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In the eleven years Rintarou has known Osamu, he’s been the unfortunate witness to many a love confession and hopeful romantics slipping him their—or their friends'—phone numbers. In high school, Osamu had always politely rejected boys and girls alike, an apologetic smile on his lips that did nothing to hide the disinterested look in his eyes. Osamu might’ve been the nicer Miya twin, but he was still an asshole with nothing on his brain but volleyball and what was for lunch that day.
In the following years, Rintarou did hear from time to time about this or that partner (each one more boring than the last, as Atsumu had said), though rarely directly from Osamu’s mouth. Rintarou doesn’t speak of his romantic and sexual exploits much either. They talk about taxes, the V.League’s latest gossip, recipes Osamu would like to try for his shop, and so on—but not about their dating lives. This is just something they don't need to discuss between best friends, as much as Motoya and Tatsuki may roll their eyes and seem to disagree with him.
Besides, it's not like Rintarou doesn’t know anything about Osamu’s dating life. Being best friends with a hot, young and hospitable business owner means having to deal with multiple instances of people fawning over him at least once a day.
Case in point: Rintarou is visiting Osamu on his week off, hanging around the counter of Onigiri Miya. He could be visiting Osaka with its multiple tourist attractions and various shopping districts, but it’s currently over 39°C out and no way is Rintarou subjecting himself to the stifling, muggy heat and overcrowded public transport. It seems a few of Osamu’s regulars had the same idea as Rintarou did, preferring Onigiri Miya’s aircon and relative calm on Sunday afternoons. Granny Sugita did at least, currently perched at the high bar and sipping her green tea while simultaneously talking Osamu’s ear off about her grandchild, who's apparently a very favourable marriage prospect for him.
“See, Osamu my darlin’, my Hibiki also went to university, just like ya!” Rintarou flicks at a small particle of dust rolling around the cash register. He could’ve gone to uni too, he had the grades for it. “They’re doing a PhD in astrophysics right now, I’m sure they would love to tell ya all about it!”
Well. Okay, Rintarou would definitely never have been able to do that. He’s a professional volleyball player on a Division 1 team though, so there’s that. Osamu doesn’t care about rockets or dwarf stars or whatever, but he does care about the V.League and rarely misses any of Atsumu, Aran or Rintarou’s matches. Take that, Hibiki.
Osamu laughs, a deep sound rumbling out of his chest. Eleven years on, and it still makes Rintarou’s heart squeeze in the best of ways. “Appreciate it, Granny, but I’m not really lookin’ to date right now.”
Granny Sugita sighs out a “Such a shame, ya’d make such a cute couple.” Osamu winks at Rintarou, and a familiar warmth pools in his gut.
***
Rintarou’s favourite matches, by far, are the ones he gets to play against the Tachibana Red Falcons or the MSBY Black Jackals. There is nothing more entertaining and fulfilling than to share the court again with people he played with on the same side of the net back in high school and to see their improvement. It’s even better when the match takes place at their home base, and Onigiri Miya gets a stand at the stadium that day.
To Rintarou’s delight, today is such a day. He’s even received a lovely message from Osamu saying he’d put aside some mentaiko onigiri for him, free of charge as always.
Rintarou had made a beeline for Osamu’s stand as soon as their team bus was parked but he’s now kind of regretting that decision. He had barely managed to greet his old friend when a customer had slid up to the counter and hogged all of Osamu’s attention for himself.
“How sweet of you to get your rice from your high school senior!” The bother exclaims, clasping his hands together. Rintarou fights back the urge to roll his eyes. He might not be privy to who and when Osamu dates exactly, but it’s pretty clear he’s not into the overly cute type. Rintarou wishes the pest would get a hint, because it’s been about ten minutes of this bootlicking and he's starting to lose his patience.
Osamu on the other hand seems to be basking in the compliments, puffing out his chest and wearing a cocky smirk. It’s a horrible Miya trait of theirs, gloating and relishing in the slightest hint of praise. While it amuses Rintarou on most days, this time it’s really pissing him off.
Rintarou doesn’t care who Osamu dates in his off-time. He’s resigned himself for his feelings for his longtime best friend to be unrequited, and that’s fine. He just doesn’t need to see anything even remotely romantic relating to Osamu with his own two eyes.
