Archive of Our Own ^beta

Not the heavy, existential kind—just the comfortable hum of his own space. The quiet between moments. The pause after a laugh. The sound of air-conditioning at three in the morning when everyone else has the decency to sleep.  His life, by design, is uneventful. Classes, practice, convenience store dinners, aimless scrolling. People talk at him sometimes; he nods, contributes a line or two, and lets the conversation dissolve like sugar in tea. He’s not anti-social. He’s just pro-peace. So, when his phone buzzes one Monday night—a sound that doesn’t belong in the slow rhythm of his room—he already feels mildly inconvenienced. He’s lying in bed, phone face-down beside him, the glow of his laptop reflecting off the ceiling when the vibration comes again. Persistent. He sighs, flips the phone over.

unknown number: hope u choke on that burnt mess u call dinner

Suna stares. He blinks once. Twice. He scrolls up. No previous messages. Just that. The sentence sits there, hostile and glowing, like it has unfinished business. He hasn’t even cooked today. Dinner was convenience store onigiri and a bag of chips.

“Okay?” he mutters to no one, locking his phone again.

He forgets about it by morning. Mostly. He wakes up, drags himself through the day—lectures, half-hearted stretches, the usual blur. And by the time he’s home, he’s half a person again, one foot in the grave and the other in front of the fridge.

The second text arrives at 8:47 p.m.

unknown number: ur the worst. i mean that.

He chews, swallows, looks down at the phone.

“Right,” he says under his breath, “good evening to you too.”

He locks the screen again and goes back to his meal.

By Wednesday, it becomes a pattern. He’s halfway through watching a video essay about cats when his phone buzzes again.

unknown number: ur blocking me now? classic. coward.

Suna raises a brow. He hasn’t blocked anyone. He hasn’t even replied. This person is having an entire argument with a ghost. He leans back against the wall, thumb hovering over the screen. His reflection glows faintly in the black mirror of his phone—the expression of a man who’s too tired to care but too curious to stop. A scammer wouldn’t put this much effort into emotional warfare. So what’s the angle?

He debates replying. Then decides, fine. Just one message.

suna: wow ure persistent

The typing bubble appears instantly, which is already a red flag.

unknown number: ure finally replying huh

scrub

suna: yeah, kinda wanted to see where this goes

unknown number: where what goes. me bein disappointed again?

suna: u say that like it’s not ur hobby

There’s a pause—long enough for him to assume it’s over.

unknown number: i swear ur unbelievable

Suna huffs out a quiet laugh. Whoever this is, they sound too personally offended for a stranger. He doesn’t know what’s funnier—the aggression or the assumption that he’s supposed to know what’s happening. He sets the phone aside, deciding that’s enough social interaction for the day.

The messages don’t stop. They appear at odd hours. No greetings, no names, no context. Just chaos, delivered straight to his pocket. Sometimes they’re insults. Sometimes they’re what can only be described as emotional drive-bys.

unknown number: cant believe ur still alive after that mess u made

ur not even sorry huh

u disgust me

Suna scrolls through them one night, eyebrows furrowing in faint amusement. He thinks, someone out there is really having a one-man drama and i got front-row seats. And somehow, he doesn’t mind. There’s something kind of entertaining about being someone else’s villain for no reason. Low-stakes chaos. Background noise with personality. He doesn’t reply much. But when he does, it’s out of pure boredom.

suna: u seem fun at parties

unknown number: u seem like u ruin them

suna: i try my best

The conversation ends there. Then resumes the next day like nothing happened.

unknown number: i burned my dinner bc of u

suna: sounds like a skill issue

unknown number: i hope u step on legos

suna: too far

He doesn’t know why it’s funny. It just is. Maybe it’s the audacity. Maybe it’s the sheer persistence. He finds himself checking his phone more often than he should. Not waiting. Just anticipating.

By Friday night, he’s given up pretending it’s a coincidence. He’s in bed, half-asleep, when the vibration comes again.

unknown number: do u ever think about how u ruin everything

Suna squints at the message, sighs softly, and mutters, “man, whoever you are, you’ve got some issues.” 

suna: it’s impressive how u keep finding new ways to be mad

The response comes fast.

unknown number: stop texting back then

suna: u texted first

unknown number: oh my god ure infuriating

suna: thanks i get that a lot

He turns off his phone, still smirking faintly. He should be annoyed, maybe. Creeped out, even. But he’s not. Instead, he feels the tiniest pulse of interest—the kind that comes when something cuts through the static of his routine.

By Saturday. He wakes to an early text.

unknown number: i swear if u ever touch my shit again im gonna kill u

He blinks, reads it twice, and rolls over. Whoever this is must be running on caffeine and rage. There’s no name. No indication of who they think he is. He figures if it’s important, they’ll eventually say something. People usually do. He types one-handed, still lying flat on his pillow.

suna: u ever considered therapy

unknown number: u ever considered not bein a menace

suna: no

He tosses the phone onto his desk and goes about his day.

But it’s starting to bother him now—not the messages themselves, but the voice behind them. Every word drips with this confident, theatrical irritation, like whoever’s typing truly believes they’re in the right. He imagines what they might look like. Someone loud. Dramatic. Too many gestures when they talk. Someone who can’t whisper even when they try. He snorts softly to himself. Yeah. Definitely loud.

The call comes exactly a week later. He’s fresh out of the shower, towel slung low, hair damp when his phone starts ringing.

Unknown Number.

He hesitates, then answers.

“Yo,” he says, voice lazy.

The other end goes silent for half a second. Then— 

“…Who the hell is this?”

Not what he expected. The voice is deep, raspy, Kansai drawl thick enough to taste.

“Dunno,” Suna says, “who’s this?”

“Wait. WAIT. This isn’t Osamu?”

“Who's Osamu?”

There’s an audible gasp, followed by a string of chaotic noises—something metallic falling, someone muttering, “holy shit holy shit.”

“Oh my god. I’ve been textin’ the wrong number for a week! I told ya to rot! I said— I said—”

Suna’s mouth curves. “Yeah. You said a lot.”

“I thought ya were my twin brother! I’ve been harassin’ a stranger!”

“Technically, you still are.”

“Why didn’t ya stop me!?”

“You never asked who I was.”

“Ya never said!”

“I was curious how long you’d last.”

There’s a beat of incredulous silence, then—“Yer a freak.”

“Probably.”

Another pause. Then a sigh that sounds half-defeated, half-mortified.

“I hate this.”

“Sure.”

“No seriously, I’m— I’m hangin’ up. I can’t. I’m gonna go combust.”

“Alright.”

Click. The line goes dead. Suna stares at his reflection in the black screen, expression unreadable. Then he saves the number anyway.

Contact name: stranger, possibly arsonist

He sets the phone down, towel still around his shoulders, and exhales slowly. The room feels too quiet again. He doesn’t believe in fate—still doesn’t. But there’s something about that voice, that timing, that ridiculous collision of two strangers through pure chaos. It feels like the start of something he shouldn’t care about but probably will.

A week passes. No messages. No calls. Not even a passive-aggressive “u suck.” Silence. The kind that Suna used to like—low, steady, dependable. The kind that used to mean peace. Now, it feels like waiting for something that isn’t coming. He hates that. He hates that he notices. He tries to be normal about it. He goes to class. Scrolls through his feed. Watches a guy on YouTube argue passionately about the superiority of left-handed volleyball serves. His phone stays quiet through all of it, face-down beside him. At first, he’s relieved. Really. He tells himself it’s better this way—fewer distractions, fewer weirdos threatening him through text.

But on the third day, he catches himself glancing at his notifications between slides. And on the fifth, he feels the weird itch to check his messages for no reason at all. Nothing. It’s not like he wants the stranger to text again. It’s just—Boring now. Too quiet.

Saturday afternoon. The sky’s washed-out gray, the kind that makes everything look like a photograph. He’s wandering near campus after practice, hoodie half-zipped, hands buried in the pocket. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he’s already there—the small onigiri shop tucked by the corner of the street. The one he visits sometimes when he can’t be bothered to cook or socialize. It smells like rice and soy sauce and faint exhaustion. Comforting.

He steps inside. There’s a short line, just three people, two students and one problem. The problem is loud. Blonde, messy, broad-shouldered, and animated like he’s arguing for his life.

“I swear I ordered tuna mayo, not this—this fancy somethin’!” the guy says, gesturing dramatically at the counter. “Who puts pickled plums in onigiri on purpose!?”

The cashier, calm and visibly dead inside, sighs. He’s the opposite of the blonde—dark gray hair, quieter presence, same face but with half the volume.

“If ya wanted tuna mayo, ya shoulda read the label,” the cashier says flatly.

“I did!”

“No, ya didn’t.”

“I did! I definitely did!”

“Then why’s it in yer hand?”

The blonde gapes, wounded. “That’s—this is emotional manipulation.”

Suna blinks once, slowly.

He hadn’t planned on watching a live comedy skit today, but life surprises him sometimes. He leans against the small wall divider by the side, hands in pockets, eyes half-lidded as he watches the chaos unfold like a TV show he didn’t know he’d subscribed to. The blonde’s voice is unmistakable—loud in a way that fills the entire space, like every word is allergic to subtlety. And for some reason, it’s familiar. Suna tilts his head. It takes a few seconds before his brain makes the connection. That accent. That rhythm. The unearned confidence in his tone.

It’s him.

The voice from the phone. The stranger. The one who told him to choke on imaginary dinner. He might be wrong though.  Suna doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink for a moment and just watches, mildly incredulous.  He expected, well, he didn’t expect anything, but this wasn’t on the list. The stranger’s real. And somehow, reality made him even louder.

The blonde waves the onigiri like it personally offended him. “C’mon, ‘Samu, who the hell eats this stuff for fun!?”

The cashier—Osamu, apparently—looks exactly like him but paler, quieter, visibly at the end of his rope.

“That’ll be two hundred yen, idiot.”

“For emotional damage?”

“For the rice ball.”

“Oh my god.”

The exchange is so fast, so practiced, that Suna suspects this happens every week. He shouldn’t care. He could walk out right now, grab a drink, and go back to pretending he doesn’t believe in cosmic jokes. But instead, he stays. Suna gets in line behind them, pretending to scroll through his phone while the scene continues. The blonde—Atsumu, if the cashier’s tone of suffering is any clue—is still arguing. Osamu’s giving up mid-sentence, face buried in his palm. Suna’s lips twitch. He’s not laughing, but he wants to. And then Atsumu turns his head. Only slightly. Just enough for Suna to see his face fully—bright eyes, sharp grin, hair like sunlight at a bad angle. He’s good-looking in that annoying, self-aware way. Suna meets his gaze for half a second. It’s like watching a train of chaos realize it has an audience. Atsumu pauses mid-argument. His brows furrow slightly, then his mouth quirks like he’s about to say something, maybe another complaint, maybe just noise.  Suna looks away first.

He steps forward, expression unreadable, and mutters to the cashier, “One tuna mayo, please.”

Osamu exhales like he’s found religion. “Finally. Someone normal.”

Behind them, Atsumu’s still sputtering about betrayal and “customer service rights,” and Suna just pockets his change, head tilted.

It’s funny. The universe could’ve given him anyone. But it gave him this. He bites into his onigiri on the walk home, the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Loud voice. Familiar tone. That same Kansai drawl echoing in his head. He doesn’t text. Doesn’t call. But the silence that night feels a little less empty.

Suna tells himself he didn’t care. 

He didn’t care that the loud blonde at the onigiri shop sounded exactly like the stranger who’d threatened to throw him into traffic three weeks ago. He didn’t care that the same guy’s twin had rolled his eyes at him with the weariness of a man who’s survived this energy his whole life. He didn’t care that he almost smiled walking home. He was just tired. That was all. Tired people make weird expressions sometimes. The days that follow are painfully ordinary. Classes. Practice. Bad cafeteria coffee. Suna scrolls. Nods. Exists He checks his phone sometimes, not often, but enough to pretend it’s coincidence. Still quiet. It’s not like he’s waiting.

He just notices the quiet more now. It’s like someone turned the world’s background noise off and forgot to turn it back on. He doesn’t think about the blonde when he’s at the convenience store. He doesn’t think about him when he reheats leftovers or when he walks past the same onigiri shop again. He definitely doesn’t think about how weirdly endearing it was watching that chaos unfold in person. Or how the guy’s grin looked too bright for someone that annoying. He doesn’t think about any of it. (He thinks about it constantly.)

It’s a Tuesday night when it happens. He’s sprawled across his bed, half-asleep, when his phone buzzes once against his chest.Suna doesn’t check it right away. He lets it sit there for a few seconds, vibrating once more like it’s mocking him. Finally, he flips it over.

1 New Message. 

For a beat, he just stares at the screen. Then—

stranger, possibly arsonist: ure still an idiot btw

Suna blinks. That’s it? No all-caps. No death threats. No emotional damage. Just a, "ur still an idiot btw." He exhales through his nose, something dry and small curling at the corner of his mouth. He types back before he can stop himself.

suna: that the best u got

stranger, possibly arsonist: dont push it

suna: miss me?

stranger, possibly arsonist: HA as if

suna: ur texting me tho

stranger, possibly arsonist: bored

suna: sure

There’s a pause—three blinking dots that come and go. 

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever shut up?

suna: never.

Suna sets his phone face down on the blanket and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t really know what that was. A peace offering? A relapse? A warning sign that the universe refuses to let him live in peace? Doesn’t matter. He’s smiling again—barely, faintly, just enough for it to bother him. He checks the messages one more time before sleeping. The insult’s still there, sharp but strangely soft around the edges. No bite this time. Almost like the sender wasn’t mad anymore or didn’t want to be. Suna falls asleep thinking about a loud blonde in an onigiri shop, and the way silence never stays quiet for long.

It’s another Tuesday night when it happens again. He’s awake at 2:03 a.m. for no particular reason—lying there, staring at the faint glow of the alarm clock. He’s not even thinking about anything heavy; just that quiet, meaningless float of half-thoughts before sleep. Then his phone lights up on the nightstand.

stranger, possibly arsonist: hey

Suna squints at it. That’s new. No threats, no insults. Just a hey. He stares for a full minute before replying.

suna: who died

The typing bubbles appear almost instantly.

stranger, possibly arsonist: cant sleep

u awake

Suna huffs softly, turning onto his side.

suna: no

stranger, possibly arsonist: smartass

He smirks at the screen, but before he can send something back, the messages start coming faster.

stranger, possibly arsonist: sorry

 i just

 today sucked

The rhythm of the words changes, less bite, more tiredness bleeding through the gaps. Suna blinks at the phone, thumb hovering. He doesn’t do late-night heart-to-hearts. He’s the type to scroll until he passes out, not comfort strangers through existential crises. But something in that small, unsteady “today sucked” makes him pause. He types, slowly.

suna: rough day?

There’s a long pause. 

stranger, possibly arsonist: yeah

practice was a mess

coach yelled at me for bein “too much” again

which is like??? my brand???

also my brother told me to “shut up before i salt ur food”

like bro

Suna snorts quietly, half-amused, half-something-else.

suna: sounds like u deserved it

stranger, possibly arsonist: wow

this is why i text u

zero sympathy

suna: i try my best

The next few messages come slower.

stranger, possibly arsonist: idk

its just

i feel like im tryin too hard all the time

ppl always say i talk too much

or that i dont take things seriously

i do

i just

dont know how to stop makin things loud

Suna stares at the screen longer than he means to. The words sit there, not quite heavy but real in that raw, unfiltered way that only happens after midnight. He types back without thinking.

suna: sometimes loud’s just another way of sayin alive

There’s a beat. 

stranger, possibly arsonist: damn ur kinda poetic huh

suna: insomniac not poet

stranger, possibly arsonist: same thing

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s the good kind—the quiet that fills the room like a warm hum instead of a void. Suna puts the phone down beside him, screen still glowing faintly, and stares at the ceiling again. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just another late-night text. Someone venting to whoever happens to answer. But he can’t shake the thought that the stranger sounds different now.

The texts keep coming after that night. Not constantly. Not like before. Just enough. Enough to make Suna notice when they don’t.

They arrive around the same time each night, between one and three in the morning, the witching hours for people who think too much or not enough. The screen lights up against his wall, a soft buzz breaking the kind of silence he used to call peace. Now, it just feels like intermission. A pause before the next “hey.” The messages are mostly nonsense. Atsumu—though Suna still only knows him as Stranger, Possibly Arsonist—has a special talent for turning daily inconveniences into Shakespearean-level tragedies.

stranger, possibly arsonist: bro my teammate called me extra again

suna: accurate

stranger, possibly arsonist: RUDE

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur supposed to say “no ur perfect the world just cant handle ur energy”

suna: sounds like a lot of work

stranger, possibly arsonist: u got trust issues

suna: and peace n quiet

stranger, possibly arsonist: boring

suna: peaceful

stranger, possibly arsonist: bacon avocado 

Sometimes it’s rants about practice. Sometimes it’s his brother. Sometimes it’s food-related existential crises.

stranger, possibly arsonist: do u ever think rice balls are like edible trust falls

suna: no

stranger, possibly arsonist: u should

suna: go to sleep

stranger, possibly arsonist: u sound like him

suna: who

stranger, possibly arsonist: no one

nvm

Suna never pushes when that happens. He could—he’s curious enough now to want to know what sits behind those pauses—but he doesn’t. He just lets Atsumu fill the silence again, and the world resets. He likes the rhythm they’ve built. Atsumu talks; he listens. Atsumu yells in text form; he deadpans back. It shouldn’t work. Suna’s patience should’ve snapped days ago but it fits in some backwards, sleep-deprived way. It’s not friendship. Not yet. But it’s something that makes the nights feel less hollow.

