Archive of Our Own ^beta

1. lost from a safe distance

Suna has a nice smile.

Osamu comes to this conclusion when they’re practicing blocks and he meets eyes with Suna long enough to see the confirmation in his eyes, that yes, Aran is going to feint left. The volleyball smacks off their palms, bouncing just inside the court line with finality. 

Suna’s eyes crinkle at the corners, setting dark flames dancing in the burnished silver of his irises. The slightest of satisfied grins graces his mouth.

It’s almost nonexistent, just a tiny quirk of his lips and barely a flash of white teeth, but Osamu is so familiar with the planes of Suna’s face that every shift in expression feels like a momentous occasion, no matter how imperceptible.

It’s different from the smirk he lets slip occasionally—when the ball meets his palm, all his muscles flexed with the strain of exertion like a viper coming in for the kill.

No, this smile is quiet and understated, sends warmth fizzing white-hot in the pit of Osamu’s stomach and a spark of electricity zipping up his spine. He presses his lips together and tries not to grin at the sight as he raises his hand for a high-five.

Suna slaps it, the calluses of his fingers brushing against Osamu’s palm.

The warmth doesn’t leave Osamu's hand for the rest of practice.

“By the way,” Suna calls to him over his shoulder. “I’ve got something for you after practice.”

The pit of Osamu’s stomach dips. He nods and replies, “‘Kay. I’ll wait for ya.”

Suna is notoriously slow at getting changed, especially after morning practice. 

He takes his time with everything—packing up his clothes, swapping out Atsumu’s favourite shampoo for one of those shitty hotel shower oils to piss him off, scrounging around for his socks on the floor because he has a propensity for scattering them all around the locker room.

So twenty minutes after practice ends, Osamu is still standing outside the changing room door, waiting. He pulls out his phone and types a message to Atsumu.

from: miya osamu

hey headass

from: miya osamu

im gonna be late can u get me a kitkat

from: miya osamu

drop it off in the bio room

from: miya atsumu

no

Osamu taps out a final ‘fuck you’ and turns his phone off.

Five minutes later, Suna ambles out of the locker room, uniform slightly rumpled, and they fall into step together, walking down the hallway.

“Whaddya wanna tell me?” Osamu asks. He roots around in his jacket pocket for a second and comes up with a Chuupet stick he bought from the vending machine in the morning. It’s slightly dusty, but he presents it to Suna anyway. “‘S not expired, I promise.”

“Thanks,” Suna responds, unpeeling it and popping it into his mouth. “Here you go. It's a letter.” He presses an envelope into Osamu’s open palm and splits off into the other hallway for math class, lifting his hand in a wave.

“See ya later.”

Osamu walks the rest of the way alone. He makes a point to steal a Kitkat from Atsumu’s locker. He sits down in the bio lab and runs his finger around the edge of Suna’s envelope to open the flap. He pulls out a piece of notebook paper, torn and a little smudged. 

An onigiri sticker dots the corner.

After a second, he unfolds the paper, heart drumming uncontrollably. His palms are hot.

There’s only one sentence, smack-dab in the center. The handwriting is unfamiliar.

I love you.

Osamu blinks. Once. Twice. He rubs his eyes; it’s still there.

…What?  

This can’t be real. This can’t be Suna. 

Suna Rintarou, telling Osamu he loves him with a letter?

He clutches it, hands shaking. He kind of wants to tear it into pieces. 

His stomach churns, a sensation he can’t quite identify making him feel sick. And yet his gut swoops and he feels sort of…happy? 

It bowls him over, the cocktail of surprise and euphoria that’s carving a place in his heart. He grips the corner of the paper and wonders what he could say to Suna.

Hey, Sunarin, your letter took me by surprise, but thanks for leading me to the realization that you’re hot and I could totally see myself falling for you. Also, your legs look really nice in volleyball shorts. Wanna date?

“Osamu,” the bio teacher says severely, voice cutting through the stale classroom air. Everyone’s staring at him. “Mind tellin’ us what you’re readin’?”

“Sorry,” he answers hastily. He stows the paper in his pocket.

“Thanks. So, if we draw our own Punnett squares…”

━━━━━━

Osamu remembers seeing Suna for the first time in his second week as a first-year at Inarizaki, after hearing murmurs float around the classroom about a new student from Tokyo.