“Osamu,” he interjects at last. Osamu sends him a surprised look, probably caught off-guard by his icy tone, while the nuisance sends him a scathing glare, clearly affronted to have been interrupted in his gushing over onigiri fillings. “I’ll see you after the match.”
Rintarou quickly turns his back to them, marching off with the last shreds of his dignity to the lockers. He misses Osamu’s dejected face and the way he shuts out the rest of his customer’s babbling, spending the whole match moping instead.
If Rintarou puts a little too much power in his spikes and if his taunts are a bit more biting than usual and someone notices, no one dares bring it up to him that day.
***
Atsumu’s next novel idea finds them in a cramped Tokyo dancefloor. They're in the capital for the VNL tryouts and on their last day there, Atsumu managed to drag most of the monster generation to a downtown nightclub.
It’d be all fine and dandy if it meant Rintarou could catch up with Aran, down shots with Motoya, and even try to fish for some new V.League gossip from Ushijima. He’s surprisingly on top of everything since everyone always assumes he's as tight-lipped as they come, but ask the right questions and you can glean practically any information out of him.
Except it’s never that easy with the Miya twins, because of course Osamu had to be up in Tokyo on that exact same weekend by chance, so the invitation was extended to him. While Rintarou was initially elated at the prospect of a night out with his best bro, he finds himself dejectedly hunched over the booth table because Osamu is talking to a very pretty, very tall girl at the bar.
Rintarou tunes out whatever stupid joke Bokuto is telling right now, very carefully hiding his clenched fist under the table.
Jealousy burns hot at the back of Rintarou’s throat, his vision is swimming and he knows he must have the sourest expression on his face. In the morning, he’ll be able to chalk his loss of control up to the alcohol coursing through his veins, but for now he’ll allow himself to revel a little more in his gloom.
He’s not even mad at the girl. She looks nice enough with her lopsided smile. She's definitely a catch with her short, chopped brown hair Rintarou can tell takes hours to style, and pretty green eyes framed by fancy eyeliner. He’s not mad at Osamu either, because anyone with working eyes and an attraction to women would probably find her hot. He’s just mad at himself for being a coward, for having never been able to tell Osamu about his feelings properly. He’s mad the one thing he’s desperately wanted since he was fifteen years old is the one thing he can’t have.
Hinata pulls him out of his reverie (read: insistently tugs at his arm) and shouts in his ear about wanting to go dance. Rintarou is unfortunately one of Hinata’s charms’ many victims, so he lets himself be yanked off to the dancefloor.
Hinata brings him to a corner of the dancefloor where he finds himself surrounded by Sakusa’s annoyingly perceptive glare, Ushijima’s randomly invasive questions and Atsumu’s scarily astute instincts. The moment he’s pulled into the circle, they all take a glance in Osamu’s direction and Rintarou pointedly ignores looking at any of them right now.
It annoys him to no end that he was obvious enough that Hinata decided to step in for him. And though Hinata meant well, Rintarou is now face to face with the worst people he could deal with in such a situation. If only it’d been Aran or Motoya or even Tatsuki, because even if they’re all aware of Rintarou’s big fat crush on Osamu, at least they’re nice about it.
Those three aren’t. It’s embarrassing enough half of the league knows, but these people are the least helpful about it.
“How long are ya gonna mope around like this? Get a grip, Sunarin, and do something about it before somebody else does,” Atsumu says, arms crossed over his chest.
Atsumu is frank to a fault, and his words often come out harsher than he means. Right now, Rintarou doesn’t feel like extending him any grace though, so instead he turns around and sucks out a well-deserved “Fuck you, Atsumu,” and stomps off to the bar opposite to the one Osamu is sitting at.
The following hours are a little bit of a blur after five shots and two (maybe three?) additional cocktails. And if Rintarou chooses to spend the rest of his night with a tall, absolute hunk of a man with suspiciously grey eyes, that’s no else’s problem but his own.
***
Rintarou is sitting across from Osamu in their favourite ramen shop in Amagasaki, a restaurant they’d often visited during their high school years. The reason they’re back in Amagasaki escapes Rintarou, but he’s never been one to say no to his best friend.
“Enjoyin’ your food?” Osamu asks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s a little too pretty under the dim lighting of the shop, handsome features looking softer than they usually do under daylight or the harsh lights of his own shop.
Rintarou looks down at his ramen bowl in a poor attempt to stop staring at his friend. “It’s… a little bland,” he says, frowning down at the dish in front of him. Have his taste buds changed so much in a decade, or is nostalgia staining all previous memories of their once beloved ramen shop?