He realizes it on a Thursday.

He’s walking home from evening practice, bag slung over his shoulder, headphones in but music off. His body moves on autopilot through the dim streets, the same route he’s taken a hundred times,  when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t have to look to know who it is. His chest feels lighter already.

stranger, possibly arsonist: bro i sneezed during serve n coach said i “startle like a horse”

what does that EVEN MEAN

suna: means u should get vaccinated

stranger, possibly arsonist: LMAOOOOO

god u actually made me laugh

hate that

suna: ure welcome

He pockets the phone again, smile faint, almost invisible. There’s no reason for him to be grinning at his messages like an idiot on a dark sidewalk, but here he is. The city hums around him, and for once, the noise doesn’t bother him. At night, he scrolls through their threads. He tells himself he’s just checking if he missed anything—a practical act, not sentimental. But his thumb lingers on the screen longer than it should. The texts look like a timeline of someone learning to breathe out loud. In between the rants and jokes are fragments that hit harder than they should.

stranger, possibly arsonist: i just wanna be good at what i do yknow

ppl think i dont care but i do

i just get scared if i stop talkin ill start thinkin

n that never goes well

Suna doesn’t reply to those right away. He reads them twice. Three times. Then he types something small—never advice, never comfort—just enough to say I heard you.

suna: try thinkin less loud next time

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur impossible

suna: always

It’s strange how that feels like honesty. There are nights when Atsumu disappears mid-conversation, probably falling asleep mid-rant. Other nights, he spams three memes and a half-coherent voice note before vanishing again. Suna listens to one of them once, a slurred monologue about “team synergy” that’s more wheezing than words and finds himself laughing quietly in the dark. He catches himself doing that more often now: smiling at his phone like an idiot. It’s disgusting. He should stop. But when Suna wakes up the next morning, there’s a new message waiting for him.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever think its weird how ppl can just exist next to each other n not know it

He frowns, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

suna: deep question for 6am

stranger, possibly arsonist: sry lol just tired

ignore me

suna: never do

He sends it before he can think twice. It’s simple. Honest. And maybe too much for someone he hasn’t even met properly. But it’s out there now, hanging between them in the blue light of morning. The reply takes a while this time.

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur weird

but like

in a way i dont hate

Suna smiles at the screen, lazy and quiet, before tossing his phone aside. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything.

It starts subtle. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s just him refusing to admit it but he checks his phone more often now.

During lectures, while his professor monologues about kinetic theory or something equally unimportant, he glances down at his lap, pretending to read notes.  Nothing. No new notifications. Just the same quiet glow of the lock screen, the same background photo of a cat that isn’t even his. He scrolls a bit. Opens and closes the same app three times. Locks his phone again.  

By lunch, he’s checked five more times. Then evening, ten. It’s fine. It’s not like he’s waiting. He’s just keeping the line open. For data collection. For curiosity. For whatever.

The next few days bleed together in the usual blur with classes, practice, microwaved dinners, half-hearted YouTube rabbit holes. But the rhythm’s off now. The silences stretch too long between hours. The air feels too still, like something’s missing from the background noise he’s accidentally grown used to.

He tells himself he’s being ridiculous. He’s not some lovesick protagonist in a romcom. It’s just a number. A random stranger who screamed at him through text for a week, then trauma-dumped at two in the morning. Nothing meaningful. Just chaos disguised as company. Still, every time his phone buzzes with group chat, weather alert, or spam ad. He feels that brief flicker of stupid, involuntary hope.

Then the letdown hits. It’s not him. Not that kind of disappointment, he tells himself. Just observational. Statistical.

By Thursday, he gives up pretending. He finds himself outside the same onigiri shop after class, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, pretending he’s there for dinner. He’s not. He’s eaten already. He just happened to walk by. (He definitely took the long route here on purpose.)

The bell above the door chimes softly as he steps in. The smell of rice and soy sauce greets him again, comforting and familiar. The shop’s small and quiet this time, just the low hum of a fridge and a tired-looking Osamu wiping down the counter. No blonde. No chaos. No yelling about pickled plums or customer rights. Just peace. Which, ironically, feels kind of boring. Suna orders his usual tuna mayo, of course and lingers near the counter while waiting. He glances at Osamu, who gives a polite nod of recognition.

“Yer a regular now, huh?” Osamu says, accent soft but noticeable.

“Guess so,” Suna murmurs. “You remember everyone who buys rice balls?”

“Only the ones who don’t complain,” Osamu replies, deadpan.

It earns the faintest twitch of a smile from Suna. “Tough job, huh.”

“Ya have no idea.”

There’s a pause that's easy, unforced. Suna studies him for a moment. The resemblance to the loud one is obvious, but where the blonde was all volume and motion, this one is muted. The same face, but quieter. Same jawline, same eyes, but no fireworks. Just dim light. Suna thinks that if the loud twin was a storm, this one’s the eye. They talk a bit about nothing, really. Weather, line length, midterms. The kind of conversation that ends in half-shrugs and lazy nods. It’s almost comfortable. Then the bell above the door rings again. A voice too loud, too familiar that cuts through the quiet.

“‘Samu! You will not believe what just happened! This old lady—wait—why’re ya lookin’ like that? What’d I do now?”

Suna doesn’t need to look up to know. The air shifts immediately—louder, brighter, like the volume dial on the world just got cranked up. Atsumu strides in like he owns the place, his voice bouncing off the walls. Blonde hair tousled, backpack hanging off one shoulder, grin like he’s never had a single quiet thought in his life. Suna’s stomach does something inconveniently alive. He keeps his eyes on the shelf in front of him, pretending to browse, pretending to read labels he’s already memorized.

Osamu groans. “Yer breathin’ in my shop again.”

“It’s a free country!” Atsumu shoots back, already leaning on the counter like he’s starring in his own sitcom. “Don’t be rude to customers!”

“Customers pay.”

“I bring charisma.”

“Charisma doesn’t pay rent.”

“I’m workin’ on it!”

Suna almost laughs. Almost. The sound bubbles up but dies quietly in his throat, settling as a curve in his mouth he refuses to acknowledge. He watches from the corner of his eye, gaze catching briefly on the blonde’s reflection in the display case. Atsumu’s expressive as ever with his hands moving too much, voice carrying too far, grin flashing like it’s trying to fill the room. The same voice that used to type out death threats and midnight ramblings now echoing right here, flesh and volume. It’s surreal. Suna wonders if the universe has a sense of humor, or just a cruel fascination with irony. He studies him, covertly. The slope of his nose. The sharpness of his grin. The way his laugh seems to occupy every inch of air around him. It’s too much. Loud, messy, human. And somehow, Suna finds himself listening. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t intervene. He just watches.

Atsumu’s rant about the “lady on the train who swung her umbrella like she’s in a battle royale” bleeds into a story about his practice being a “dumpster fire but, like, a passionate one.” Osamu’s replies are minimal, almost unimpressed, exhausted, brotherly in that practiced way that suggests years of survival.

Suna feels like he’s watching an improv show only one of them signed up for. He thinks, so this is what the voice looks like when it breathes. He thinks, this is the same person who told me to choke on dinner. He thinks, he’s kind of terrible at blending in. He doesn’t think about how he’s been standing here for ten full minutes with a rice ball in his hand, long after paying. Doesn’t think about how he’s memorizing the rhythm of Atsumu’s laugh or the cadence of his words like background music he’s getting used to. When Osamu finally notices, he tilts his head.

“Ya gonna eat that, or are ya waitin’ for it to evolve?”

Suna blinks, caught. “Right. Yeah.”

He pockets the onigiri, nods slightly, and heads for the door.

“See ya,” Osamu calls absently.

Atsumu doesn’t even glance his way—too busy reenacting an umbrella fight in front of the counter. Suna pauses briefly at the doorway, watching the movement, the chaos, the grin. For a moment, he almost says something. Then he doesn’t. He just leaves. Outside, the evening air is cool, sharp against his skin. He unwraps the rice ball and takes a slow bite, the taste of tuna mayo grounding him back into silence. He doesn’t check his phone that night. He doesn’t need to. The voice he’s been missing all week is still echoing in his head anyway.

Suna doesn’t expect it to happen again. He tells himself the onigiri shop thing was just coincidence. The universe being lazy with its casting. He’ll forget the blonde soon enough and file him away under loud mistakes and public disturbances. Life goes back to normal. Except it doesn’t. Because two nights later, his phone buzzes at 1:04 a.m. The name on the screen makes his stomach lurch before his brain catches up.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever get the urge to punch air just bc

Suna blinks at the message, halfway through scrolling a feed that suddenly feels irrelevant. He stares for a beat too long, thumb hovering. He types, slowly.

suna: like breathing

There’s a pause. 

stranger, possibly arsonist: holy shit ur awake

suna: holy shit ur alive

The typing bubble pops up again immediately.

stranger, possibly arsonist: barely

had the dumbest day ever

suna: dumber than usual?

stranger, possibly arsonist: EXCUSE YOU

i’ll have u know i was the picture of grace today

Suna huffs softly, the corner of his mouth tugging. He adjusts against his pillow and waits for the inevitable.

stranger, possibly arsonist: so i was on the train right

and this guy sneezed directly into his mask

and then TOOK IT OFF

and i swear i saw god

Suna bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh.

suna: condolences

stranger, possibly arsonist: thanks

i think i inhaled the virus of stupidity

It keeps going like that. He should be annoyed. He should be rolling his eyes, muting the conversation, going to sleep like a sane person. But instead, he keeps replying with the dry and understated one-liners that Atsumu (he still hasn’t confirmed it, but he knows) eats up like candy. And just like that, they fall back into it—that strange, late-night rhythm of mismatched energy and quiet understanding.

By the end of the week, it’s routine. Atsumu texts at odd hours, sometimes to complain, sometimes to celebrate, sometimes for no reason at all. Suna replies when he feels like it which, increasingly, is always. He learns that the stranger’s name is Miya Atsumu. That he's student from the university across Inarizaki. That he’s a setter for MSBY volleyball team. That he hates pickled plums, wakes up too early, and has a twin brother who runs the onigiri shop near campus.

(So he was right.)

Atsumu never asks how Suna knows. He probably assumes he mentioned it before or that Suna’s psychic. Either way, it works. The conversations spiral easily, sometimes chaotic, but strangely honest.

stranger, possibly arsonist: i swear my brother’s the most ungrateful man alive

i offered him my leftover curry

u know what he said???

suna: something polite

stranger, possibly arsonist: “i don’t eat other ppl’s tragedies”

suna: accurate

stranger, possibly arsonist: hey u ever feel like u missed ur cue to be a normal person

suna: define normal

stranger, possibly arsonist: idk

ppl who sleep at night instead of overthinkin if theyre likable

suna: nope

don’t relate

stranger, possibly arsonist: liar

stranger, possibly arsonist: u still there

suna: ye

stranger, possibly arsonist: good

don’t vanish

suna: why

stranger, possibly arsonist: idk

ur quiet’s nice

like. in a not creepy way

suna: hm

stranger, possibly arsonist: don’t “hm” me i’m being vulnerable

Suna finds himself smiling more now. Not big smiles, just small, private ones, the kind you can get away with when you’re alone. He doesn’t tell anyone. He doesn’t even know how he’d explain it if he tried. He tells himself it’s just entertainment. Like a podcast with only one host and no filter. But sometimes, in between the noise and jokes, Atsumu says things that make Suna pause. Little flashes of realness that slip through the cracks.

stranger, possibly arsonist: ppl always think i’m loud on purpose

but it’s like

if i’m quiet, i start thinkin too much

and that’s worse

Suna reads that one twice. He doesn’t reply right away. Then—

suna: makes sense

silence’s loud too sometimes

There’s a long pause before Atsumu answers.

stranger, possibly arsonist: that’s kinda deep for 3am

suna: insomniac

not philosopher

stranger, possibly arsonist: same difference

More weeks pass. Suna starts noticing things about his days now. The details he never used to care about. The way the sunlight hits his desk at noon, the sound his sneakers make against the pavement after practice, the exact hour his phone usually buzzes. Sometimes he drafts replies before the messages even arrive. Sometimes, they talk until dawn. He learns Atsumu’s favorite comfort food (fried rice with too much egg), his worst habit (oversharing), and the fact that he secretly hums while brushing his teeth. He learns that Atsumu hates being ignored, loves being right, and texts like he’s performing to an invisible audience. And he learns that silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels like waiting for a notification.

One night, Suna’s in bed, lights off, the city hum muffled outside his window. His phone buzzes once.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u still awake

He types back automatically.

suna: u ask like i ever sleep

stranger, possibly arsonist: good

suna: why

stranger, possibly arsonist: bc i had a dream i tripped on the court n my shorts fell in front of the coach

needed to tell someone before i implode

Suna laughs quietly—not a breath, not a scoff, but an actual laugh that catches him off guard.

suna: u should start a podcast

stranger, possibly arsonist: with what title

suna: “public humiliation: a memoir”

stranger, possibly arsonist: im suing

He stares at the screen for a moment, smile still ghosting at the corner of his mouth.

suna: go to sleep, arsonist

stranger, possibly arsonist: cant

too awake

suna: then talk

stranger, possibly arsonist: about what

suna: anything

There’s a beat of silence. 

stranger, possibly arsonist: today was good

i had a match

we won

n ‘samu said he was proud of me

which is rare

so yeah. today was good

Suna feels something settle in his chest that is small, stupidly warm, and annoyingly human.

suna: good.

He watches the typing bubble flicker again.

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur really bad at this yk

suna: what

stranger, possibly arsonist: small talk

suna: thanks i’m consistent

stranger, possibly arsonist: lol

The conversation tapers off. The screen fades to black. But the warmth doesn’t leave. Suna closes his eyes and thinks. Not about how strange it is that a wrong number became a habit, or how his nights feel incomplete without the sound of that digital buzz. He just thinks about how, sometimes, the quietest parts of his life get rewritten by the loudest people. And for once, he doesn’t mind the noise.

Suna doesn’t mean to keep going back.

It just happens. The shop’s convenient, that’s all. Close to his route after class, quiet enough that he can eat in peace, and the rice tastes better than it should for something wrapped in seaweed and salt. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. The truth is, it’s a little pathetic how often he looks up when the door opens. It’s not like he’s waiting for anyone. It’s just curiosity. Mild, scientific curiosity about the local fauna.

But every time, it’s only Osamu behind the counter. Calm. Polite. The kind of person who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. Suna likes that about him. It’s the opposite of everything Atsumu feels like through a screen. He orders, pays, and sits by the window. Eats slowly, scrolls through his phone, pretends he isn’t disappointed by the silence of his notifications. Atsumu hasn’t texted in two days. It shouldn’t bother him. People get busy. People have lives. He repeats that to himself like a mantra as he bites into the onigiri, the tuna mayo he ordered today, perfectly balanced, annoyingly good and pretends it tastes like normalcy.

He doesn’t check his phone again. He does. Still nothing. Maybe it’s over. Maybe the stranger finally realized there’s no reason to keep talking to someone he’s never met. Maybe Suna’s fine with that. Probably. He’s mid-sigh when the door slams open hard enough to make the wind chime above it clatter.

“’Samu! Tell me ya didn’t forget the flyers again—”

The voice is unmistakable. The same voice that fills his nights, his phone, his head. Loud, familiar, alive. Suna freezes before he can stop himself. The blonde in the doorway—tall, tan, too bright for the hour—stomps in like he owns the place. He’s complaining about something, waving his hands, the kind of loud you feel in your teeth.

Osamu doesn’t even flinch. “You’re late,” he says, monotone.

“Traffic!” Atsumu shoots back. “And also injustice!”

Suna stares. It’s a little like watching a movie after hearing the audiobook first, the voice fits, but the body moves differently than he imagined. There’s an energy to him that doesn’t come through the screen: sharp but warm, exhausting but magnetic. He laughs easily. Talks with his hands. Frowns with his whole face.

And Suna, against every shred of his better judgment, just watches. From his seat by the window, he studies the way Atsumu leans on the counter, teasing his brother. The tiny crinkle by his eyes when he grins. The soft drawl of his accent when he says, "‘Samu" a thousand small, human details he never asked for but can’t look away from. He should say something. A simple hey would do. But his tongue feels too heavy, and his chest feels too loud. Instead, he lowers his gaze to his onigiri like it suddenly requires intense academic focus. He hears Atsumu laugh again.

And when he risks another glance, Atsumu’s glancing his way too, briefly, like a reflex. Their eyes meet for half a second. Just long enough for something in Suna’s stomach to stutter. Atsumu looks away first. Keeps talking. Doesn’t recognize him. Suna doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted. He eats the rest of his onigiri in silence, pretending his pulse isn’t keeping time with the rhythm of Atsumu’s voice in the background.

That night, his phone buzzes.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever get that feelin like the world’s playin a prank on u

Suna stares at the message for a long moment. 

suna: define prank

stranger, possibly arsonist: idk

like u walk into a place n someone’s starin at u

but they don’t say anything

and ur like

did i forget pants again

Suna exhales through his nose.

suna: maybe they just recognized u

stranger, possibly arsonist: nah

if they did they woulda run away screaming

Suna’s lips twitch.

suna: bold assumption

stranger, possibly arsonist: why?

u saying u wouldn’t?

suna: i don’t run.

