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Osamu doesn’t know how many hours he’s been languishing in bed.
He supposes the languishing would make sense if he’s been wracked with some sort of illness, but all he’s been plagued with is a sense of dread and guilt and confusion twisted up together in his gut.
It’s been five days since ‘the fight’, as his brain has started to dub it; Atsumu still isn’t talking to him after their literal glass-shattering fight over Osamu not continuing on with volleyball, which Osamu considers to be a feat on their own since they are literal twins who share the same room. Whenever Osamu wakes up, Atsumu is gone; whenever Osamu texts in an attempt to clear the air, Atsumu leaves him on read. Atsumu, who is known for his noise, has been giving Osamu complete silence, and it’s driving him up the wall.
And, well, driving him to stay in bed for the better part of the weekend.
It’s unlike him—sleeping in, not bothering about the time, not caring about what to eat (especially not caring about what to eat). But Osamu doesn’t know what else to do, not when he had just laid himself bare to the only person Osamu believed would understand him but couldn’t. Not when he had just shared his life’s dreams, ones he had been thinking of a while now, and all Atsumu cared to think of was how Osamu was selfish to not think of him, was an evil asshole who had no regard for—
“Oi,” someone says from behind the bedroom door, Osamu out of his self-misery, “Tsumu said you’d be here because ya had nothin’ good to do with yer life. Is that right?”
Osamu scoffs, though the weight in his chest eases just a little at the familiar voice. “Fuck him.”
“Not my kinda kink, but okay.” Rintarou laughs, and it makes Osamu smile a little. “But will you let me in? I’m not the banana head you fought with.”
Osamu laughs at this. It feels good to laugh, to not think about the heavy thoughts that have been looming around him for the past few days. “Are ya here to lecture me, to take Tsumu’s side and make me see sense?”
As much as he cares for Rintarou—well, there’s a stronger word than care when Rintarou is involved, but he doesn’t have the energy to dwell on that now—the last thing he wants is to be told off for having thoughts and dreams of his own, which is the very thing Atsumu has been doing.
“As if I’d ever be Tsumu’s little owl and deliver his messages.” Rintarou snorts. “Well, I’m coming in.”
“Nice to know I don’t have the final say in my own home,” Osamu says without malice. His smile grows a little wider as Rintarou comes in. He looks like how he always does outside of school and practice—an overgrown shirt, sweatpants, a small camera hanging around his neck. He looks relaxed, which Rintarou generally is.
“So, when are you going to stop moping around and do something with your life?” Rintarou asks, abandoning any attempt at small talk as he plops on the other side of Osamu’s bed.
“I thought ya didn’t come here to lecture.” Osamu clicks his tongue, burying his head into one of his many pillows. “I’ve heard enougha that from my parents and Tsumu.”
Rintarou shrugs, fiddling with his camera. In ordinary, not-anxiety-inducing circumstances, Osamu would make conversation about what Rintarou had just taken pictures of before coming here. “I’m not. What did your parents say, anyway?”
“They’re scared for me.” Osamu tries to put as little thought into his words as possible, but it still stings. “They know I’m good at volleyball, and they’re scared that if I venture into somethin’ outside of it, I won’t succeed.”
Rintarou hums, his expression unreadable. “Not a very nice thing to say to your son.”
“They’re good people.” Osamu admits. “Just—don’t appreciate their lack of support.”
Rintarou hums again; he’s like this when he listens. Attentive, open. It’s one of the many reasons Osamu appreciates him. “But do you think you can make it, with cooking or whatever you’re planning?”
Osamu sits up at that. The question feels weird, foreign “What are ya gettin’ at?”
“I mean, do you think you can make it? Starting your own business won’t be easy. Volleyball won’t be easy either, but you’ll have the familiarity. The popularity.”
“You mean I’ll have Atsumu’s popularity,” Osamu says, bitterness laced in his tone. “I’ll be livin’ in his shadows.”
Rintarou nods. “You will. But you’ll have a stable career, at least for the next few years. You’re a good player, so you’ll manage.”
“I can manage.” Osamu admits. If he’s being completely honest, Osamu is proud of his physical performance. He trained to become a well-rounded player, and that is what he is. He isn’t the most stellar, like Tsumu, or the most innovative, like one of those Karasuno first years, but he can be solid—reliable. “But Rin, I wouldn’t be happy.”
There’s a ghost of a smile on Rintarou’s lips—a sad, honest, but encouraging smile. “And with cooking, even if you’ll be entering something entirely new with no connections or influence, you will be?”
Osamu considers that. He’s been considering that for almost the past year. Yes, he loves cooking—he’s been cooking way longer than he’s been playing volleyball. But it won’t be easy. Entering a new industry, making his own name outside of being a Miya twin and volleyball player—that won’t be an easy win.
But when it all boils down to it, he wants to try.
“This is what I’ve been tellin’ Tsumu, ya know.” Osamu shifts, his hands playing with the pillows as he looks at Rintarou. His eyes are piercing and, well, Osamu would even say beautiful if he was given the permission, but again, he won’t dwell on that. “I love volleyball. It’s one of the best parts of my life. But Rin, Atsumu loves volleyball just a little bit more than I do. And when I’m old, when I’m makin’ my mark out in the world, I don’t want to be stuck doing something that I only love a little. I want to do somethin’ that makes me as passionate as Tsumu is with volleyball and, well, I get that feelin’ whenever I’m in the kitchen.”
