husband, and I can do so without distraction. And now that I’m finally paying attention, I see some cracks, but I’m determined to mend them. Stop beating yourself up because of my injury. When I think about you and that day, I think about the fact that you immediately dropped everything to see me. Because of the circumstances that I created, you did the damn best you could.”

The tears begin to pour out as harsh as a waterfall. In a split second, Osamu finds himself in Rintarou’s lap, his face buried in the crook of his neck. Rintarou’s shocked hands stay frozen on his back, but soon Osamu feels wetness pooling into his shirt and Rintarou’s hands scrambling to hold Osamu until there isn’t a single centimeter separating their shaking bodies. 

“I love you, Rin,” he hiccups as he tries to regulate his breathing.

“I love you too, darling.”

Osamu pries himself away, forcing eye contact. “You know, you haven’t called me that in years.”

Rintarou’s eyes are puffy, but Osamu still receives a wobbly, toothy smile. Rintarou’s smiles are usually close-lipped, just a little uptick of his mouth. When Osamu is blessed with one of these rare smiles, his heart melts, but right now he practically turns to putty. “I’ll call you it as often as you’d like.”

Osamu presses his forehead against Rintarou’s, finally catching his breath. “We have a lot to work on Rin.”

“I know.”

“But I’m in this with you. Always and forever.”

“And me with you.”

When they finally emerge from behind the door, they head directly to the bathroom. “We look awful,” Osamu says when they face their reflection. Their eyes are puffy and trimmed with red, but Rintarou laughs despite it. 

Rintarou bends down to start washing his face and replies through his soap-lathered hands. “You’re somehow a pretty crier, so no. I think there’s just one ogre here today.”

Rintarou pops back up as Osamu rinses off his face as well. “Are you serious? You’re nothing close to an ogre.”

Rintarou chuckles uncomfortably as he combs his hair through his fingers. “I'm serious, Rin.”

“I know you are.”

“So why are acting like I’m making a joke?” Osamu asks.

“I don’t like being complimented, that’s all.”

Osamu dries off his face and steps closer to Rintarou, who turns in his direction. Osamu only stops once their chests are touching, his arms wrapping around Rintarou’s neck. He’ll make his husband feel beautiful if it’s the last thing he does. “Well if that’s the case, I have a few other ways to tell you.”

Rintarou’s eyes widen before Osamu leans in. He gives Rintarou a chaste kiss before he trails his mouth across his husband’s jaw, gently nipping, until he reaches Rintarou’s mouth once again. After each kiss, he whispers a compliment in the liminal space between them. Rintarou’s cheeks burn a darker shade of red with each affection muttered, until eventually he pulls back with a “Okay, okay, I get it now.”

Their laughter mingles between them, Rintarou’s hands still gripping Osamu’s waist. Suddenly, the door flies open and Atsumu walks in before promptly walking out. 

“God! It feels like I'm in high school again, when will you guys learn to lock doors?!” He yells out.

Osamu detaches himself from Rintarou and sprints out the bathroom door. “And when will you learn to knock, bitch?”

“Osamu! No cursing!” Himari shouts.

Rintarou follows Osamu, laughing all the way to the kitchen. Kiyoomi and Atsumu, now out of their PJs, sit at the counter. Atsumu has buried his face in his hands, shaking it like he’ll erase the image of Rintarou and Osamu being cuddly in the bathroom away from his mind. Kiyoomi rubs his back in a show of sympathy. 

“He’s seriously acting like he walked in on something serious. We were just hugging,” Rintarou says. 

Kiyoomi promptly removes his hand from Atsumu’s back and uses it to gently slap him on the backside of his head instead. “Miya Atsumu, why are you being so dramatic?” 

“All of this ruckus for just that?” Himari says, exasperated. 

“You guys just don’t understand,” Atsumu says, dramatically shaking his head. 

Osamu pours himself a cup of coffee. “You’re such a crybaby.”

It’s true. Atsumu will complain about anything under the sun, but it’s one of the things Osamu finds the funniest about him, even if the tendency can sometimes get under his skin. 

Rintarou moves to hug Osamu from behind, and Osamu laughs as Atsumu once again falls into a faux pit of despair at the sight.

Osamu is taking a break outside the Inarizaki gym, drinking some water as he analyzes his old school. There’s a new building to his left, but everything else looks untouched. He can hear the squeaking of shoes and the slamming of volleyballs from inside, with occasional cheers from Atsumu.