He puts his phone down after that, staring at the ceiling. He can’t tell if he’s the one being pranked by the universe, or if he’s just the punchline to someone else’s joke But he knows this much: he’s already looking forward to the next message. The next time Atsumu texts him, it’s late again but not the desperate 2 a.m. kind, more like the hour where the world’s asleep and the only people still awake are those who can’t sit still inside their own heads. Suna’s just gotten back to his dorm from practice. His clothes smell faintly of gym sweat and detergent, his brain’s a blur of tired muscles and static. He drops face-first into bed, doesn’t bother turning on the light. His phone buzzes once, twice.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u up

suna: no

There’s a pause.

stranger, possibly arsonist: smartass

Suna smirks into his pillow.

suna: what do u want

stranger, possibly arsonist: idk

guess i just felt like talking

suna: and i look like ur therapist

stranger, possibly arsonist: nah

ur too mean to be one

suna: thanks

stranger, possibly arsonist: that wasn’t a compliment

suna: wasn’t an insult either

There’s a beat of silence then after a few minutes where Suna thinks that might be it. Then another message comes through, longer this time.

stranger, possibly arsonist: sry btw

for not msging the past few days

i been kinda busy w/ stuff

practice and the shop and my idiot brother makin me handle promo flyers bc apparently i have a face people like

(which is a lie. people like my serves. my face just tags along for the ride.)

Suna reads it twice, maybe three times. The words feel more hesitant than Atsumu’s usual brand of chaos. He can almost hear the sheepish lilt in his voice—that mix of arrogance and apology that doesn’t know which one it’s supposed to be. He types slowly.

suna: you don’t have to explain

no big deal

not like i look forward to ur message 

A pause. 

stranger, possibly arsonist: wow

romantic

suna: i try

stranger, possibly arsonist: but yeah idk

guess i just didn’t want u to think i ghosted or smth

Suna stares at that one longer than he means to. There’s a small, stupid warmth unfurling somewhere in his chest, the kind he doesn’t like naming.

suna: didn’t cross my mind

been busy too

stranger, possibly arsonist: oh yeah?

doing what

Suna hesitates. He could tell the truth. That he’s been rewatching old game footage, lying in bed scrolling through memes, and occasionally walking an extra three blocks just to end up in a certain onigiri shop where a certain voice occasionally shatters the peace.

He doesn’t.

suna: just

stuff

stranger, possibly arsonist: wow.

detailed.

suna: confidential ops

stranger, possibly arsonist: so like

secret agent stuff??

suna: something like that

stranger, possibly arsonist: damn

nvm me bein busy then

go save the world or smth

suna: nah

too lazy

stranger, possibly arsonist: figured

They keep going until the rhythm of it settling easy between them.

A kind of unspoken truce built on banter and honesty that sneaks in through the cracks. Atsumu talks about training, about the shop, about a practice match that went to hell because his teammates “decided gravity was optional.”

He sends voice notes sometimes—messy, half-laughing rants that sound like he’s pacing while talking. Suna listens to every one of them, quietly, replaying some without realizing. He doesn’t talk much about himself. Just adds comments here and there, enough to keep Atsumu going. And Atsumu does go—endlessly, like he’s been waiting for someone to talk to who won’t tell him to shut up.

Suna lets him. He lets him talk about the customers, his brother, his annoyingly talented teammate, the exhaustion of being loud all the time. Sometimes, Atsumu trails off mid-rant with a half-hearted joke like he’s laughing to cover something else. Suna catches those moments. He doesn’t point them out. Just replies with something dumb enough to make Atsumu laugh for real.

It’s easy. Too easy. And maybe that’s the problem. Because now, the first thing Suna does after practice isn’t checking his messages for the team group chat. It’s checking for him. The stranger. The maybe-arsonist. The voice he’s never heard properly, but already knows by rhythm and punctuation. And if his phone lights up with that familiar contact name, it’s almost enough to make the day feel less quiet.

The next night, Atsumu sends, "do u ever talk about urself or is it like illegal."

suna: depends who’s asking

stranger, possibly arsonist: some guy who rants a lot but has a good heart

suna: sounds fake

stranger, possibly arsonist: yeah i get that a lot

Suna doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his reflection in the dark screen gives him away. He sighs, tosses his phone onto his pillow, and mutters to no one, “You're an idiot.”

Then checks his notifications again, just in case.

At some point, the texting stops feeling like texting. It just happens. Between hours, between meals, between thoughts. Messages blur into moments, pictures into punctuation marks in their weird, ongoing conversation that never really starts or ends.

It’s not constant. Atsumu’s not clingy but he’s present in the small ways. A good-morning meme here, a photo of a spilled protein shake captioned “murder scene in my kitchen” there. Sometimes it’s just a random rant about practice or a half-coherent voice note that sounds like he’s walking somewhere noisy.

Suna listens to them all. Opens every picture, even the ones that look like they were taken mid-chaos Like the one where Atsumu’s foot is visible in the corner of the frame, next to a shattered bowl of rice, captioned: this is what happens when u trust ur brother to “help” cook. Or another one, a blurred, overexposed shot of a volleyball court under ugly fluorescent lights.

tell me this doesn’t look haunted

Suna replies with a photo of his own: the corner of his notes, a half-eaten convenience store sandwich, his desk buried in tangled earphones. Nothing special. Nothing that gives him away.

suna: ur haunted gym vs my haunted desk

stranger, possibly arsonist: bro ur desk looks like a crime scene

suna: forensic students would kill for this evidence

stranger, possibly arsonist: u can’t just say things like that casually 😭

Sometimes Atsumu sends pictures of the shop, trays of neatly shaped onigiri, the counter, the stack of flyers he always complains about. Never people. Never faces. But the energy is unmistakably his: bold, messy, alive. Suna sends back what looks like random things: his sneakers by the gym bench, a vending machine, the shadow of his hand stretched against the floor. Nothing personal. Nothing that says here I am. But still, somehow, it starts to feel personal.

He scrolls through their thread one night. An endless scroll of memes, blurry photos, and inside jokes. The chaos has form now, a rhythm that feels almost like routine.  It’s not even the words anymore. It’s the familiarity between them. The comfort of knowing he’ll wake up to a stupid photo or a complaint about the weather.  He tells himself it’s fine. Just a stranger on the other end of a screen. A digital penpal. Someone to fill the spaces between noise and quiet. Except it’s starting to feel less like background noise. And more like gravity. One afternoon, during break, another message comes through.

stranger, possibly arsonist: look at this masterpiece

Attached is a picture. A plate of scrambled eggs that looks like it’s been through war.

suna: arsonist behavior confirmed

stranger, possibly arsonist: EXCUSE U

i tried ok

suna: why does it look like that

stranger, possibly arsonist: bc love isn’t perfect

Suna snorts out loud, earning a weird look from the guy next to him in class.

suna: u need therapy

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur one to talk secret agent

Sometimes the pictures get more casual. Atsumu’s wrist resting on a volleyball. His shoes kicked off under a bench. His reflection in a bus window or just his hair, the edge of his hoodie, sunlight bleeding over his shoulder. Suna doesn’t ask for them, but Atsumu sends them anyway. Like it’s second nature. Like this is how he speaks when words get boring. And Suna replies in kind, a photo of his cat-shaped mug, the empty court after everyone’s gone home, the hem of his hoodie. Never faces. Never full frames. Just pieces that are enough to recognize someone by rhythm, not sight.

That night, Atsumu texts again.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever think abt how weird this is

suna: talking to u?

yeah

stranger, possibly arsonist: no i mean

like how ppl can get to know each other without actually meeting

Suna stares at the screen. The typing bubble blinks, stops, blinks again. He types back slowly.

suna: depends what u mean by “know”

stranger, possibly arsonist: idk

like i feel like i could tell u anything

That one sits heavy for a while. Suna stares at it long enough that his phone screen dims. He thinks about the blonde in the shop, the noise, the warmth, the way his laughter filled the room. The same voice that now reaches him only through pixels and half-thought sentences. He types, deletes, types again.

suna: then tell me something u haven’t told anyone

A pause.

stranger, possibly arsonist: i burned toast 3 times today

suna: inspiring

stranger, possibly arsonist: ure welcome

It’s a joke, of course. But Suna feels that familiar warmth again anyway. A slow, reluctant fondness that sticks. He doesn’t know when it happened, but his day now starts and ends with the same name flashing on his screen. And if he finds himself scrolling through their old photos sometimes, just to see the corners of Atsumu’s world, frozen mid-chaos, well. No one has to know.

It starts small. Accidentally, almost.

Atsumu sends a picture of his hand first. Just his hand, stretched across a volleyball, knuckles flexed, veins barely visible in the low light. No caption. No context. Just that. Suna stares at it for a second too long before typing,

suna: nice fingers bro

stranger, possibly arsonist: wow ok objectify me why don’t u

suna: u sent it

stranger, possibly arsonist: i was showin off the ball

suna: sure u were

The next photo comes a few days later. His arm this time, mid-stretch, a sheen of sweat catching the gym lights. Captioned: this is what hard work looks like 😤💪

suna: humble much

stranger, possibly arsonist: id show more but this aint that kinda chat

suna: good to know u have standards

stranger, possibly arsonist: not many but yeah

Until it becomes a game.

Suna pretends not to notice the escalation.

The photos growing bolder, more careless, like Atsumu’s learning how far he can push before Suna calls him out. A wrist, bare and inked faintly with a bruise from practice. A knee scraped and bandaged. The slope of a shoulder peeking out from a loose shirt. The corner of his neck, where sweat glints like proof of effort. Every picture’s casual, but not really. Every caption a joke, but not just that.

Suna scrolls through them sometimes. Late at night, when the world’s too quiet and he can hear his own pulse. He tells himself it’s just curiosity. He’s seen bodies before. It’s not a big deal. Still, he catches himself typing slower now.Choosing his words carefully. He hates that he does. When Suna sends photos, they’re always understated—framed like afterthoughts. A wrist with a band around it. His legs stretched under the desk. His shoulder under the fabric of his hoodie, pale light hitting the edge of his collarbone. He doesn’t mean for them to match the tone Atsumu’s set, but somehow, they do. They start speaking in this unspoken language of partial images—a rhythm of almosts and never-quites.

stranger, possibly arsonist: do u just take artsy pics of urself for fun

suna: maybe i’m the art

stranger, possibly arsonist: holy hell ur insufferable

suna: u like it tho

stranger, possibly arsonist: no comment

Suna doesn’t know when Atsumu starts asking more questions. Maybe after one of those 2AM rants. Maybe after a photo exchange that went too quiet afterward. It starts light.

stranger, possibly arsonist: what do u study again

suna: business

stranger, possibly arsonist: oh damn fancy

u look like one of those quiet guys who judge ppl for fun

suna: not for fun

stranger, possibly arsonist: 😭😭😭 rude

what do u do for fun then

suna: exist. nap. survive.

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur so mysterious it’s annoying

suna: that’s the point

He can feel Atsumu’s energy through the screen, loud, expressive and impossible to contain even in text. He floods Suna’s inbox with the same force he uses to fill a room, and somehow, Suna finds himself orbiting that light without meaning to.  Atsumu talks about everything. Practice. His brother’s bad attitude. The team’s new setter. How his hair doesn’t cooperate when it rains. Suna listens or reads, technically and replies in that calm, dry tone that somehow makes Atsumu say even more. It’s like feeding a fire just enough to keep it burning. Sometimes Suna catches himself rereading parts of their chat, the chaos, the warmth, the weird tenderness buried under jokes. He knows too much about Atsumu now. He knows he prefers cold soba over ramen. He knows he always sets three alarms and ignores two. He knows that when Atsumu types “ugh”, he’s lying down, and when he types “lmao”, he’s not laughing at all.

But Atsumu doesn’t really know him. Suna keeps it that way. He deflects easily. Turns every question into something dry, something vague. He doesn’t lie, not exactly but he edits.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u got siblings?

suna: ye

stranger, possibly arsonist: that explains why u act like the world’s background music

suna: better than being the full soundtrack

stranger, possibly arsonist: LMAO rude

He answers without giving anything away. Keeps the walls up, but not high enough to make Atsumu leave. He doesn’t realize how practiced that balance is until one night when Atsumu says it.

stranger, possibly arsonist: sometimes i think i could guess what ur like

but then u text and i realize i don’t know shit

suna: that’s probably for the best

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur weirdly hard to figure out

suna: u sound like ur tryna

stranger, possibly arsonist: maybe i am

Suna stares at that message longer than usual. He doesn’t answer right away, partly because he doesn’t know what to say, partly because it feels like acknowledging something he’s not ready to touch yet. So instead, he sends a photo. A close-up of his hand holding his coffee cup, the ring on his finger catching the light.

suna: u think u can guess what that says abt me

stranger, possibly arsonist: that ur pretentious as hell

suna: correct

Atsumu sends back a blurry picture of his neck, head tilted, sweat-damp hair falling over the curve of his shoulder. No caption this time. Just the image. The warm skin and motion, like an accident. Suna doesn’t reply for a full minute. 

suna: cheating

stranger, possibly arsonist: nah

this is strategy

If Suna were honest which he never is, especially with himself. He’d admit that he looks forward to these exchanges more than he should. Not because of the pictures. Not because of the flirting that sneaks in between jokes. But because, for the first time in a long time, the quiet feels shared. Like someone’s talking loud enough for both of them.

It happens one random night when they’re both half-asleep and too honest for their own good.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever just think abt how life’s so much harder than it needs to be

suna: every tuesday

stranger, possibly arsonist: tf is wrong w tuesdays

suna: everything. they’re useless. not the start, not the end. just there.

stranger, possibly arsonist: lmao that’s oddly poetic

what’s so bad abt this tuesday tho

suna: my sister texted me from school asking if she can drop out

stranger, possibly arsonist: LMAO how old is she

suna: fifteen. drama level: terminal

stranger, possibly arsonist: 😭😭😭 she sounds fun

what’d u say

suna: i said yeah sure, tell mom u’ll become a yt streamer

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur a menace omg

what else did she say

suna: to sybau

stranger, possibly arsonist: shes savage

bet ur the type who acts annoyed but would kill for her

Suna pauses before replying. His thumb hovers above the keyboard for a few seconds longer than usual.

suna: maybe

stranger, possibly arsonist: that’s a yes

suna: stop psychoanalyzing me it’s gross

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur def an older brother type. quiet. tired. looks like he’d ignore u but actually listens to everything.

suna: u write horoscopes or smth?

stranger, possibly arsonist: nah just good at reading ppl 😎

suna: dangerous skill to have

stranger, possibly arsonist: only if ur hiding something 👀

suna: guess i should be careful then

After that night, their conversations start to stretch longer.

Atsumu doesn’t stop bringing up the sister and keeps asking if she’s still dramatic, if she has a boyfriend, or if Suna’s ready to “bury a body yet.” Suna just rolls with it, pretending it’s funny, even when some small, buried part of him feels weirdly seen. He’s used to being unreadable. A wall people don’t bother climbing. But Atsumu?

Atsumu keeps talking until pieces of him start slipping through the cracks. Like the thing about his sister. Like how he likes his coffee black because that’s what his dad used to drink. Like how his dorm’s too quiet sometimes, but he pretends he doesn’t care. And somehow, between the teasing and the late-night venting, Suna realizes Atsumu’s learning him, just in bits and fragments, through the spaces between words.

It starts with a video of rain. Nothing special. Just gray sky, droplets smearing down a café window, the muffled sound of chatter and jazz in the background.

stranger, possibly arsonist: rain’s pissin down again lol

feels illegal to be outside

Suna watches it three times before he replies.

suna: u talk like u just committed arson in the rain

stranger, possibly arsonist: u never know 😎

He smirks, tucking his phone away, but the sound of rain stays with him for the rest of the night.

After that, the videos come more often. Short, unpolished clips like his food, a dog passing by, his sneakers tapping to some music, a slanted shot of his shoulder as he rants midwalk about his “dumbass coach.” Atsumu never shows his face. But somehow, every clip feels loud with personality. His voice fills the gaps between Suna’s silences. Low, careless, expressive, always rising and falling like he’s talking to him, not at him. Suna doesn’t realize when it stops feeling intrusive.

One night, Atsumu sends another. A dark, grainy video. His hand holding up a plastic cup of convenience-store ice cream under a flickering streetlight. His laugh filters through faintly.

stranger, possibly arsonist: 2am dinner of champions

suna: u sound proud

stranger, possibly arsonist: hell yeah.

what are u doin rn

Suna glances at his notes spread out across the table. The untouched cup noodles. The flicker of his laptop screen reflecting off his blank stare.

suna: studying.

stranger, possibly arsonist: nerd.

suna: unemployed.

stranger, possibly arsonist: damn ok 💀

The banter is easy. Unthinking. He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until he catches himself.

That week, he starts sending videos back. Not of himself, never his face but little pieces of his day. The corner of his desk. The worn-out sneakers on the train. A sunset framed by dorm windows. He tells himself it’s just to keep things even. But somehow, it starts to feel like letting someone in. By the time Atsumu sends a video of himself, his arm this time, rolled-up sleeves, faint sweat glistening from practice. Suna doesn’t even blink.

stranger, possibly arsonist: feelin accomplished today

didn’t die in training

suna: proud of u, stranger

stranger, possibly arsonist: what do i get as a reward

suna: respect.

stranger, possibly arsonist: disgusting

suna: u asked

stranger, possibly arsonist: u could at least say “good job” with ur voice or smth 😭

Suna stares at that last message longer than he means to. Atsumu has a way of slipping things in between jokes. The kind of things that sit too heavy in the chest for something typed. He finally replies.

suna: i’d rather text.

stranger, possibly arsonist: coward

suna: probably.