There’s a few moments of silence after that. Osamu waits for Rintarou’s dissent, for some sort of disagreement, which is what Osamu has been hearing for the past week. And then, finally, “Then you’ll make it.”
Osamu stares at Rintarou; of all the things he expected Rintarou to say, that was not it. “I—I’m sorry, what?”
Rintarou laughs, and it sends a million little butterflies fluttering in Osamu’s stomach. “You’ll make it. When I heard about the fight, I knew you weren’t just being an ass and crushing Atsumu’s dreams. I just wanted to come here and say that you deserve to go after what you’re passionate for too. You don’t have to be boxed into just being a Miya twin. I didn’t come here to shit on you, you know. I’m here to back you up.”
Osamu feels the pressure building behind his eyes, his emotions threatening to burst at the seams. For the past few days, Osamu has been labeled many things. Dream ruiner, selfish, impulsive, ambitious. But hearing this, hearing Rintarou’s sincerity, makes Osamu remember that those labels aren’t all that he is. That he doesn’t have to be Osamu, Atsumu’s twin, or Osamu, the volleyball player.
He can just be Osamu, a boy who loves cooking and a boy with his own dreams.
“Oh would you look at that, I made you cry,” Rintarou says, a cheeky smile on his face. “And you said you were never the more emotional twin.”
Osamu laughs, wiping at the tears he hadn’t realized had fallen. “Damn it, Rin, I—thanks. I needed that.”
“I’m proud of you, Samu.” Rintarou rubs Osamu’s knee with his thumb; it’s soothing and grounding, and Osamu finds himself closing his eyes. “I don’t want you to live your life thinking you don’t deserve to be yourself.”
There it is again, the sincerity and devotion and belief that Osamu had been sorely lacking and longing for in the past week, and possibly even longer. “Rin, yer too kind. And here I thought all yer words could do was damage.”
“I appreciate the gesture of appreciation for my unwavering faith in you.” Rintarou rolls his eyes, a fond smile on his face as they both chuckle, falling into an easy silence soon after.
“So,” Osamu says, always the one who could never bear long bouts of silence after living with his twin, “is that the only reason ya came? To boost my morale?”
There’s a funny look on Rintarou’s face at Osamu’s question. Again, for the nth time that day, his expression seems unreadable. “A part of me is hoping we wouldn’t get to this part, but I might as well. Wait here.”
Rintarou hops off the bed, leaving Osamu confused for a few moments, and comes back with a little box. “I made something for you. Well, I’ve been making something for you and just finished.”
“I hope it’s nothin’ burnt.” Osamu raises an eyebrow as he prods the box, remembering the one-too-many occasions when Rintarou had almost burned a kitchen down in his attempt at baking.
“Asshole.” Rintarou sticks his tongue out. “And no, it’s nothing burnt. I just—we’ll be graduating soon, you know, and I just wanted to give you this.”
“Shit, we’re exchanging graduation gifts this early? Rin, I got nothin’ prepared!” Osamu holds a hand to his head, now pressured as he sees just how detailed and dolled-up the box seems to be.
Rintarou laughs at that. “I like makin’ you mad. But come on, open it up.”
“It’s a bomb. It’s got to be a pretty, state-of-the-art bomb.” Osamu concludes. Rintarou shoves him in retaliation, and after a few more words of encouragement, Osamu opens the box with shaky hands.
And the contents are enough to turn Osamu into a puddle of feelings.
It’s festival tickets, medals, certificates of participation, food receipts—reminders of everything Osamu and Rintarou had done together. And in between, in a little album, are pictures on pictures on pictures, many taken spontaneously on Rintarou’s different cameras.
“It’s a time capsule, so we don’t forget whatever shit we did over the years.” Rintarou taps the box, that faraway and unreadable look present in his eyes again. “I wanted to give it to you since, well, you did make an impact in my life these past years you asshole.”
“Rin, I—” Osamu’s voice is thick with emotion. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then just look at the bottom.” There’s a quiver in Rintarou’s voice—is he nervous? Osamu wants to ask, but Rintarou shoves his hand towards the bottom of the box before Osamu can say anything.
“Rin,” Osamu gasps. It’s a silver ring with familiar embeddings. But whose—
“It was my mother’s.” Rintarou fills in the gaps of Osamu’s memory. “And no, I’m not proposing to you. I barely have enough fundings to live on my own. Hearing about the fight made me realize just how much you need to remember that you matter too. And you do. You matter a lot to me, Samu, and I wanted to give this little ring to help you remember that.”
There’s a lot of unspoken words laced in what Rintarou had just said and done. The signs start to make sense in Osamu’s head. From today—the genuine belief, the support, the gifts. From weeks and months and years before—the brief moments of touch, the shared lunches, the sudden late night excursions. And from his own actions—the specially made and packed lunches, the shoelaces tied, the gym bags carried.
“Rin,” Osamu says, repeats, because it’s all he can afford to say.
“Yes?” Rintarou has a stupid, victorious smile on his face. “Are you going to ask me why do you deserve me again?”
“Somethin’ better.” Osamu tilts his head, surprised at his own burst of confidence. There’s a simple realization in what has transpired in the past few minutes, and only one way for Osamu to confirm the weight of all the unspoken truths that have been shared between them. “Will ya kiss me?”
Rintarou stares at him, his previously unreadable face now a myriad of expressions. Osamu memorizes all of them. A raised eyebrow, pursed lips, reddening cheeks, and then, a shit-eating grin. “I’d love to.’