Not playing volleyball anymore got him tired after only an hour of practicing with the students. He forgot how much energy teenage boys have, and wonders if he was ever that hyper. Probably.

The gym door slides open, and Kiyoomi walks out before closing it behind him. 

“Hey,” he greets, before taking a sip out of his bottle.

“Hey. Rin doing good in there?”

Kiyoomi smiles. “Yeah, actually. Even though he can’t demonstrate, his words seem to be helping.”

“Good, good.”

Silence befalls them; only the sound of the nearby Inarizaki flag moving with the wind can be heard. Kiyoomi and Osamu often fall into these comfortable silences, they don’t have a lot in common other than Atsumu, but they enjoy each other’s company nonetheless.

“I don’t know what happened, but I can tell you guys are doing better,” Kiyoomi says, breaking the silence.

Osamu turns to Kiyoomi, shock raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, yeah we are. I’m sorry I was so weird about it before.”

“Nah. I shouldn’t have been as nosey as I was. But I’m happy for you guys.”

“Why?” Osamu asks.

Kiyoomi huffs out a quick laugh.“Well, firstly you’re my friend. And Rintarou is too. But also, and don’t you ever tell him that I told you this, but Atsumu told me once that he’s always based what a relationship is off of you two, and I could tell he was upset when you guys seemed to be going through it. To him, if you guys can’t make it, then no one can.”

Osamu feels pressure building behind his eyes again. God, how much can a person cry in one day? “You joking?”

“No. You know how much Atsumu loves you and Rintarou.”

“I know, but-“

“It’s okay. I get it,” Kiyoomi says. He looks toward the gym door, then back at Osamu. “We should be heading back inside, yeah?”

Three Months Later

Osamu stands in his new branch of Onigiri Miya , admiring the finally (almost) finished interior. The paint is up, the kitchen is running, and the last thing needed before opening shop next week are the booths and tables. He hasn’t been back home in their new apartment in Osaka for a couple of days, and he misses Rintarou deeply, but pride more than anything runs in his chest.

He’s walking through the industrial kitchen, admiring it like a doting father, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Hey, baby.”

“Hi, darling. I have a favor to ask you,” Rintarou says. Osamu can practically see the smirk on his face by Rintarou’s tone of voice.

“Shoot.”

“Would you mind opening the doors?”

Osamu furrows his brow. “What? Rin, I’m in Tokyo.”

“I know. But would you mind?”

“I’m confused.”

Rintarou starts laughing through the receiver. “Darling, look through the kitchen door.”

At a breakneck speed, Osamu turns around, and through the kitchen door’s window, he sees Rintarou outside, holding a blanket and carrying a woven chestnut brown bag. Osamu almost drops his phone as he sprints to his husband, smiling so wide his cheeks begin to ache. 

“You came.”

“I did. I got bored earlier today after I finished coaching those kids and-“

Osamu interrupts him with a kiss, overwhelmed with emotion. “Don’t explain yourself. I’m so happy to see you.”

Osamu takes another glance at what Rintarou is carrying. “What is that?” He asks.

“A blanket, and some food. Knew there weren’t tables yet, but I thought we could eat on the floor. Also brought a candle, I tried to be a bit romantic.”

“You sap.”

“For you? Always.”

They make their way back inside. Osamu takes the picnic blanket off of Rintarou and throws it open, watching it spread on the tile floor. Rintarou places the candle in the middle and lights it. Osamu laughs when he sees the sparkly label, the cursive Crisp Apple Breeze making him snort.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know, I think I got so happy from seeing you that I got slap silly.”

Rintarou chuckles as he pulls out the food, and Osamu watches in awe as impossible amounts come out of the bag like a clown car.

“Didn’t know what you were in the mood for so I kind of made everything.”

“Well, consider me impressed.”

“I would hope so. Miya Rintarou cooking is a rare phenomenon.”

Osamu takes a bite out of an onigiri that sits near the top. “I think it should happen more,” he says as he hums around his food. 

As they eat through the copious amounts of food, they talk about everything under the sun-  from their couple’s therapy assignment to Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s new dog. Osamu can’t help but radiate with joy every time Rintarou laughs so hard he hiccups, or when his toothy smile peeks out behind his hand. 

Not a single time through dinner do either of them reminisce on the past. The present is leaking with love, impossible to ignore.