And yet, later that night when he replays Atsumu’s last video, he finds himself lingering on the small sounds. The breath between words. The way the world hums around him. For the first time in a while, silence feels more like company.

It’s late again. Suna’s sitting on his bed, scrolling through nothing, the hum of his dorm light the only sound in the room. Then his phone buzzes.

stranger, possibly arsonist: hey

u awake

suna: no

stranger, possibly arsonist: good. wanna talk?

Suna sighs, sets his phone on his chest, and waits a beat before replying.

suna: do i have a choice

stranger, possibly arsonist: not really 😎

There’s a pause, then another message follows. A picture this time. A blurry shot of Atsumu’s hand holding a half-eaten popsicle, neon light streaking across his wrist. His voice comes in a second later through a video message. “Swear this thing melts faster than my dignity.” Suna chokes on a laugh.

suna: i don’t think u had much dignity to begin with

stranger, possibly arsonist: RUDE 😤

i’m barin my soul here

suna: ur soul’s sticky

stranger, possibly arsonist: ok now ur just flirtin

Suna stills. He types, deletes, then types again.

suna: i think ur definition of flirting is broken

stranger, possibly arsonist: nah

i just like gettin reactions outta u

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he doesn’t say anything. Atsumu keeps going.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever wonder what ppl imagine when they talk to someone online

like

if they think u look a certain way

sound a certain way

Suna frowns at his screen.

suna: not really.

stranger, possibly arsonist: liar.

suna: says the guy who sends knee pics

stranger, possibly arsonist: u liked em tho 😏

suna: i didn’t say that

stranger, possibly arsonist: didn’t deny it either

Suna exhales, smiling despite himself. He hates how easily Atsumu gets under his skin—how every message feels like a knock at the door he keeps pretending isn’t there.

They talk until almost 3am. Or rather, Atsumu talks, and Suna listens. He tells him about his team, his classes, how his coach yells too much, how he accidentally spilled energy drink all over his notes, how he once fell asleep on a Zoom call and no one noticed for twenty minutes. He says it all like it’s no big deal, but there’s a quiet pulse beneath it. A kind of restlessness Suna recognizes. Like they’re both trying to talk around something unnamed.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever think we’d get along in person?

Suna blinks at the message.

suna: i think we’d fight within five minutes.

stranger, possibly arsonist: fight then make up?

suna: ur optimistic

stranger, possibly arsonist: nah

just got a good feelin bout u

He doesn’t respond right away. He rereads the text twice, the words sinking like warmth through his ribs. It’s stupid, he thinks. He doesn’t even know who Atsumu really is. Just voice clips, glimpses of hands, shoulders, laughter through static. But it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

The next day, Atsumu provokes him again. Sending another photo: his arm draped over the back of a chair, sleeveless shirt, tanned skin.

stranger, possibly arsonist: rate the guns

suna: u look like a construction worker

stranger, possibly arsonist: so 10/10 then??

suna: 4. for effort

stranger, possibly arsonist: u flirt worse than i do

suna: who said i was flirting

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur texts say “no” but ur tone says “keep going”

Suna stares at that one longer than he wants to. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t stop him. Suna doesn’t know when the texts stopped feeling like interruptions and started feeling like rhythm. Something constant, steady, like a heartbeat he didn’t notice syncing with his own. He doesn’t admit that, of course. Not even to himself. It’s just nice, that’s all. A distraction. Something to look at between classes. A routine.

And then, one afternoon. Right when he’s half-asleep in the library his phone buzzes.

stranger, possibly arsonist: rate this

It’s a photo. A little grainy, like it was taken in a hurry. Atsumu’s lying on what looks like a gym mat, the collar of his shirt pulled loose, sweat still glistening on his neck. The frame only catches the bottom half of his face, mouth slightly open, and jawline sharp in the low light. Suna blinks. Then looks again. Then stares at the message for a full thirty seconds before his brain restarts.

suna: 3

stranger, possibly arsonist: 3?? u serious?? 😭😭😭

suna: ok 2 then

stranger, possibly arsonist: i was tryin to show off the angle, dumbass

suna: what angle

stranger, possibly arsonist: the jawline

Suna snorts quietly, because the librarian’s giving him a death glare but he can’t help it. He knows that jawline. He’s seen it before. In real life, across a small onigiri shop, attached to a loud blonde who makes everything feel like a scene. Still, the sight of it on his screen knocks the air out of him. It’s not the same as seeing Atsumu in person. It’s closer. Too close. He doesn’t realize he’s been staring until his phone buzzes again.

stranger, possibly arsonist: what

stunned into silence?

didn’t know a man could be this beautiful huh

Suna huffs, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

suna: u look sweaty

stranger, possibly arsonist: thx for noticing 😉

suna: that’s not a compliment

stranger, possibly arsonist: felt like one

He puts the phone down, face buried in his arm to hide a smile he’ll never admit to having.

That night, Atsumu sends another video. No words this time. Just him sitting on the floor, back against the wall, shirt wrinkled, hair damp. The camera shakes slightly as he reaches up to wipe his face with his sleeve. The corner of his mouth—half his face again, nothing more—catches in the frame when he laughs quietly at something off-screen. It shouldn’t make Suna’s chest feel like this. He replays it. Once. Twice. Then he locks his phone, like that might help. It doesn’t. He keeps seeing that half-smile behind his eyelids. Keeps hearing that laugh that’s become too familiar. He tells himself it’s nothing. He’s just used to the guy’s voice. That’s all. He’s just curious. Just bored. His phone buzzes again.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u there

suna: yeah

stranger, possibly arsonist: do u ever think abt what we look like when we talk?

Suna hesitates.

suna: sometimes

stranger, possibly arsonist: and?

suna: u look like trouble

stranger, possibly arsonist: wrong. i am trouble.

so what do u look like then?

Suna smirks faintly, fingers tapping once against the glass.

suna: better not to know

stranger, possibly arsonist: bold of u to assume i’ll stop askin 😎

suna: bold of u to assume i’ll answer

stranger, possibly arsonist: maybe i’ll find out myself then

Suna stares at that last message a beat too long. There’s a tease in it but underneath, something else. Something that hums too close to real. He puts his phone face down, stretches out on his bed, and stares at the ceiling until the glow fades behind his eyelids. He already knows what the guy looks like. But it still feels like a secret. And that, somehow, makes it worse.

Suna wakes up to a barrage of messages. Not the usual slow trickle of late-night chaos, no, this is a flood. His phone vibrates so hard it nearly throws itself off the nightstand.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u have the social media presence of a dead man

i looked u up on 4 different apps

nothing

not even a profile pic

are u in witness protection or what

Suna stares at the screen through half-lidded eyes, one arm flopped over his face. It’s not the first time he’s woken up like this but somehow, every time feels like being hit by a very loud truck made of vowels. He scrolls lazily through the string of texts.

stranger, possibly arsonist: do u even exist???

like r u even REAL??

im startin to think ur a bot or a 40 yr old serial killer in disguise

or worse

a minimalist.

Suna actually laughs. The kind of quiet, low sound that only comes out when he’s caught off guard. He rolls onto his side, thumbs out a reply.

suna: u stalkin me now?

stranger, possibly arsonist: its not stalking if its for SCIENCE

suna: science huh

stranger, possibly arsonist: YEAH

i just needed to confirm u weren’t some creepy old dude catfishing me

suna: sounds like somethin a creepy old dude would say

stranger, possibly arsonist: DONT TURN THIS ON ME 😤

Suna grins at the screen, thumb tapping idly.

suna: whatd u expect to find anyway

stranger, possibly arsonist: idk

a selfie

a hint

SOMETHING

maybe ur favorite cereal brand

a blurry gym mirror pic

SOMETHIN HUMAN

suna: i post with my mind

stranger, possibly arsonist: UR SO ANNOYING

suna: u texted me first

stranger, possibly arsonist: AND I REGRET IT EVERY DAY

suna: u say that but here u are

There’s a pause. 

stranger, possibly arsonist: shut up.

Suna sets the phone on his chest, smirking at the ceiling. He can picture it perfectly. The pout, the furrowed brows, the exact shade of stubborn that comes with every single text Atsumu sends.  It’s ridiculous. He should be asleep. Or studying. Or doing anything else other than imagining the face behind the words. The one he’s already seen in real life, except this version is different. Looser. Rawer. A little bit realer through the glow of a phone screen. He scrolls up through their messages—weeks of noise, jokes, insults, and late-night confessions smashed together into something that shouldn’t feel this personal but does anyway.

suna: i like it better this way anyway

The reply takes longer than usual.

stranger, possibly arsonist: what way

suna: lil mysterious 

Another pause. 

stranger, possibly arsonist: u say that like u got secrets

suna: everyone’s got secrets

stranger, possibly arsonist: damn

cryptic AND boring

suna: u like me anyway

stranger, possibly arsonist: shut UP

Suna laughs again, quiet, low, and genuine this time. The kind of laugh that stays with him even after the phone’s dark.

It starts the way most of Atsumu’s bad ideas do, at 1:37 a.m., accompanied by a photo and absolutely no context. The photo’s blurry, all shadows and half of a jawline again.

stranger, possibly arsonist: there. happy now?

Suna blinks at it. He can’t decide what’s funnier, that it’s an accidental thirst trap, or that Atsumu thought this counted as restraint.

suna: u sendin me ur chin again?

stranger, possibly arsonist: maybe i just wanted 2 prove im not a bot

suna: bots dont spell “to” like that

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur SO mean

suna: u love it

stranger, possibly arsonist: …maybe

Suna snorts, flipping onto his side. The glow from his phone paints the sheets faint blue. He doesn’t save the photo, but he doesn’t delete it either. It just sits there in their chat, a little piece of chaos preserved. Then come the follow-ups. A photo of an arm draped over a volleyball. A shot of knees in sweatpants, captioned "u wish u were this comfy.” A mirror selfie cut off just before his face, the caption reading, “too hot to post online.”

At first, Suna ignores them. 

Then he doesn’t. One night, he replies with a picture of his own, just his wrist up to his arm, a black band loosely circling it, the edge of a blanket visible in the corner.

suna: equality

The typing bubble appears, disappears, comes back again.

stranger, possibly arsonist: IS THAT A WRIST REVEAL

suna: u gotta pay premium for elbows

stranger, possibly arsonist: oh im def the type to tip 😏

Suna chokes on air, laughing into his pillow. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, grinning despite himself.

He tells himself it’s harmless. Just flirting. Just the usual back-and-forth that fills the quiet parts of the day. But lately, the quiet’s starting to sound like him.

They fall into another rhythm. It’s not every day, not constant, but steady, like breathing. Photos of coffee mugs. Screenshots of bad tweets. Videos of Atsumu’s hand waving wildly as he complains about teammates “betrayin’ him emotionally” during drills.

Once, he even sends a clip of himself singing off-key in the car, voice raw and unfiltered. Suna watches all of it. Sometimes he replies. Sometimes he doesn’t. But he always watches. He starts noticing things. How Atsumu talks with his hands even when he’s alone, how the light in his room changes from gold to gray depending on the time of day, how his energy never quite hides the exhaustion underneath.

It’s disarming. Too human for someone who used to be just a name and a contact labeled “stranger, possibly arsonist.” Suna tries to act normal about it. He still keeps the tone easy, half-serious at best. But some nights, when the messages go quiet, he catches himself scrolling back through their old conversations just to see the rhythm of their chaos again. But the baiting gets worse.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u ever gonna send a face pic or do i gotta file a missing persons report

suna: no one’s missin me

stranger, possibly arsonist: ok emo boy calm down

cmon just one pic 

uve seen like half my face by now

suna: tragic mistake on ur part

stranger, possibly arsonist: ur so mysterious its annoying

how do i know ur not actually 50

suna: how do i know ur not a deepfake of a blond himbo

stranger, possibly arsonist: rude

also kinda accurate

suna: thought so

stranger, possibly arsonist: fine then

if u wont send ur face

send ur breakfast

prove ur real

Suna rolls his eyes but the next morning, he sends a picture anyway. A shot of his desk. Half-empty coffee cup. Unopened notes. A lazy sunbeam cutting through it.

suna: proof of life

stranger, possibly arsonist: i KNEW IT

a coffee drinker who hates himself

suna: u say that like it’s rare

stranger, possibly arsonist: rare?? it’s ur entire vibe

Suna chuckles quietly. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until someone from his class asks what’s funny. He just shakes his head. “Nothing.”

The shift’s gradual like warmth creeping in through a half-open window. It’s in the way Atsumu sends a picture of dinner with the caption, “burnt but edible.” In how Suna starts sending random updates without being asked—a cat crossing the street, rain against the glass, the mess of his desk before a test. In how the messages begin and end with soft little check-ins neither of them acknowledge out loud.

stranger, possibly arsonist: u eat yet

suna: yeah

u?

stranger, possibly arsonist: nope

forgot again

suna: eat somethin. not plums

stranger, possibly arsonist: u remembered that huh

suna: u don’t shut up about it

stranger, possibly arsonist: liar u love it

suna: yeah. maybe i do.

A long pause.

stranger, possibly arsonist: same

By then, the idea of “not knowing him” feels ridiculous. Suna knows his voice, his habits, the rhythm of his breathing when he’s half-asleep. He knows what makes him mad, what makes him laugh, what quiet looks like on someone who doesn’t do quiet well. He knows all of it except the one thing he’s already seen but can’t say he knows. His face. His name. That familiar blonde blur that keeps slipping through his days like a secret. Suna doesn’t tell him. Not yet. Because something about not saying it keeps this delicate, strange little world intact. And for now, he wants to stay in it. But he still clicked his contact's name and changed it to tsumu.

tsumu: u awake

Suna blinks at the screen, half-buried in his sheets. The dorm’s dark except for the faint streetlight glow sneaking through the blinds. He checks the time.

1:48 a.m.

He sighs, thumbs moving automatically.

suna: apparently

tsumu: cant sleep

suna: u ever do?

tsumu: rude 😤

suna: honest

A minute passes. Then another. He thinks maybe Atsumu fell asleep mid-reply again which, honestly, would be very on brand until the typing bubble comes back.

tsumu: i just wanted 2 hear from u

Suna stills. He stares at the message until the letters start to blur. There’s something so stupidly simple about it that it almost aches. He should make a joke. He should send back a meme or a sarcastic line and let the moment slip by, like he always does. But his fingers type something slower, smaller.

suna: then hear me

He doesn’t mean it literally. He just means I’m here. But before he can even put his phone down, it starts ringing. Atsumu’s name lights up the screen.

tsumu.

For a second, Suna just stares at it like it’s something fragile, something alive. The first ring passes. Then the second.He answers.

There’s silence on the other end. Not the awkward kind. The kind filled with faint sounds: sheets rustling, someone breathing, the soft hum of late night. Then, Atsumu’s voice, low, unguarded, and half-asleep.

“…hey.”

It’s not the usual Atsumu, not the hurricane that texts him in all caps, not the loud idiot picking fights with rice balls. This one’s slower. Softer.

Suna exhales quietly, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey yourself.”

“Didn’t think ya’d actually pick up.”

“You called me.”

“Yeah, well,” a breath of a laugh, “ya never pick up. Thought I’d test my luck.”

“Maybe it’s an accident,” Suna says, lazy drawl matching his.

A pause. Then, “Ya ain’t hangin’ up though.”

“Maybe I’m curious.”

“Maybe yer weird.”

“Definitely.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s warm, stretching slow like they’ve been here a hundred times before.

Atsumu sighs, sheets rustling faintly on his end. “Long day.”

“Practice?”

“Yeah. Coach said I was bein’ too much again. Like, what’s that even mean? That’s just me, man. I am too much.”

Suna hums, amused. “That part I believe.”

“Oi,” Atsumu mutters, half-laughing, “yer supposed t’sympathize, Sunarin.”

“I am. Deeply.” Suna raises his left eyebrow in the nickname. "We doin' nicknames now?"

"Ya like it?"

Suna hesitates before answering. "Only if I get to call you a nickname too."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

""Tsumu."

“Uh-huh.” Another pause. Softer now. “Ya always sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like yer smilin’ even when yer not.”

Suna blinks, surprised. “You can tell?”

“‘Course I can,” Atsumu says, voice dipping lower, quieter. “Yer voice gets all… I dunno. Warm.”

Suna laughs under his breath, embarrassed for no reason. “Must be bad connection.”

“Nah,” Atsumu says, tone fading into something tired but fond. “Connection’s perfect.”

There’s a shuffling noise — like he’s moving, settling in. The sound of a blanket. The faintest yawn.

“Yer still there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Another beat of quiet. Then, softer still, “Don’t hang up yet.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

Suna closes his eyes, phone balanced against his ear, the warmth of Atsumu’s voice threading through the dark. It’s steady and alive like the background noise he never realized he missed. He listens to the rhythm of it, to the way Atsumu’s breathing slows until it’s soft and even, and somewhere in that quiet hum, he falls asleep too. When Suna wakes up, it’s to sunlight he didn’t ask for and a voice he shouldn’t be hearing this early.

“…ya still alive, Sunarin?”

He blinks groggily, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes half-open. His phone is still on the pillow beside him, screen dimmed, call timer blinking in faint blue numbers: 4:23:17.

The voice hums again, low, amused, too close to his ear even through the phone. “Yer breathin’, so I’ll take that as a yes.”