“Really?” Osamu frowns back, and Rintarou wishes nothing more than to reach out and smooth out the furrow in between his brows. Rintarou nods and wordlessly offers him a spoon of his broth. As always, Osamu doesn’t take it off his hand and eats it straight from Rintarou’s spoon and as always, the gesture never fails to make his heart stutter slightly out of rhythm.
“Tastes fine to me,” Osamu says as he leans back, licking his lips. Rintarou shrugs; maybe it’s just an off day for him. He did burn his tongue on a boiling hot coffee yesterday.
“By the way,” Osamu says, a wide grin stretching his lips. “There’s someone I’d like ya to meet.”
Rintarou raises a brow. Blinks a few times. In an instant, Osamu has his arm around the waist of a person in full ramen shop staff garb, and Rintarou’s blood turns to ice just as quick.
The person offers him an affable smile and wraps his arm over Osamu’s shoulder. They look familiar, almost scarily so, but Rintarou is unable to think about anything but the closeness between their bodies. “My partner,” Osamu says, but the rest is a garbled mess to Rintarou’s ringing ears.
The waiter leans in and Rintarou can only watch, as if frozen in place, as their lips meet. Osamu’s hand travels up, up, up from the stranger’s waist to their messy hair, softly carding through brown locks. It sends a thousand needles to skewer his poor heart and still he cannot break out of his stupor, even as sharp green eyes lock in on his own.
Everything feels agonisingly slow, yet he can do nothing but watch the pair in front of him, stomach churning and heart hammering out of his chest. Then, Osamu’s other hand travels south, skating over the small of the parasite’s back, and further down still.
It’s like Rintarou’s suddenly doused in cold water and he finally comes to himself. Before he can think better of it, he’s smashing his hand on their table, hard. Then there is no sound, no movement, no breathing anymore. When the expected pain in his hand never comes, Rintarou is struck with a realisation: this is all a dream.
He jolts awake, hand clutching his blanket and sweat rolling off his forehead. He blinks a few times, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness in his room. He feels queasy, the image of Osamu kissing another person burned at the back of his retina, his heart is beating hard, the fast thump thump echoing in his eardrums, and he’s not quite sure he’s fully awake yet.
For good measure, he sits up and pinches his arm, hard. Yup, it hurts, unlike the tantrum in his dream earlier.
The alarm clock to his left blinks 2:48 AM in bold red numbers. He has just a little under three hours of sleep left before he has to get up and get ready for practise. He flops back onto his bed, a little out of breath and an uncomfortable pinch tugging at his heart. This jealousy thing is truly getting out of hand.
***
“Mum is going to love these pictures,” Chizuru slips into Rintarou's ear as they get photographed by yet another JVA staff. “Think she'll have the nerve to brag to her neighbours about her Olympian children she's had no contact with for the past five years?”
Rintarou sends a sly smirk her way. “I think she's framing them in her kitchen and making up excuses as to why we're not visiting right now.” Chizuru laughs next to him and pats his shoulder reassuringly as they get ushered off to their table.
The JVA's annual banquet used to be a quiet affair, at least for the first two years. Then Kuroo Tetsurou swooped in and started assigning tables and Rintarou thinks he might have it out for him because he's spent the last couple ones sitting at the same table as Atsumu.
Atsumu is a good friend of his, even if Rintarou is sometimes loath to admit to it. But put Atsumu in a room full of professional volleyball players and he simply loses his mind. He'll peacock around, bragging about his spikers and whatnot, and when he's done mouthing off, he'll either pick a fight with someone he felt wronged by recently or go bat eyes at whoever took his fancy that day. (He's in heat, Osamu had murmured in Rintarou's ear last year, and he'd almost snorted his champagne out of his nose.)
“Sunacchi!” Atsumu practically screams, wide smile splitting his face in half. “My favourite Suna! Come sit in front of me!”
“Hello to you too, Atsumu,” Rintarou murmurs as he takes the only available seat next to his sister and unfortunately, across from Osamu, who’s clad in a tight black suit, his dark hair slicked back, a lazy smile dancing on his lips. Rintarou wants nothing more than to run his hands from Osamu's chest to his hair, card fingers through silky locks, and wipe his grin off his face with his own mouth. He doesn't indulge.