Suna groans softly, turning over. “You’re loud for someone unconscious a minute ago.”

“Wasn’t unconscious,” Atsumu says, yawning. “Was restin’ my vocal cords.”

“Right. You snored.”

“I don’t snore,” he says instantly, defensive and sleepy at once. “That’s fake news.”

Suna’s lips twitch. “Pretty sure my phone disagrees.”

“Oh yeah? Gimme evidence.”

“Next time, I’ll record it.”

“That’s creepy.”

“You’re the one who called me at 2 a.m. to talk about your coach.”

Atsumu laughs again with that soft, scratchy kind that sounds like sunshine filtered through exhaustion. “Yeah, well, ya answered.”

“Still regretting it.”

“No ya ain’t.”

He isn’t.

Suna stretches, one arm draped lazily over his forehead, eyes half-closed as the sound of Atsumu’s breathing fills the small silence between them. It’s ridiculous, how natural it feels like they’ve done this a hundred mornings already.

Atsumu speaks again, voice smaller now, quieter. “Did we—uh. Stay on the call all night?”

“Looks like it.”

“Oh god.” A groan. “Did I say anythin’ weird?”

“Define weird.”

“Like—” he hesitates, “like confessin’ my secrets or somethin’.”

Suna snorts. “Not that I remember. You did threaten to fight your coach in your sleep though.”

“…sounds accurate.”

They both laugh, easy, unguarded. The kind of laugh that slips out when your guard’s down and the world’s still half-dreaming.

Atsumu hums again, quieter now. “Hey, Sunarin.”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for pickin’ up last night.”

Suna opens his mouth, but nothing comes out right away. The honesty in Atsumu’s voice isn’t the loud, dramatic kind. It’s soft around the edges, genuine in a way that makes Suna’s chest feel too tight for words.

He settles for, “You talk too much.”

Atsumu laughs again — but there’s warmth in it this time. “Yeah, but ya like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

They don’t hang up. Not for a while. Not until Atsumu says, reluctantly, “Gotta go before 'Samu finds out I used all our data.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thanks, Rin.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely usin’ that again.”

The call ends, finally. Suna stares at the quiet screen for a long second before flipping it face-down on the bed. His cheeks hurt from trying not to smile.

It happens again three nights later. Not planned, not discussed. It just happens. Atsumu sends a late-night text first.

tsumu: can’t sleep again

the universe hates me

suna: universe told me it’s mutual

And then the phone rings. They talk about nothing. Stupid things, really. Osamu’s cooking. Their first games. Why the moon looks too close tonight. Atsumu’s voice dips softer each time until it’s half a mumble, half a laugh. The next night, it’s Suna who calls first. He doesn’t mean to. He just does.

"S’that ya actually callin' first? Thought my phone broke."

"Don’t get used to it

"Too late."

After that, it becomes a habit. Although not every night. Sometimes they fall asleep mid-sentence, waking to the sound of the other breathing through static. Sometimes they talk until sunrise, voices growing slower, quieter, until words blur into warmth. They start measuring time in calls, in hours spent half-talking, half-listening. Atsumu starts saying “night, Sunarin” like it’s a punctuation mark. Suna starts leaving his phone beside the pillow without thinking. And in the quiet hum between their laughs and yawns, something begins to bloom, small, steady and unnamed. It’s hard to say when it stops being “just texting.” Maybe it’s the morning Atsumu sends a picture of his breakfast, something so violently yellow that Suna has to squint at it.

tsumu: eggs r kinda burnt lol 

suna: those eggs have seen god

Maybe it’s the moment Atsumu starts sending voice notes instead of long texts, his accent rolling through the speaker, bright and lazy and too easy to listen to. Or maybe it’s when Suna realizes his day feels off if he doesn’t get a message from him before noon. He doesn’t know when it happens. Just that it does. They text constantly now. Little things, stupid things, things no one else would bother saying out loud.

tsumu: osamu bought the wrong rice again.

suna: tragic. tell the media.

tsumu: i will.

tsumu: u eaten?

suna: yeah.

tsumu: liar.

Suna stares at that last text for too long. He’s lying in bed, hair still damp from a rushed shower, hoodie half-zipped. His stomach grumbles traitorously, loud in the quiet of his dorm. He sighs and types back,

suna: instant ramen counts.

tsumu: barely. that’s sodium n sadness.

suna: ur personality.

tsumu: hurtful 😔

He laughs. Out loud, this time. God, he really shouldn’t but it slips out before he can stop it. Every day after that looks the same. Wake up. Check messages. Smile at something stupid. Classes blur into white noise; all he remembers is the ping of a new notification.

tsumu: u won’t believe what just happened

suna: osamu kicked u out again?

tsumu: ok RUDE i’ll have u know i was INVITED to leave

Sometimes they send pictures, not even interesting ones. Just coffee cups, sneakers, the corner of a sunset through the window. Suna starts replying with his own: a shot of his notes, his hand holding a pen, the reflection of a vending machine light on glass. It’s weird. He’s never been someone who shares. Not out of secrecy, just habit—keeping things to himself always felt easier, quieter. But with Atsumu, it’s different. The walls don’t crumble all at once; they melt, slow and steady, until one day he realizes there’s nothing left to hide behind.

Their nightly calls start as jokes.

tsumu: bedtime check-in 😌

suna: u a therapist now?

tsumu: only charge is attention n affection

It becomes routine faster than either of them admits. At first, they recap the day. Then they drift—talking about what they ate, what they’d rather eat, which professors they’d fight in an alley. Atsumu laughs a lot. Loud and unrestrained. The kind of laugh that fills the whole line. Suna listens, sometimes contributing just enough to keep him going. He likes listening. It’s simple. It’s grounding. Sometimes Atsumu talks about volleyball, about the pressure, the noise, the expectation. He swears, complains, then laughs it off like it doesn’t matter. But Suna hears the exhaustion under it—the soft ache between words. He doesn’t say anything about it, but he starts replying faster. Staying longer on calls. Letting his silence mean I’m here, just talk.

And Atsumu does. Every night.

Suna doesn’t realize how much of his life Atsumu has occupied until he catches himself saying something out loud in class and thinking, Tsumu would’ve laughed at that. Or when he passes a new onigiri shop and instinctively takes a picture, thumbs hesitating before sending it.

suna: u’d like this place

tsumu: u talkin like we’re gonna go together or somethin 👀

suna: ur delusional

tsumu: i like that u didn’t say no tho 😌

Suna stares at the message for a full minute before muttering, “Annoying,” under his breath.

But his chest feels weirdly warm. The calls stretch longer now. Bleeding into morning more often than not. Sometimes they fall asleep mid-sentence, waking to the sound of the other breathing on the line. It’s stupid. It’s unhealthy. It’s perfect. He tells himself it’s just convenience. Routine. But the truth slips out when he least expects it.

“Hey, Tsumu,” he says one night, voice low from sleep.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I think I like talkin’ to... you.”

A beat of silence. Then Atsumu’s soft laugh, half-teasing, half-genuine. “Yeah, yeah. Bet ya say that to all the wrong-number strangers.”

“Only the ones who curse at me first.”

“Yer so weird.”

“You're weird.”

“Fine. Guess we’re both freaks then.”

Suna smiles. Quiet. Small. The kind that’s not supposed to matter but does anyway. They don’t hang up until morning.

By the next week, it’s muscle memory, texting updates, voice notes, blurry photos, late-night calls. They orbit each other without realizing it. Suna stops pretending it’s no big deal. He doesn’t even try to rebuild the wall. It happens gradually. Like most dangerous things do. At first, it’s just more of the same, texts that start the day, calls that fill the gaps in between. But then the edges soften. The rhythm shifts. There’s a gentleness now, hidden under all the jokes and banter.

It starts with the song. Suna doesn’t mean to send it. He’s half-asleep on the bus, earbuds in, the sky outside still gray and heavy. The song comes on shuffle—lazy bass line, soft vocals—and it sounds like something Atsumu would complain about being too slow, only to hum along halfway through.

So he sends it.

suna: song of the day. 

[Spotify link]

He doesn’t add context. Doesn’t explain that he thought of him halfway through the first verse. Atsumu replies four minutes later:

tsumu: this makes me feel like i got dumped in a cinematic way

suna: that’s the point

tsumu: wow ur depressed n artistic huh

suna: dont project

tsumu: 😭😭😭 fine but im keepin this on loop tho

And he does. Suna hears it in the background of their next call, faint and tinny through the speaker. Atsumu pays him back with a TikTok video two days later. Some chaotic clip of a cat slapping its owner mid-meow.

tsumu: look its so u

suna: im the cat or the owner

tsumu: both. violent n unbothered

Suna chuckles despite himself. He doesn’t even like TikTok, but every night, another one arrives. The algorithm starts showing up on his feed now, and that’s when he realizes Atsumu’s chaos is contagious. The exchange becomes habit. Suna sends a song. Atsumu sends a video. Somewhere between irony and comfort, it becomes them.

The calls shift too. No longer confined to night. Now they happen anywhere between classes, during walks, in the middle of grocery runs.

“Yer callin’ me again,” Atsumu teases once, voice echoing faintly against wind and laughter. “Miss me that much?”

“Just needed to hear you make a fool of yourself,” Suna says.

“Aw, ya coulda just said yes.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Bet ya wouldn’t.”

And maybe he’s right.

They talk while Suna walks home, or when Atsumu’s stuck in traffic, or while one of them is cooking. Suna learns that Atsumu burns rice but makes perfect soft-boiled eggs. Atsumu learns that Suna doesn’t like tea unless it’s bitter enough to fight him. These are useless things. Small, inconsequential facts. But they settle into the gaps of Suna’s day like breath, like heartbeat. Sometimes the line goes quiet but not awkward, just easy.

“Ya still there?” Atsumu asks once, voice lower now, slower.

“Yeah.”

“Thought ya fell asleep.”

“Mm. Thinkin’.”

“‘Bout what?”

Suna hesitates, then smirks faintly. “Why you talk so much.”

Atsumu scoffs, but there’s a smile in it. “Yer just jealous my voice sounds sexy.”

Suna snorts. “Yeah, sure. Keep dreamin’, Tsumu.”

“Yer the only one who calls me that, y’know. Aside from 'Samu, I mean.”

It’s said casually, but it hits somewhere low in Suna’s chest. He doesn’t reply right away. Just hums—soft, noncommittal.  He doesn’t know why. Just that it feels right.

Days pass. Then weeks. And the quiet between them grows warmer. Atsumu’s messages get softer around the edges not less chaotic, but laced with small, unexpected care.

tsumu: dont skip lunch today

suna: bossy

tsumu: i worry ok 😤

Or —

tsumu: take a pic of the view there

suna: y

tsumu: wanna see how ur day looks

Suna sends one, pretending it’s no big deal. A window, gray sky, sunlight smearing across his desk. Atsumu replies with a photo of his own, warm light, messy counter, a half-eaten sandwich. It’s domestic. Stupidly, terrifyingly domestic. Suna starts catching himself reaching for his phone before he’s even fully awake. Not to scroll. Just to check. He hates how instinctive it’s become. How natural it feels to tell Atsumu what he had for lunch, how his class went, that the vending machine finally restocked his favorite drink. He catches himself mid-text sometimes, staring at the screen, thinking, When did you become the first person I tell things to?

That night, after sending the song of the day—a mellow one, all guitar and low hum—he adds a second message before he can think too much about it.

suna: for u, loudmouth.

Atsumu replies instantly.

tsumu: damn u flirtin now?? 😳

suna: no.

tsumu: sure sure. ill send u a tiktok as a thank u 😌

The video’s ridiculous. Atsumu’s laughter in the background isn’t. It’s not romance. Not yet. But it’s something with teeth and heartbeat. Something that hums under Suna’s skin when the phone lights up. And for the first time, he stops pretending he’s not waiting for it. He doesn’t notice right away—not until it’s too late. At first, it’s just convenience. A text in the morning, a voice in the middle of the day, a call that lasts too long. But then, somewhere between all the memes and good-natured bickering, it becomes need.

Suna realizes it one morning when his phone dies halfway through class. No pings. No buzzes. Just static silence.

He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself it’s stupid to feel restless over one person, one voice, one stranger who somehow got tangled up in his routine. But the second he plugs it back in and sees the flood of messages.

tsumu: bro where’d u go

don’t make me think u got kidnapped

or worse

studying 😭

sunarin???

i was about to call ur school lol

He exhales, slow, quiet, the tension unspooling from somewhere he didn’t realize was tight.

suna: phone died.

tsumu: omg u had me WORRIED 😭

suna: u dramatic

tsumu: i was THIS close to makin a missing person poster 😤

Suna laughs. Out loud. He doesn’t tell Atsumu that his chest feels lighter again.

Their calls become the punctuation of his days. One before lunch, one before bed. It’s not planned, just understood. Sometimes they don’t even talk about anything. Atsumu will be cooking (“tryin’ not to burn rice again, wish me luck”), and Suna will be sprawled on his bed, watching the ceiling. Other times, Atsumu’s too loud, too bright, too much but Suna leaves the phone on speaker anyway, lets the sound fill the room like background noise he’s learned to crave.

Atsumu, meanwhile, starts getting caught.

“Yer always on that damn phone,” Osamu says one afternoon from the shop counter.

Atsumu, one earbud in, phone propped against a sugar jar, barely looks up. “‘Cause unlike some people, I have a social life,” he shoots back.

“Talkin’ to that stranger again?”

“Not a stranger,” Atsumu mutters, tapping his screen. “He’s Sunarin.”

Osamu raises an eyebrow. “Sunarin? That even a real name?”

“Shut up.”

Atsumu flips him off and turns back to the phone, grinning when he hears Suna laugh faintly through the speaker. “Don’t mind ‘im,” he tells Suna, voice dripping with fake sweetness. “He’s stupid.”

“Sounds like family resemblance,” Suna deadpans.

Atsumu gasps dramatically. “Yer lucky yer pretty, Sunarin.”

“Bold of you to assume.”

“Oh, I know.”

Osamu groans from the background. “God, yer insufferable.”

“Love you too, bro!” Atsumu shouts back, still grinning.

Suna doesn’t say anything, but he can hear the warmth in Atsumu’s laugh, the way he softens even in the chaos. It’s stupidly endearing.

Days blur into weeks. The messages multiply.

tsumu: look at this dog i think looks like u 😭

suna: rude

tsumu: nah i mean it’s cute but like. tired of life.

suna: that’s accurate then.

and

tsumu: u eat yet

suna: yeah

tsumu: liar

suna: ate air

tsumu: im buyin u vitamins istg

It’s like that, all the time. A constant, ridiculous rhythm. Sometimes Atsumu’s voice drops lower when he’s tired, rougher around the edges. Sometimes Suna’s replies come slower, quieter, like he’s thinking too much. Neither of them says it, but both know what it means. They start timing their days unconsciously around each other. Suna leaves the gym a few minutes early just so he can answer a call. Atsumu starts bringing his charger everywhere because “I can’t have my battery dyin’ mid-Sunarin-time.”

And if Osamu comments about it again—“Yer smilin’ at yer phone like a lovesick idiot.” —Atsumu just flips him off and says, “Mind yer own business, stupid.”

Suna hears that part through the call and laughs, low and lazy.

“Yer laughin’ at me now?”

“Always,” Suna says.

Atsumu huffs. “One day I’ll hang up on ya for real.”

“You won’t.”

There’s a beat of silence — and then a small, fond sigh. “…Yeah. I won’t.”

Suna finds himself smiling more often lately. In between classes. During lunch. Sometimes for no reason at all. He doesn’t overthink it. He just lets it happen. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know when the calls stopped being noise and started feeling like something alive. Something that fills every quiet space he never noticed was empty before.

Suna doesn’t notice when it starts to slip. 

At first, it’s just one missed call. Then a delayed reply. Then another day gone quiet. Atsumu’s “good morning” texts turn into half-hour-late “oops slept in lol.” Their nightly calls get replaced by voice notes—quick, scattered, too cheerful to be real. When Suna finally asks if he’s okay, Atsumu says he’s “just busy.”

Busy.

That’s the word Suna hates most now. It’s vague enough to mean anything, soft enough to sound harmless. Busy could mean tired. Busy could mean losing interest. Busy could mean done. He doesn’t ask which one. He just says,

suna: it’s fine. u don’t have to explain.

tsumu: nah i just got practice n stuff!! u know me!!

suna: yeah. i know.

He doesn’t. Not really. But he wants to. Days pass like static. Suna still sends songs. More of a habit, not hope. Still checks his phone between classes, even when he pretends he’s not. Still scrolls through old messages sometimes, reading the same dumb jokes until they stop feeling funny. He tells himself to get over it. To stop waiting. To stop wanting.

But he can’t shake the weight of absence. The shape of a voice that filled every quiet space and then disappeared like it was never there. It’s stupid. He shouldn’t care this much about someone he’s never even met properly. But the human brain’s cruel like that. It builds homes out of voices. It memorizes warmth. It tricks you into missing people you’ve only known through a screen.

And Suna—

He’s tired of missing things.

He holds out for one more day. Then another. Then, on the third night, something snaps. Quiet but final, like a door clicking shut. He doesn’t think. He just moves. Jacket, phone, keys. Shoes half-tied. No plan, no reason, just motion. The city hums under streetlights as he walks, that low buzz of life that feels too bright for how hollow his chest feels. By the time he reaches the familiar corner, he’s already rehearsed the words—something casual, maybe teasing. Nothing too serious. "Just wanted to see if you’re still alive." Or, "you owe me three missed calls, dumbass." Something like that. Something safe. The bell above the door jingles.

Warm light. The smell of rice and soy sauce. Familiar voices—low, steady, rhythmic. Suna’s heart drops before his mind catches up.

There he is.

Atsumu.

Loud, golden, real. Leaning against the counter, half-grinning, half-talking, energy vibrating through the small shop like it can’t contain him. Next to him, Osamu wipes down a tray with the patience of a man who’s been dealing with this for years. And beside them — another guy. Taller, dark curls, mask tucked under his chin. Sakusa Kiyoomi. Suna recognizes him from the news, the matches, the kind of fame that doesn’t need introduction. He’s standing close to Atsumu, too close. Something cold and unfamiliar coils in Suna’s gut.

He doesn’t move. He watches as Atsumu laughs. Loud, unrestrained, that same sound that used to pour through his phone like sunlight through static. It sounds exactly the same. But here, in person, it’s not his. Suna’s fingers tighten around his phone. He could walk up. Say something. Anything.

But his body won’t move. He stands there, framed in the doorway, invisible in the small noise of ordinary life. And in that strange, suspended moment, the realization hits him. That he’s been orbiting someone who never even noticed how close he’d gotten. Atsumu tilts his head back to laugh at something Sakusa says, hair catching the light. Osamu smirks faintly, muttering something under his breath. It’s such a simple scene. So normal. So complete without him. And Suna suddenly feels like an intruder in his own story.

He backs away quietly, the door chiming soft as it closes behind him. The night air hits cold against his skin. He doesn’t go home right away. He just stands there on the sidewalk, phone in hand, staring at the dark screen. There’s a thousand things he could text. None of them make sense anymore. He exhales slowly. One long breath, like deflating. Then he unlocks his phone, thumb hovering over the last message.

tsumu: u know u can always call me right lol

tsumu: i’ll prob answer too fast n scare ya

tsumu: anyway gn sunarin

He doesn’t reply. He just saves the message, turns the screen off, and slips the phone back into his pocket. The city hums around him, loud and alive. He feels small, quiet, muted. He thought silence used to mean peace. But tonight, it just sounds like missing someone who never realized they were being missed.

Suna goes silent. Not the passive kind. The kind that swallows everything—replies, thoughts, the need to explain. He doesn’t mute Atsumu’s messages. He just doesn’t open them. They sit there, stacked like guilt, like unopened mail you’re too afraid to deal with.

tsumu: hey sunarin u alive

tsumu: i saw this cat that looks like u LMAO

tsumu: hellooo

tsumu: ok u mad at me??

tsumu: i didn’t do anything tho??

He doesn’t answer. He reads them anyway. Every “hey” cuts sharper than it should. Every little “lol” feels like a taunt. He tells himself to get over it—that he’s being irrational, that this isn’t a thing. Because it’s not. Right?

Right.

Atsumu owes him nothing. Suna owes him nothing. They don’t even know each other. And yet here he is, sitting in his room like someone just walked out on him mid-sentence. He doesn’t even know why it stings this much. Maybe it’s because Atsumu didn’t tell him. Didn’t warn him. Didn’t mention that he was busy with someone else. Suna laughs bitterly. Like he had any right to that information. He stares at the ceiling, eyes tracing the cracks like they might answer something. When did he start waiting on texts like they were lifelines? When did his day start syncing with someone else’s notifications?Somewhere along the way, Atsumu’s voice replaced his silence. His phone stopped being a distraction. It became connection. And when that voice went quiet, everything else did too. 

It’s pathetic. He knows it. But awareness doesn’t make it stop. He goes through his routine like normal—classes, notes, half-eaten lunch. Except now he catches himself doing things he only started because Atsumu said he should. Buying coffee from that place near the station because “it’s got the strongest brew, swear to god.” Wearing the hoodie Atsumu said made him look like a “sleepy delinquent.” Listening to those dumb playlists. It’s like the whole day’s built around echoes of him. He scrolls back through their chats because apparently self-sabotage is a hobby now. There’s so much laughter there. So much stupid, trivial warmth.  He lingers on one message.

tsumu: sometimes i forget ive never seen u fr lol but i want to

Suna blinks. His throat feels tight. He wishes he didn’t remember how that felt to read the first time. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close enough to fool him. He spends the next few days avoiding the onigiri shop. Avoiding anywhere he might see that same blonde grin. He tells himself it’s just to cool off, to get perspective. But he knows that’s a lie. He’s scared of what’ll happen if he sees Atsumu again—if he hears his voice and it feels too familiar, too warm. He’s not supposed to be hurt. He’s supposed to be chill, detached, indifferent. That’s what people expect of him—the guy who never cares too much. And maybe that’s why it hurts more. Because for once, he did. He cared. Too fast, too hard, too quietly for anyone to notice. He deletes their call history. Then scrolls to the messages. He doesn’t delete those. He just renames the contact.

“tsumu” becomes “—”.

Not out of anger. Just damage control.

He keeps telling himself it’s fine. That it’ll fade. That people are replaceable, that dependence is temporary, that connections through glass aren’t real. But every time his phone buzzes, his heart still jumps before his brain catches up. Every time someone laughs too loud in the hallway, his head turns—half-expecting that voice, that accent. And every night, when it’s quiet again, he catches himself reaching for the phone before stopping short. There’s nothing there. There shouldn’t be. But the silence feels too much like punishment. He lies back, arm draped over his eyes, voice low in the dark—a whisper meant for no one. “Get a grip, Rintarou.”

He doesn’t.

Suna wakes up one morning and decides he’s over it.

Just like that. Simple. Logical. Efficient. He gets up, brushes his teeth, scrolls through headlines that don’t matter, and convinces himself that this—this hollow stretch of quiet—is how things should be. It lasts three hours. By lunch, he’s restless. His phone stays face-down, but his mind keeps flicking toward it like a reflex. Every buzz that isn’t him stings. Every silence that might be him stings worse.

So, he throws himself into routine. Classes, errands, anything that keeps him moving. He eats alone, walks home slower than usual, fills his nights with meaningless noise. Random shows, playlists, even those ten-hour rain videos on YouTube. It’s pathetic, but at least it’s productive pathetic. He starts replying to group chats again. Starts teasing his friends, scrolling through memes, pretending that he hasn’t memorized the pattern of one specific contact’s notifications. When his friends ask if he’s busy that weekend, he says sure, why not. Anything to stop checking the corner of every café for a blond head and a too-loud laugh.

The first call comes at 10:47 p.m. He stares at the screen. Doesn’t move. The name doesn’t even say tsumu anymore, just a dash. He lets it ring out. Then another. And another. By the fifth one, he turns his phone face-down again, jaw tight. He can feel the vibration through the table like a pulse he’s trying to ignore. It stops. He exhales. Then it buzzes again— a message this time.

—: are u ignoring me

He doesn’t answer.

—: i swear if ur mad bc i was busy im gonna—

—: ok maybe i am sorry if it made u mad but wtf sunarin

—: ur killin me here 😭

Suna tosses the phone onto his bed and mutters, “Drama queen.” Except he can’t sleep after that. He keeps hearing the accent in his head—loud, whiny, real. The sound that used to fill every night now replaced by the hiss of the air-con.

The next morning, there are seven missed calls and three voice messages. He listens to the first one out of habit. Atsumu’s voice spills through—half-annoyed, half-desperate: “Sunarin, I swear ta god if you’re ghostin’ me, I’ll— I’ll send you a thousand pics of my breakfast till you answer!”

Suna snorts, despite himself. He deletes it before it can feel like forgiveness. He thinks he’s doing fine until he catches himself opening their old chat thread just to scroll. Every photo, every stupid sticker, every voice note—still there. Still his. He locks his phone and swears under his breath. This is stupid. He’s stupid. He was fine before this. He was. He didn’t need anyone’s voice at the end of the day. Didn’t need good-morning texts or someone nagging him to eat. He was comfortable in his quiet, in the dullness of things. And yet somehow, that loud-mouthed stranger cracked it open—left pieces of himself wedged into every ordinary thing. Now, every silence feels like a bruise he keeps pressing. That night, the phone rings again. Once. Twice. It doesn’t stop.

—: sunarin pls answer i’ll stop if u just tell me u hate me or smth

He doesn’t. But he doesn’t delete the message either. He sets his phone down, stares at it like it’s a living thing. He tells himself he’ll give it one more day. Just one. Then maybe the ache will start to fade. He falls asleep with the phone beside his pillow. Screen dark, voice unheard. Suna thinks he just needs to get out of his room before his brain starts leaking out of his ears. That’s all. He hasn’t gone out properly in days, not unless you count quick runs to the convenience store with his hood up and AirPods in.

So when Ginjima texts, “me and aran grabbing dinner, u in?” He says yes before he can talk himself out of it. 

They end up in a soba restaurant that smells like nostalgia and sesame oil. The table’s too small, the lighting’s too warm, and the laughter around them feels too loud. Suna stares at the menu. He doesn’t even like soba that much. He knows someone who does, though—He stops there. Forks that thought straight into the mental trash bin.

Nope. Not doing that.

He takes a sip of water. Tries to listen to Ginjima and Aran arguing about who’s paying. It’s normal. It’s fine. He’s fine. Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Twice. He doesn’t even look. “Do Not Disturb” is on. His new religion. He eats quietly, half-listening, half-existing, when the bell over the door jingles. It’s such an ordinary sound. He almost doesn’t look up.

Almost.

Then he sees the blonde. And the world briefly stops moving. Atsumu walks in, loud as ever, the kind of presence that fills a room before he even speaks. Osamu’s beside him, rolling his eyes like it’s a reflex. Suna’s chopsticks still midair. His pulse? Loud enough to hear. It’s fine, he tells himself. He doesn’t know my face. He doesn’t know my face. He doesn’t—

“Yo, Aran?”

Suna’s stomach drops.

Of course.

Of course Atsumu recognizes Aran. They played against each other in college last year.

“Eh?” Aran looks up, blinking. “Oh—Miya Atsumu?”

Atsumu grins, all teeth. “Yeah! I thought that was ya, man! Damn, it’s been ages!”

“Couldn’t tell with that hair,” Aran laughs, and they fist-bump like old friends.

Osamu groans beside his twin. “Here we go. He’s gonna talk about the ‘good ol’ days’ again.”

“I won that match!” Atsumu retorts.

“Ya lost by six points.”

“Technicalities.”

Suna wants to disappear into his soba. He lowers his head, quietly chewing, trying to look like an unremarkable background extra. Then, as if the universe hates him personally, Aran gestures casually. “These are my friends, by the way. Ginjima, and Suna.”

Atsumu’s grin stills for half a second when his eyes land on him. It’s subtle, but Suna feels it like static in the air. Then Atsumu blinks, smiles again, too casually.

“Oh yeah? Nice ta meet ya,” he says, accent curling over the words. His voice is the same one Suna’s been avoiding for weeks. The one that lived in his phone, in his ears, in his damn chest. "This is Osamu, my twin."

Osamu snorts but smiled at them. "Nice to meet ya"

“Yeah,” Suna manages, cool, even. “You too.” While Ginjima just smiled with a nod.

He’s proud of how steady he sounds. If Aran notices the slight stiffness, he doesn’t comment. They all chat, well, they chat. Atsumu and Aran are bickering about training,  Osamu’s lecturing about restaurant margins, and Ginjima’s just egging everyone on. Suna keeps his eyes down, pretending to focus on his food. But he can feel it. Atsumu glancing his way. Once. Twice. Like something’s tugging at the edge of his memory. Suna’s throat goes dry. He drinks water just to do something. It’s fine. Atsumu won’t piece it together. There are millions of guys named Suna. He probably won’t even remember the voice from that one week he spent yelling through a phone at some stranger who accidentally became his best friend—

“Suna,” Atsumu says suddenly, leaning slightly forward, voice too curious.

Suna looks up, deadpan, because he has to.

Atsumu squints at him. “Ya look kinda familiar.”

Suna smiles. That polite, bored kind of smile he’s perfected for survival. “Oh?”

Osamu laughs. “He says that to everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

Atsumu hums. Still watching him. Suna forces another bite of soba, ignoring how his pulse is crawling up his neck. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Inside, though, everything’s chaos, sharp, stupid, heart-wrenching chaos. Because now that they’re in the same room, breathing the same air, he realizes something terrifying: Atsumu feels real again. And that, somehow, hurts worse than when he was just a voice behind a screen.

The Miya twins settle across from them. The table suddenly feels smaller. Louder. More crowded than it has any right to be. Suna sits rigidly, chopsticks balanced between his fingers, pretending to read the condiments like they hold the secret to peace of mind. Osamu sets down his tray, glances across at him.

“Oh, yer that regular, right? Always order the same thing. I knew I’ve seen ya somewhere.”

Suna blinks. “Uh… yeah.”

Osamu snaps his fingers like he’s just solved a crime. “Knew it. Ya always stand there like yer judgin’ my rice.”

Suna fights the urge to sink into his seat. “I wasn’t.”

Osamu chuckles. “Sure.”

Atsumu looks between them, eyebrows raised. “Wait, wait—ya know him?”

“Customer,” Osamu says. “Quiet guy. Always polite though. Barely talks.”

Suna nods once, the universal gesture for please stop talking before I die. But Atsumu leans in, elbows on the table, grin lazy and interested in a way that makes Suna’s stomach twist. “Oh yeah? So ya do talk.”

“Sometimes,” Suna mutters.

Atsumu’s grin widens. “Ah, so he’s got a voice. That’s new.”

Suna’s pulse skips. His head feels light for a second. He knows that tone, teasing, familiar, all heat and smugness. It’s the same tone that used to come through the phone when Atsumu called him Sunarin. He swallows hard. Plays it off. If Atsumu thinks he’s the same person, fine. Let him. There’s no way he’ll actually figure it out. Still, Atsumu’s eyes linger too long, curious and sharp, like he’s trying to match a voice to a face.

“So, what do ya do, Suna?”

Suna shrugs. “Student.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

Atsumu huffs. “Ya always this chatty?”

“Only on special occasions.”

Osamu snorts. Aran looks like he wants to laugh but knows better. Ginjima coughs into his drink. “He’s not really talkative, Miya-san,” he says, voice caught between helpful and desperate.

Suna stares at his soba, pretending he’s deeply invested in a single strand of noodle. He can feel Atsumu watching him. It’s suffocating—not in a bad way, but in the too aware of every movement kind of way. Like suddenly the air’s got weight.

“Ya sure we haven’t met before?” Atsumu says suddenly, tone casual but eyes a little too sharp.

Suna glances up, feigns indifference. “Pretty sure.”

Atsumu squints. “Weird. Ya sound familiar.”

Osamu groans. “Not this again. Ya said that to the delivery guy last week.”

“But this one does,” Atsumu insists, pointing a chopstick toward Suna. “Like I’ve heard ‘im talk before—”

“Maybe in a dream,” Suna deadpans, hoping humor will save him from combustion.

It doesn’t. Atsumu laughs, bright and too easy. “Dream, huh? That’s one way ta remember someone.”

“Yeah,” Suna says flatly. “Nightmare, probably.”

That earns a laugh from Ginjima and Aran, who clearly think this is just normal banter. But Suna’s fingers are tight around his chopsticks under the table. He can’t shake the feeling that Atsumu’s close to putting it together—like he’s circling something, some memory that won’t quite click. The entire dinner blurs after that. Conversations flow around him, laughter too loud, voices overlapping, and still—Atsumu keeps glancing at him. Not constantly. Just enough that Suna feels it every single time.  

By the time the bill comes, he’s half certain he’s sweated through his shirt. He’s quiet when they stand to leave, shoulders tense. Aran pats him on the back, chatting about plans next week. Atsumu stands beside Osamu, hands in pockets, smile easy.

“See ya around,” Atsumu says.

Suna nods once, and stayed silent before his voice betrays him. But his heart is doing backflips against his ribs. He walks out before anyone can see his hands shake. Suna leaves the soba place like he’s escaping something except the thing he’s running from keeps trailing behind his ribs. The night air’s cooler than it should be, cutting through the lingering noise in his head. He walks without destination, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes half on the pavement, half on his reflection in the windows he passes. He’s not sure what expression he’s wearing. Something between blank and embarrassed. Maybe a little lost, too, though he refuses to admit that part even to himself. He replays the dinner in his head. The laughter, the stupid teasing, that moment when Atsumu tilted his head and said, “Ya sound familiar.”

His brain keeps looping it like a bad song. He could’ve lied better. He could’ve kept a straight face, maybe deflected, maybe even laughed it off more convincingly. But no, he just had to sit there looking like he’d been personally unplugged from the world.

By the time he’s halfway back to his dorm, his phone buzzes. The group chat’s alive. Aran dropping memes, Ginjima gushing about the soba, someone asking if everyone got home safe. Suna watches the screen light up. Then he presses the power button.  He’s not in the mood to pretend he’s fine. Not when his chest still feels tight from whatever that was. He walks slower.

The streetlights flicker overhead, long shadows stretching at his feet. It’s stupid, he knows. Objectively, cosmically stupid. Because even if Atsumu did recognize his voice but so what? What difference would that make? They were alread what? Something undefined. Two people orbiting each other through screens and late-night calls. A name doesn’t change that. A face doesn’t either.

So what if Atsumu figured it out? So what?

He tells himself that the whole way home. It doesn’t help.

Suna tries to go back to normal.