Osamu sends an apologetic smile Rintarou's way. As if things couldn't get worse, on his right sits Ishiwara—Ishizaka? Ikiwara?, a DESEO Hornets outside hitter Rintarou might or might not have gotten into a spat during their last match. Damn Kuroo Tetsurou and his schemes.
Things do get worse. After exchanging some niceties (though a few jabs fly over Ishizaka's head), he turns back to Osamu, and. That guy seems awfully interested in Osamu. Great, just great.
Rintarou pretends it doesn't sting every time Osamu laughs at one of Ikiwara's awfully distasteful jokes. But when the fucker goes to lay a hand on Osamu's forearm after a particularly bad joke, Rintarou finds himself abruptly standing up and without thinking, turns on his heels and mutters a quick “Bathroom,” under his breath—entirely missing the worried look in Osamu's eyes.
The scraping of his chair against the tile rings in his ears still when he splashes cold water on his face in a poor attempt to cool down. There's something nasty unfurling in his gut, crushing his lungs and threatening to make him spill his dinner.
“I could be at home with my wife, instead I have to be a witness to your gay moping,” Chizuru says flatly, leaning against the doorframe.
If the tone of her voice doesn't betray anything more than mild inconvenience, her eyes tell a wholly different story. “It's fine, Chizuru,” Rintarou says, masterfully avoiding her stare by wiping his hands on a towel.
“Like hell it is. Ten years of this, and you're still glued to his side looking like a kicked puppy every time he's not paying attention to you.” The Sunas have never minced their words but Rintarou wishes someone would've taught them manners before he had to be subjected to his sister's berating. “And you're so caught up in your own head you don't even see the way he looks at you.”
“Way to kick a man while he's down,” Rintarou bites out, choosing to ignore the last part of her tirade.
“I'm looking out for you,” Chizuru says, voice dropping lower and sounding infinitely softer. She pulls him into a hug, and Rintarou releases a shuddering breath he didn't realise he was holding. “I think it's time for you to take the dive.”
When they get back to the table, I–whatever has left the table. The twins clearly fought, because there's spilled champagne all over the table and Atsumu is sulking all the way over to Sakusa and Ushijima's table. Aran is to Osamu's left, an exasperated look on his face, the final detail to paint the likely previous scene.
“Ya good?” Osamu asks when Rintarou sits down, but Rintarou doesn't meet his gaze.
“I think I ate something funny,” he says. Osamu doesn't prod any further.
***
Rintarou doesn't take the dive, obviously.
Instead, like the masochist he is, he pretends he's not desperately pining for his best friend. Pretends there isn't a nasty beast inhabiting his chest permanently, always a second away from bursting out of his ribs every time someone looks at Osamu for a moment too long.
“Whaddya want tonight? I was thinkin’ nikujaga, but curry sounds good too,” Osamu says, shoving potatoes into Rintarou's trolley, which has been on the verge of overflowing for the last ten minutes.
“Huh,” Rintarou sucks out intelligently. “Nikujaga?” Osamu nods sagely, and tugs on Rintarou's arm to bring him to the meat aisle.
“Beef or pork?” Osamu asks seriously, a crease in between his brows. Rintarou could just lean in and kiss it away.
“Beef,” Rintarou responds, before his thoughts become actions and betray him any further. It seems to be the right answer, because Osamu lights up, nodding to the meat fridges as if the prospect of beef tonight were the best news he'd received all week.
“Hey,” someone calls out, and Rintarou looks to his side. There stands a tall-ish guy, dark eyes and swooped back hair. Stranger offers him a smile, one that only pulls on one side. “Saw you earlier and I think you're pretty cute. Mind if I ask for yer number?”
Rintarou blinks. Osamu violently drops the two packs of beef he was holding into the trolley, making some of its contents spill out.
Huh.
“Why not,” he says, a sly smile dancing on his lips. The stranger smirks back and hands him his phone. Rintarou punches in his number without much thinking. He can feel holes drilling at the back of his head as Osamu picks up the various packs of vegetables off the floor.
“I'll call ya later,” the stranger says, and he steps away without much else.
“Yer really gonna give yer number to a stranger like that?” Osamu says, and Rintarou can hear the thinly veiled anger in his voice. Interesting.
“Are you jealous?” Rintarou asks, tone flat so he can pass this off as a joke. It feels like he's taking a step into dangerous territory; one right word might tip the boat over and Rintarou wants him to take the bait so badly.