He really does. He gets up, goes to class, answers messages in the group chat when he has to. He even stops by the onigiri shop again once, quick and casual, pretending he doesn’t notice when Osamu raises an eyebrow and asks if he’s been keeping busy lately. He nods. Says “yeah.” Leaves before the silence can swallow him. The thing is, he was fine before. His life had rhythm. Small, quiet, boring exactly how he liked it. Now it just feels like static. He scrolls through his playlist one night, sees the folder labeled “for tsumu.” His thumb hesitates before swiping past it. He doesn’t delete it. But he doesn’t play it either. His phone keeps lighting up anyway. Calls. Missed ones. A few texts, too, short ones, simple ones.

—: hey

u alive

stop ignorin me dumbass i already saw u

finally. thank god

hey

really?

fine. whatever.

He reads them all. Doesn’t reply. He even sets his phone to Do Not Disturb for a while. Just so the buzzing stops making him feel things. It’s fine. It’s all fine. (He tells himself that a lot lately.) But it’s been two weeks now.

Two weeks of silence that feels heavier than it should. Two weeks of pretending he doesn’t look for that name when his phone lights up. Two weeks of half-heartedly living like nothing happened. He catches himself scrolling through old messages one night. Those long, unfiltered ones where Atsumu complained about practice, about his brother, about life. He re-reads the parts where he teased back. Where Atsumu laughed in text form, all caps and crying emojis. He stares at the screen until it blurs. He can almost hear the voice again. That stupid, bright, reckless accent that used to fill the space between his walls. And it hits him, quiet but hard:

He misses him.

Not the chaos, not the noise. Just him. The messages. The calls. The way Atsumu’s voice softened at the edges when it was late and he was tired and trying not to admit it. Suna exhales, long and shaky, like it physically hurts to admit something that simple.  He presses the heel of his palm against his eyes. “God, I’m pathetic,” he mutters into the dark.

Because it’s true. He was fine before. He had silence and peace and quiet. All the things he said he wanted. And now? Now silence feels like a punishment.

Suna lasts exactly two weeks and three days.

That’s how long it takes before the silence stops feeling like self-control and starts feeling like self-destruction. He wakes up that morning with the same hollow ache in his chest, the same unread messages sitting in his notifications, the same voice in his head telling him, don’t be stupid. But today, it’s not enough to stop him. His phone buzzes again, another call. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t ignore it either. He just stares at the screen until it stops ringing, and when the silence falls again, he lets out a long, rough sigh. He’s tired of this. Of running in circles with someone who doesn’t even know he’s being chased. So before he can talk himself out of it, he’s out the door. No plan, no message, no warning. Just the stupid impulse that’s been clawing at him for days.

The bell above Onigiri Miya chimes when he pushes the door open. The shop smells the same. Warm rice, soy sauce, a faint hint of grilled fish. It’s early enough that the crowd hasn’t come in yet. The only people inside are Osamu behind the counter, and there.

Atsumu.

He’s slouched in the corner booth, one hand loosely holding his phone, the other curled around a half-empty cup of tea. There’s a slump to his shoulders, his usually animated face softened into something small. He looks—mopey, Suna thinks. Miserable, even. The sight hits harder than it should. Osamu glances up when the bell rings. His eyebrows twitch upward in surprise. “Oh. Suna.”

Suna doesn’t respond. His pulse is loud in his ears, drowning out everything else. He walks straight toward the booth. Atsumu doesn’t even notice him until Suna stops right in front of him. The blond looks up, slow, confused, eyes narrowing slightly like his brain’s trying to place the face. Suna exhales, steadying himself, then says it.

“Miya Atsumu.” His own voice sounds steadier than he feels.

Osamu, halfway through drying a tray, pauses mid-motion. His eyes flick back and forth between them.

Atsumu blinks. Once. Twice. Then the confusion gives way to disbelief.

“…What the—” He squints, leaning back slightly. “Ya— wait. Yer—”

Suna just stares, silent.

And Atsumu’s eyes widen, a slow realization dawning in the split second before his jaw drops.

“Sunarin?”

Suna almost flinches at the name. The one that’s been echoing through his phone speakers for months.

He folds his arms, forcing his voice to stay even. “Yeah.”

Atsumu blinks rapidly, still processing. “Ya— yer here? I mean, I knew ya were, but—shit—why didn’t ya just tell me, ya asshole?”

Suna doesn’t answer right away. His chest feels too tight, his throat too dry.

“Because you didn’t ask,” he finally mutters.

Osamu sets the tray down with a clack. “Should I close early?” he says, half-joking, but no one answers him.

Atsumu runs a hand through his hair, a nervous laugh bubbling out. “Holy shit, I can’t believe this— yer really—”

“Stop talking,” Suna cuts in, quieter, sharper than he intends.

Atsumu freezes.

Suna exhales again, softer this time. “You stopped calling,” he says, and the words come out before he can stop them. “You just disappeared.”

Atsumu opens his mouth, closes it again. His throat works. “I didn’t mean to— I was just— it’s been—”

“I don’t care,” Suna interrupts, but his voice cracks halfway through, betraying him. “You know what you did. I mean, I really shouldn’t care. You don’t owe me anything.”

The air feels heavy between them. Osamu has the decency to step into the back, muttering something about cleaning stock, though they both know he’s listening from the kitchen. Atsumu pushes back his chair, standing up, still searching Suna’s face like he’s afraid to blink. “Ya think I don’t care?”

“I think I let myself care too much,” Suna says quietly.

Atsumu’s breath catches, and for a long second, they just stand there. Two people who’d talked for hours but never really seen each other until now. Suna doesn’t know if he wants to yell or laugh or leave. His body feels like it’s all three at once. Atsumu’s first instinct is to open his mouth—he always does. But this time, nothing clever comes out. No loud excuse, no half-assed joke. Just a shaky, “I’m sorry.”

The words sound wrong coming from him. Too small for someone who fills every space he’s in. Suna exhales a humorless laugh. “You’re sorry.”

“I am,” Atsumu says quickly. His voice drops, the accent heavier now, thick like it gets when he’s nervous. “I didn’t mean t’ disappear, I just—shit, things got crazy, and—”

“Crazy.” Suna repeats the word like it’s foreign. “You make it sound like you got abducted.”

Atsumu flinches. “It’s not like that. I had practice, and—”

“And you couldn’t text?” Suna’s voice sharpens, surprising even himself. “You couldn’t say ‘hey, I’m alive’? After months of— what, talking every day? After you made it—” He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The last thing he wants is to sound pathetic.

But Atsumu hears it anyway. He always does. “RIn—”

“Don’t.” Suna’s tone snaps, low and rough. “Don’t call me that right now.”

The silence that follows is heavy. The clatter from the kitchen sounds far away.

Suna rubs a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. “You know what’s funny? I used to be fine. Like, genuinely fine. I did my thing, went to class, played volleyball, scrolled through memes, ate trash for dinner—whatever. My life was simple. Predictable. Empty maybe, but quiet.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Then some stranger started texting me threats at midnight, and I thought, huh, maybe this’ll be fun.”

Atsumu’s mouth twitches, guilt written all over his face. “I didn’t mean t’—”

“I know you didn’t.” Suna looks up, finally meeting his eyes. “But you did. You messed me up, Miya. You got in my head without even trying. You made it so I started measuring my days by when my phone buzzed. You made me—” He swallows hard. “You made me want to tell someone about my day.”

The words hang between them like smoke. Suna’s pulse is loud in his ears again. Atsumu opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again—like he’s fighting himself. His voice comes out softer than Suna’s ever heard it. “I didn’t think I’d matter that much, ya know?”

“You didn’t.” Suna exhales. “That’s the worst part. You didn’t try. You were just—being you. Loud, annoying, impossible. And I—” He stops, the words catching. “I’m the idiot who kept answering.”

He laughs again, but it’s not funny. “You didn’t even know who I was.”

“I do,” Atsumu says quietly.

Suna looks at him—really looks at him. The messy blond hair, the tired eyes, the faint guilt tugging at his mouth. He’s still him—louder than life even when he’s silent. The kind of person who walks into a room and leaves it spinning. The kind of person you don’t realize you’re missing until they’re gone. Suna hates that he still wants to stay. Atsumu’s voice drops even lower. “It’s not like I disappeared fer no reason. I had practice, an’… an’ I didn’t know how t’ fix it. I just—didn’t know what we were anymore. Ya were still… ya, but not. I didn’t wanna screw it up.”

Suna scoffs. “Congratulations. You did anyway.”

That earns him a quiet laugh—dry, self-deprecating. “Yeah. Figures.”

Neither of them says anything after that. Osamu pretends not to stare from behind the counter, but his dishtowel’s been frozen mid-wipe for the last three minutes. Suna finally looks away first, his throat tight. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

Atsumu reaches out before he can move, fingers brushing the edge of Suna’s sleeve. Not gripping, just touching. “Don't go.”

Suna stares down at that hand—tanned skin, knuckles rough from practice. He could pull away. He should. Atsumu’s hand lingers there—barely touching, but it feels like an anchor. Suna should step back. He doesn’t.

“Yer not the only one, Rin.” Atsumu breathes in sharply, like he’s bracing himself. “Ya think yer the only one who got messed up?”

Suna’s brows pull together. “What?”

“I’m just as screwed as you are,” Atsumu says, his voice trembling somewhere between frustrated and pleading. “Ya think I just stopped talkin’ t’ you for fun? I didn’t stop because I wanted to, Rin. I stopped because every time I texted ya, it got harder t’ stop.”

The nickname lands soft and heavy. Suna hates how it makes his stomach twist. Atsumu laughs under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Ya know what it’s like, wakin’ up and checkin’ yer phone before even gettin’ outta bed? Hopin’ there’s somethin’ stupid from ya. A song, a meme, a photo of yer stupid cat mug or whatever? It’s pathetic.”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t even realize when it happened. One day, ya were just this weird number that cursed back at me, and the next thing I knew, I was tellin’ ya everythin’. Every stupid thought. Every bad day. Like—” He stops himself, exhaling through his nose. “Like ya were mine.”

Suna’s throat goes dry. “You don’t mean that.”

Atsumu lets out a shaky laugh. “Don’t I? Then why do I keep comin’ back, huh? Why did I text ya first thing after every practice? Why did I take pictures of every damn thing I thought ya’d like? Why did I look for ya in every crowd even when I didn’t know what ya looked like?”

He takes a small step closer. Suna doesn’t move.

“I tried t’ stay away. Thought maybe if I stopped callin’, I’d get my head on straight. But it didn’t work.” Atsumu’s voice drops to a rough whisper. “Because ya were already in it.”

The air between them feels charged like if either of them moves, something irreversible will happen.

Suna’s heartbeat stutters, his mouth opening before he can stop it. “You’re full of shit.”

Atsumu smiles, small and tired. “Yeah. Probably. But it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

He tilts his head, searching Suna’s face—the one he’s only ever seen through grainy photos, careful angles, blurred shadows. “Ya think I didn’t notice ya too? The way you started soundin’ softer at night? The way ya’d send a song but never say why? The way ya’d stay on the line, even when ya weren’t talkin’?”

Suna feels heat crawl up his neck. “You overthink everything.”

“Only when it’s ya.”

That makes Suna look up, finally meeting his eyes and there it is again. That stupid sincerity that makes Atsumu impossible to ignore. For once, there’s no smugness, no teasing grin. Just honesty, raw and unfiltered, like it hurts him to say it. Suna’s chest feels tight. He wants to look away but can’t.

Atsumu’s voice softens, trembling slightly. “I didn’t come back to ya because I had to, Rin. I came back because I didn’t know how not to.”

Suna doesn’t remember moving. One second he’s standing there, barely holding himself together, and the next, the words are spilling out of him like a dam giving way.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Atsumu’s eyes widen a little, startled, but he doesn’t move.

Suna laughs, low and bitter. “You think I’m angry just because you disappeared? That I’m this dramatic over a few missed calls? You really don’t get it.”

Atsumu opens his mouth, but Suna cuts him off, voice trembling but sharp.

“I saw you first.”

That makes Atsumu freeze.

Suna continues, his words picking up speed, like he’s afraid if he stops, he won’t start again. “That day at the shop before you even knew who I was. You were being loud, annoying, arguing with the cashier who looked like your clone. I watched you and thought, figures. That’s the guy who’s been blowing up my phone. The guy who wouldn’t shut up, who called me at 2 a.m. to vent about his day like we were something.”

His chest heaves. “And I let you. I let you in. I told myself it was fine because you didn’t know me, not really. It was safe that way. Just words and calls and photos that didn’t show faces. Just enough to feel close without it being real.”

Atsumu takes a small breath, like he’s about to say something, but Suna’s too far gone to stop now.

“But you kept coming back. Every day. Every damn hour sometimes. You made it easy to talk, easy to care. And when I finally did— when I thought maybe I had someone I could actually rely on, someone who saw me even when he didn’t—” He laughs again, sharp and broken. “You disappeared.”

The silence that follows hurts more than the words.

Atsumu swallows hard. “Rin—”

Suna’s jaw tightens. “Don’t. I said don't say my name like that.”

Atsumu’s mouth opens, closes again. His hands curl into fists at his sides, but he stays quiet.

Suna takes another breath, shaky, raw. “And I told myself it was nothing. That it was stupid to care that much. But then—” His voice falters. “Then I saw you.”

Atsumu’s brows furrow.

“I went here only to find you,” Suna says quietly. “With Osamu. And that guy. Sakusa.”

Atsumu blinks, realization hitting slow, heavy.

“I didn’t plan it,” Suna mutters. “I just—needed to get out of my head. And then there you were. Laughing. With him. And suddenly, all the excuses you were making—being busy, being tired—made sense.”

The words tremble now. “And I felt—God, I felt so fucking stupid.”

Atsumu takes a hesitant step forward, but Suna steps back.

“I shouldn’t have cared,” he goes on, voice cracking. “You didn’t owe me anything. We weren’t anything. You could talk to whoever you wanted, be with whoever you wanted. But knowing that didn’t stop it from—” He presses a fist against his chest, hard. “—hurting. And I hated myself for it. For thinking I had a place in your life when I didn’t.”

He laughs once more, hollow, exhausted sound. “You talk to me like I matter, and then you disappear like I don’t. What am I supposed to do with that, huh?”

Atsumu’s breathing is uneven now. His voice, when it comes, is small, almost careful. “Ya think I didn’t notice ya were gone too?”

Suna shakes his head, eyes stinging. “Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Atsumu says, louder this time. “I thought about ya every damn day. I kept looking for yer face but I didn't know who ya are. I kept asking random people if they're ya... I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how t’ come back after I screwed it up. But I didn't stop reaching out to ya. Yer the one who pushed me away.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Suna looks at him then, really looks. And it’s infuriating how sincere he looks when he says it. Like he actually means it. Atsumu steps closer, slow, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. “Yer not the only one who got attached, Rin. Yer not the only one who felt lost when it stopped.”

Suna’s throat tightens. His next words come out small. “Then why did you stop?”

Atsumu exhales, his voice trembling. “Because I got scared. Because it stopped bein’ just fun, or comfort, or noise. Ya started matterin’ too much, and I didn’t know what t’ do with that. So I did what I always do.” He laughs quietly, bitterly. “Ran.”

Suna stares at him, at the mess of him, the honesty, the nervous hand rubbing the back of his neck. He hates him a little. He hates how much he missed him more. Suna exhales through his nose, a shaky sound that isn’t quite a sigh.

“Do you even get what that did to me?” he murmurs. “You vanish and I start thinking—maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I imagined how close we got. Maybe I was just convenient to talk to when you were bored.”

Atsumu’s shoulders draw in, his voice small. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I know,” Suna snaps, then winces, softer now. “I know it wasn’t. That’s the problem.”

He presses a hand to the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the worn floorboards. “I tried to go back to normal. Tried to fill the space you left with stupid things. Volleyball. Music. Sleep. It didn’t work. You got into everything, like static.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and raw. “You know what’s pathetic? I’d wake up and check my phone before I even opened my eyes. I’d start typing something to you, then delete it before I finished the first word. I missed you, and I didn’t even know how to explain it.”

Atsumu’s breath catches, just barely audible. “Rin…”

Suna’s voice shakes. “I missed you in ways that didn’t make sense. In silence. In noise. In stupid little things. I’d hear a song and think, ‘he’d like this.’ I’d eat something and think, ‘he’d complain about this being too plain.’ I’d catch myself smirking at my phone like an idiot even when there was nothing there.”

He laughs, short and rough. “You turned into a habit I couldn’t quit.”

Atsumu’s eyes soften, no smile this time, just guilt twisting into something gentler. His accent slips in, low and steady. “I missed ya too, y’know. Everythin’ felt too damn quiet without ya talkin’ in my ear. Even the noise didn’t sound right.”

Suna shakes his head, jaw tight. “You don’t get it.”

“Then tell me,” Atsumu says, a little desperate now, accent thickening. “Please. Tell me what I don’t get.”

Suna finally looks up. His eyes are glassy, but not from tears, from restraint. “You became the thing I reached for without thinking. The one person I wanted to tell everything to, even the parts that didn’t matter. And when that stopped, it felt like losing air.”

His voice lowers, quiet enough that only Atsumu can hear. “You made me forget how to be fine by myself.”

The words land like something too heavy for the room to hold. Atsumu’s mouth parts, no comeback, no joke. Just a breath, unsteady. He steps closer, the floor creaking softly. “I’m sorry, Rin,” he says, the accent curling around the syllables. “I didn’t mean t’ take that from ya. I didn’t know I could.”

Suna exhales, sharp, bitter, but his voice is tired now. “You didn’t take it. I gave it to you.”

Atsumu’s hand twitches like he wants to reach out but doesn’t trust himself to. The silence stretches.

Finally, Suna murmurs, almost to himself, “You ran, yeah. But I kept standing where you left me. And that’s worse.”

Atsumu closes his eyes briefly, something breaking loose in his expression. “Then maybe I’m here t’ find ya again.”

Suna huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh. “You don’t even know if I want to be found.”

Atsumu looks at him, quiet for once. “Then lemme try anyway.”

Atsumu exhales shakily, the sound scraping out of him like he’s been holding it for too long.

“I missed ya too,” he says, voice low, frayed at the edges. “Ya think I stopped reachin’ out ‘cause I didn’t care? I couldn’t stop, Rin. I tried, but I couldn’t.”

Suna doesn’t say anything—doesn’t trust himself to. Atsumu keeps talking, like if he stops, he’ll never get it out again.

“I realized what I was losin’. And I couldn’t—” His voice breaks off; he swallows hard. “I couldn’t accept it. The quiet after ya was too loud, y’know? Like I’d walk into my own damn head and all I could hear was the echo of ya not bein’ there.”

Suna blinks, the words hitting somewhere he doesn’t want to name.

Atsumu laughs weakly, shaking his head. “I felt like I was goin’ crazy. Like some addict havin’ a relapse, itchin’ for a hit that ain’t there. I’d check my phone a hundred times a day, thinkin’ maybe ya texted. I’d scroll through old messages just to hear yer voice in my head again.” He drags a hand down his face, exhausted. “Even 'Samu told me to let it go. Said I was just makin’ it worse. Told me I was usin’ ya like a crutch. But he didn’t get it either.”

He glances up at Suna, eyes burning with something raw. “Ya weren’t a crutch. Ya were the only thing that made me stop feelin’ like I was runnin’ in circles.”

Suna’s throat tightens. His voice comes out soft, brittle. “Then why disappear?”

Atsumu laughs under his breath—broken, self-deprecating. “’Cause I thought if I kept talkin’ to ya, I’d want more. And I didn’t know what the hell that meant. Didn’t know what to do with wantin’ ya that much.” He presses his palm against his chest like he’s trying to steady something inside him. “I thought I could quit just as easy. Just walk away, pretend it wasn’t that deep. But it didn’t stick. Every time I stopped myself from textin’ ya, I felt like I was losin’ my mind.”

Suna stares at him, words caught behind his teeth. He can see it now, the unguarded truth behind Atsumu’s recklessness, the loneliness bleeding through the cracks of his grin.

Atsumu’s voice softens, a rough whisper now. “I didn’t listen t’ 'Samu ‘cause he didn’t know what it felt like. I didn’t just miss ya, Rin. I needed ya.”

That word lands between them like something neither of them can touch.

Suna looks away, his voice quiet, raw. “You don’t get to say that like it’s not too late.”

Atsumu’s eyes flicker, not hurt, just tired. “I know. But I’m sayin’ it anyway.”

The silence that follows feels heavy, but not hopeless like the air right before rain. Suna exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, not sure whether he wants to step closer or walk away. They just stand there. Not saying anything. The air between them still feels electric, not in the good way, not yet. It’s the kind of charge that follows thunder, when the world’s still holding its breath. Atsumu looks like he’s got more to say, mouth half-open, hands fidgeting at his sides. Suna doesn’t trust himself to listen. Not right now. He can feel everything pulsing behind his ribs. The leftover anger, the relief, the ache that shouldn’t feel like hope.

So they just stand there. It’s stupid, really. Two idiots staring each other down in the middle of a half-empty onigiri shop like time forgot to keep moving. Then a loud sigh breaks the silence.

“Alright,” Osamu says flatly from behind the counter. “If ya two are done starin’ each other down like yer about to brawl or make out—pick one, ‘cause I can’t have both happenin’ in my shop.”

Atsumu groans. “Shut up, ‘Samu.”

Osamu arches a brow. “Then sit down. Yer makin’ the customers nervous. And Suna—” he gestures to the nearest table with a tilt of his chin, “—ya look like yer about to pass out. Sit.”

Suna blinks, still a little dazed. He doesn’t even argue. Just moves, because standing feels harder than anything else right now. Atsumu follows, wordless. They sit across from each other at the small table near the corner—the same spot Suna found him sulking in earlier.

Neither of them knows where to start again, so they don’t. Osamu sets down two cups of water with a soft clink, then mutters, “Cool off first. Then talk like normal human beings. Or at least try.”

When he walks away, the silence returns—quieter this time. Not empty, just tired. Suna stares at the condensation gathering at the rim of his glass. His hands won’t stop shaking, so he hides them under the table. He can feel Atsumu watching him, but for once, he doesn’t look away.  The rush of everything that just happened still spins in his head. Too much to untangle, too raw to deny. Maybe cooling down isn’t the worst idea.

He exhales, low and quiet. “…Fine,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “We’ll talk. Later.”

Atsumu nods, eyes soft, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Later.”

The silence stretches. Long enough for Suna to hear the faint hum of the refrigerator behind the counter, the soft clatter of Osamu wiping something down to fill the air. It’s grounding and unbearable at the same time. Atsumu’s the first to break it. He exhales hard, rubs a hand over his face, then leans forward with his elbows on the table. “For the record,” he says, voice low, accent peeking through his exhaustion, “Sakusa’s just a friend.”

Suna doesn’t say anything. He just watches him—waiting, wary. Atsumu’s leg bounces under the table, like he’s fighting the urge to fill every pause.

“I mean it,” he adds quickly, eyes darting up to meet Suna’s. “He was helpin’ me. Well, tryin’ to. I was losin’ my mind over—” He stops himself, bites his lip, looks away. “Over this.”

Suna blinks. “This?”

“Ya.”

It comes out small, but it hits like a stone to the chest. Suna looks down, because looking at him suddenly feels too much. Atsumu lets out a nervous laugh, trying to fill the silence again. “I know, I know, it sounds pathetic as hell. I was sittin’ there with Osamu and Sakusa, ramblin’ like some teenager, tellin’ ‘em I messed things up with someone and didn’t know how t’ fix it. ‘Samu kept tellin’ me t’ just text ya, call ya, anything. But I didn’t know what t’ say without soundin’ like an idiot.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So yeah. That’s what that night was. Not some date, or secret thing. I was there because I couldn’t shut up about ya.”

The confession hangs there between them, heavy but fragile. Suna’s throat feels tight, his pulse steady but loud in his ears. He wants to believe him with every word but he doesn’t trust himself not to break again if he does.

“So that’s what all the excuses were for?” he asks finally, voice quieter than he intends. “You were too busy… missing me?”

Atsumu gives a crooked half-smile, sheepish and small. “Somethin’ like that. Guess I didn’t realize how bad it got till ya stopped pickin’ up. 'Samu said I was actin’ like an addict goin’ through withdrawal.” He shrugs, laugh unsteady. “Can’t say he was wrong.”

Suna doesn’t know how to respond. His fingers curl around the rim of his cup, grounding himself in the coolness. He wants to be angry still—wants to cling to it because it’s easier than feeling everything else. But Atsumu looks like hell. Honest. Nervous. Regret written all over him. And Suna hates how familiar it feels—that same ache mirrored right back at him.

He sighs. “You really suck at disappearing quietly.”

Atsumu’s lips twitch. “Yeah, well. I’m not really built for quiet.”

“Yeah. I noticed.” It’s the smallest crack in his composure, but Atsumu grins anyway, something tentative, something relieved.

They fall silent again, but it’s different this time. Not heavy. Just full. Suna glances toward the counter. Osamu’s watching from the corner of his eye, pretending to wipe a clean tray, obviously listening in. When their eyes meet, Osamu just nods once, not approving, not judging and just telling him it’s okay.

So Suna looks back at Atsumu. “We’re not good yet,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

Atsumu nods. “I know. But I’ll stay ‘til we are.”

And maybe that’s enough for now.

The thing about fighting in public is that the world keeps going. The refrigerator hums, the door bell jingles when customers walk in, Osamu mutters about stock runs like Suna’s entire chest didn’t just crack open five minutes ago. Now they’re sitting across from each other in the same booth, a plate of onigiri between them. The air smells faintly of soy and grilled rice. Suna hasn’t touched his food yet. He watches Atsumu instead. The way his shoulders have dropped a little, how his hair still sticks up in strange angles, how his thumb keeps tracing the seam of his paper cup like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. It’s quiet. Not awkward, for once. Just unsure. Osamu’s the one who forces them to move. He drops a fresh plate on the table, tone casual but eyes sharp.

“If yer gonna take up space in my shop, at least eat somethin’,” he says, and walks off before either of them can argue.

Suna sighs and reaches for one, more out of obligation than appetite. It’s warm. Soft. A little too perfect. Typical Osamu.

Across from him, Atsumu watches, hesitant.“Ya still like tuna mayo?”

Suna pauses mid-bite, gives him a look. “You remember that?”

Atsumu shrugs, sheepish. “Ya sent a picture of it once. Said it was the best thing ‘bout yer day. I—uh—I remembered.”

That shouldn’t make Suna’s chest feel tight. But it does. He chews quietly, hoping Atsumu doesn’t notice. They eat in silence for a while. The occasional scrape of chopsticks, the clink of ceramic. Suna finishes half his onigiri before speaking again.

“You know,” he says slowly, “you could’ve just said something.”

Atsumu looks up, confused. “What d’ya mean?”

“When you were scared. Or confused. Or whatever.” Suna shrugs. “I would’ve understood.”

Atsumu’s expression softens. He leans back in his seat, exhaling. “I know. I just… didn’t wanna screw it up more than I already did.”

“You did anyway.”

That earns him a weak laugh. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

Suna huffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “Idiot.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Something unknots a little between them. Not fully, just enough for Suna to breathe properly again. They eat the rest of the meal quietly, falling into that easy rhythm they used to have over the phone. The pauses, the small comments, the way Atsumu fidgets when he’s trying not to say something impulsive.

When they finish, Suna’s the one who speaks first. “So. What now?”

Atsumu looks at him, really looks, like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“Now?” he says, voice softer than before. “Now I try t’ make up for it.”

Suna raises a brow. “You planning to camp here till I forgive you?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Atsumu grins, tired but sincere. “I ain’t leavin’ again. Not unless ya tell me to.”

Suna studies him for a long moment, then exhales through his nose. “You talk too much.”

“Ya liked it before.”

“Yeah,” Suna admits quietly. “I did.”

The admission lingers, unspoken truce sealed with something as small as that. They don’t say sorry again. They don’t have to. The way Atsumu’s grin softens, the way Suna finally finishes his onigiri. It’s enough. When they finally get up to leave, Osamu just gives them both a knowing look. “Don’t fight in my shop again,” he says flatly.

Atsumu mutters, “No promises.”

Suna almost smiles. Outside, the air feels cooler. Quieter. They walk side by side without speaking, their shadows stretching long against the pavement.

And when Atsumu says, “Text me when ya get home, yeah?”

Suna just hums, pocketing his hands. “Yeah. Sure, Tsumu.”

The nickname slips out before he can stop it.

Atsumu stops walking for a second, eyes wide — a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Take care, Sunarin.”

Suna doesn’t look back, but the warmth in his chest gives him away.

The reset isn’t loud.

It happens in small ways—in a rhythm they used to have but never named. A “good morning” text before practice. A meme during lunch. A call that starts with “just for a sec” and ends three hours later with half-asleep laughter. The difference now is the quiet intention threading through it all. Suna feels it in the way Atsumu waits for his replies, how his voice softens when he says his name like he knows what he almost lost. It’s not perfect. They still argue. They still talk over each other. Atsumu still sends stupid voice notes at midnight, and Suna still pretends he’s annoyed even when he’s smiling at his phone. He put back tsumu as Atsumu's contact name again. But something’s shifted, something real. He doesn’t notice the pattern at first. Not until Osamu starts teasing him about it.

“Ya've got a fan,” Osamu says one afternoon, watching the street through the shop window.

Suna doesn’t look up from his rice bowl. “What are you talking about?”

Osamu jerks his chin toward the glass. “Yer suitor’s out there again.”

Suna frowns, glancing outside. And sure enough, there he is.

Miya Atsumu.

Leaning against the wall near Inarizaki’s front gate, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, scrolling through his phone like he hasn’t been standing there for twenty minutes.

Suna blinks. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Osamu just snorts. “He’s been doin’ that all week. Says he’s ‘just passin’ by.’ Funny how he’s always passin’ by at the same time yer classes end.”

Suna groans, running a hand down his face. “Unbelievable.”

Osamu grins. “Kinda cute, though.”

“It’s annoying.”

“It’s both.”

Suna throws him a glare but grabs his bag anyway.

Outside, the late afternoon air is bright and sticky. Students are trickling out of the gate in groups—chatting, laughing, heading home. And there’s Atsumu, pretending not to notice him.

Suna walks up slowly. “You know this is weird, right?”

Atsumu looks up, grin spreading like he’s been waiting all day for this. “Hey there, Rin.”

Suna sighs. “Don’t call me that in public.”

“Ya like it when I do.”

“Debatable.”

Atsumu laughs, unbothered, falling into step beside him as they start walking. “Thought I’d walk ya home. ‘S that so bad?”

“Considering you live thirty minutes in the other direction? Yeah, kinda.”

“Eh.” Atsumu shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Worth it.”

Suna looks at him, the sunlight catching on his hair, the stubborn ease in his smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Ya already said that.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

They fall into step, shoulder to shoulder, the kind of comfortable silence that doesn’t need to be filled. Halfway down the street, Atsumu kicks a pebble just to have something to do. “Hey, Rin.”

Suna hums.

“I’m serious ‘bout this, y’know.”

“About stalking me at my school gate?”

“‘Bout us,” Atsumu says, quieter now. “’Bout not runnin’ anymore.”

The words hang there, soft but heavy. Suna doesn’t answer right away. He just watches Atsumu. The way he keeps glancing forward like he’s afraid to push too hard.

Finally, Suna says, “Then don’t.”

Atsumu looks at him, startled.

Suna meets his eyes. “Don’t run.”

It’s not forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s something close, a promise, maybe. The kind that doesn’t need to be said twice.

Atsumu’s grin comes slow, spreading warm and wide. “Aye aye, captain.”

Suna rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betray him. And when they reach the station, Atsumu doesn’t say goodbye right away. He just stands there, shoving his hands in his pockets, smiling like he’s found his way back to something he didn’t think he’d have again.

“See ya tomorrow?” he says.

Suna pauses, then nods once. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

Atsumu’s grin brightens. Almost stupid, sunny yet impossible to ignore.

“Then it’s a date.”

Suna opens his mouth to protest, but Atsumu’s already walking away, waving over his shoulder. He should be annoyed. He tells himself he is. But his chest feels lighter than it has in months. And when his phone buzzes later—Text me when ya get home, okay?—he doesn’t even hesitate to reply.

suna: already did. ure still annoying.

tsumu: yea, but ya missed it.

Suna stares at the message for a long second. Then, against his better judgment, he smiles.

suna: maybe

It happens on a quiet afternoon. The kind that feels half-finished—all soft sun and slow wind, the world moving just a little too gently. Suna’s just leaving campus when he spots him. Atsumu’s standing by the same convenience store across from the university gates—hands in his pockets, smile already forming like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. The sight makes Suna stop in his tracks. Because it’s too familiar. Too intentional. Atsumu straightens up when he sees him, walking over with that stupid, easy swagger that Suna used to mock and now secretly misses.

“Hey,” Suna says, cautious, amused. “You look suspicious.”

Atsumu grins. “Good. Means I’m doin’ it right.”

Suna raises a brow. “Doing what?”

Atsumu steps closer, close enough that Suna can smell the faint hint of his cologne. The one that clings to his hoodie whenever they hang out.

“Startin’ over,” he says simply.

Suna blinks. “What?”

Atsumu takes a breath, then gestures around the street, the gate and the vending machine beside them. “Right here. Let's pretend this is where I first saw ya. Not that ya noticed me, ‘course. Too busy pretendin’ ya didn’t care about anythin’.”

Suna scoffs, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” Atsumu’s grin softens. “But if I could do it all again, I’d wanna do it right this time.”

He steps back a little but just enough space between them to make it a moment. Then, deliberately, he sticks his hand out.

“Hi,” he says, voice light but sure. “I’m Miya Atsumu.”

Suna stares at the hand for a second. The world feels oddly still. Like everything. All the missed calls, all the nights they spent talking, the silence, the fight. All led here. He takes the hand. Warm, calloused, familiar.

And for the first time, he smiles without fighting it. “Suna Rintarou.”

Atsumu’s grin widens, sunlight catching in his hair. “Nice t’ meet ya, Rin.”

Suna rolls his eyes. “You just learned my name.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, holding his gaze. “But this time, I’m gonna keep it right.”

Suna doesn’t say anything back. He just squeezes his hand once before letting go. The air between them feels new—not the same as before, but better. No pretending. No half-truths. Just two idiots trying again, on purpose this time.

“C’mon,” Atsumu says after a beat, stuffing his hands back in his pockets. “Let’s go get somethin’ t’ eat. I know a place that ain’t soba.”

Suna huffs a quiet laugh. “About time.”

They start walking. Side by side, steps syncing without effort. And maybe it’s the sunlight, or the quiet hum of the city around them, but for the first time in a long while, Suna feels something steady. Not the dizzy rush of getting attached, not the ache of losing, just this.

A start.