“Obviously not,” Osamu bites out, but there's something dark swimming in his eyes. “Ya don't even know his name.”
Rintarou wants to push further. Wants to coax answers out of him, because Osamu never gets like that. The beast in his chest stirs, roused from its slumber by a thrill Rintarou isn't sure he should indulge in.
So he doesn't, not yet.
“It's obviously a fake number, Osamu. I'm not stupid enough to give my number out to just any stranger, no matter how pretty they are,” Rintarou says lightly, keeping a close watch on how forcefully Osamu is shoving the groceries back into the trolley. “I'm kind of famous actually, did you know?”
Osamu sends him a withering look. Rintarou's heart squeezes oddly, and the beast whimpers weakly.
He could shrug this off. Close back the lid on something he doesn't think either of them wants to be out in the open. But being sensible has never been in Rintarou's nature.
“Hey,” he chances when they're putting back the groceries at Osamu's flat. “What was that earlier?”
Rintarou's ears are ringing. Osamu levels him with a flat look, and it'd be intimidating if it wasn't for the leeks in his right hand.
Osamu could take the easy way out and brush it off. But the Osamu he knows never backs down from a challenge, and Rintarou is proven right when Osamu turns the question back on him, “Whaddya think that was?”
His gaze is heavy on Rintarou, sending his heart jackhammering as the beast stirs once again.
“I think you were jealous,” he breathes out. Osamu crosses his arms over his chest but says no more, his gaze taking on a sharp edge. “I think you should do something about it,” he continues, spurred on by Osamu's non-answer.
Osamu raises an eyebrow, but the smile on his lips speaks a thousand words. “And if I do?”
The beast roars in victory, and Rintarou lets it. “I'd let you,” Rintarou shrugs, and trusts Osamu to see right through his façade.
Osamu's gaze is heavy when he takes the three steps separating them across his kitchen. Osamu's eyes are already on his lips when Rintarou whispers “Kiss me,” into the small space between them.
So he does. Or maybe Rintarou did, who's to say. Any and all thoughts flew out of his head the moment he's got his lips pressed to Osamu's, his hands roaming Osamu's chest and arms, taking as much as he’s willing to give him. Eleven years of waiting, but none wasted when he finally gets to trail open-mouthed kisses to Osamu's throat and Osamu is lacing rough hands through his hair.
“This is not a one time thing,” Osamu says after he's pulled Rintarou into a couple more searing kisses. It's probably meant as a question, but it's hard to tell when he's got Rintarou shoved against the counter, his shirt halfway off and Rintarou's laying forgotten somewhere on the floor.
“It's not,” Rintarou utters out, only half-annoyed to have been interrupted in his well-deserved Osamu-pecs-and-biceps roaming. “Be mine,” he whispers against the shell of his ear, before pulling at his earlobe with his teeth and earning a full body shudder from Osamu.
“‘s long as you'll be mine,” Osamu whispers into the crook of his neck, pressing a few more light pecks there before returning to Rintarou's lips and claiming them once more into a dizzying kiss.
“Sounds great,” Rintarou says, a little out of breath and very much craving for more. “Now can you take your shirt off, please?”
Osamu laughs but complies nonetheless, eager to get his hands back on Rintarou’s body and devour him some more.
“Wanna move this to the bedroom?” Osamu says, heady, stormy eyes on Rintarou's own.
“Not up for a little kitchen fun? You're more vanilla than I thought,” Rintarou teases, but he's already pushing Osamu back and tugging him along.
Osamu rolls his eyes and swiftly hefts him onto his shoulder, as if Rintarou, one hundred and ninety-one centimetres tall professional athlete Suna Rintarou, weighs nothing more than a sack of rice. One more item checked off Rintarou’s fantasies list—he already can't wait to tell his non-believers EJP teammates.
All thoughts of EJP get flung out the window when Osamu lays him back gently against the bed and cages him in with his arms.
“Hi,” Rintarou says, a fond look on his eyes that's probably too soft. “Hi,” Osamu responds back, the same look in his eyes.
“Are you really vanilla?” Rintarou pipes up when he grows a little impatient. Sue a guy for feeling a little too tight within the confines of his pants.
Osamu groans, but he's quick to swallow Rintarou's snickering with a heady kiss and a hand to his crotch, effectively shutting Rintarou up in a choked out moan.