Then, Suna had walked in, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. 

At first glance, Osamu dismissed him in favour of plotting revenge against Atsumu for borrowing (and never returning) a pair of his favourite socks. 

But by the time Suna opened his mouth to introduce himself, he’d figured it was in his best interest for them to become friends.

First-year Suna was much the same as second-year Suna, all long limbs and flexible joints and razor-sharp gazes coated in obvious indifference. At volleyball, too—he was less strategic, maybe, but no less powerful.

Even then, Osamu had felt bad for the people on the other side of the net whenever Suna stepped onto the court. He was like a bolt of lightning slicing the net in two halves, sharp and swift and irreversibly electric. Beauty and power best admired from afar.

Each next step felt more comfortable than the last. From sharing banana milk, then staying after school together to study, then to calling him Sunarin.

Now, this. Now Osamu knows more about Suna than he ever thought he’d learn. That he bites at his lip with worry during tests and wants a pet guinea pig and watches true crime documentaries when he can’t sleep. 

That he laughs, loud, at the best of times and doesn’t open his mouth at the worst of times. That his biggest tell when he’s fucked with Atsumu is the smug, tiny crease next to his eye.

That he…loves Osamu? 

It feels simultaneously right and wrong, like scratching an itch that won’t go away.

The three words cycle in a never-ending spiral through his mind. I love you. I love you. I love you.

After the thirtieth repetition, Osamu begins to hope.

Still—something is missing.

━━━━━━

He accosts Suna in their homeroom class during lunch, pulling out the chair across from him and plopping down. “Hey,” he starts. He doesn’t know how to continue. “I—I read the letter.”

Suna bites into a piece of tuna. He looks completely unperturbed, fingers lax around his chopsticks and eyes half-lidded. “Okay.”

“What didja…what didja mean? When ya wrote that?”

“Hmm?”

“I…” he swallows with difficulty. A lump is lodged in his throat and he has to choke out the words. “The letter. It said ‘I love ya.’”

“Oh,” Suna replies calmly. “I didn’t write that.”

A stone drops in the pit of his stomach and lands at the bottom with a thud.

Under the table, his nails dig into his palms. “You—you didn’t write it?”

“Nope. Someone asked me to give it to you. It’s weird that they said ‘I love you,’ though. Seems kind of forward.”

“Yeah,” Osamu says weakly. “Yeah. It does.” He feels like a fool.

Afterwards, neither of them says anything more. Suna grabs a textbook from his backpack and opens it flat on the table.

“Why’re ya lookin’ at yer textbook like ya wanna throw it in a fire?” he wonders. Suna looks good when he’s studying, focused and calculating. Like volleyball.

“Trig test today.” 

“Oh, nice,” he says distractedly. And then, when it sinks in: “Wait, what?”

━━━━━━

Even days after the incident, the shock is omnipresent, like a hole carved through his ribs. 

Like it’s scooped something out of his heart and scraped the edges clean.

He fails the test, obviously. A big fat 42 sits at the top of his paper in red marker; just one more thing he can’t have.

2. in strange uncharted territory

It’s late on graduation night when Suna first tells Osamu he loves him. Really tells him, not just in a second-hand letter from someone else. 

They’re sitting at the edge of some random park fifteen minutes away from the school, where they’d escaped earlier in the afternoon to sidestep out of the inevitable crush of congratulations. 

Suna says it with flushed cheeks and downturned eyes, head rested in the crook of Osamu’s shoulder and collarbone, fingers splayed out in the dry grass. 

Osamu barely manages to swallow down a gulp of bottled water before setting it down and saying, “Wait, what?”

Suna doesn’t repeat it. He mumbles something else into Osamu’s shoulder, about dragons and lakes and apples, and Osamu tries to hide the disappointment colouring his voice when he tells Suna, “Ya should have some water.”

Both of them are drunk on contraband beer and the choking fear of leaving home, and it’s the first time Osamu has ever had alcohol. 

It’s a fitting ending to their three-year stint in high school—foolish and spontaneous and short-sighted and everything Suna is not. 

Seeing him like this—giggly, thoughtless, shy, sets Osamu slightly off-kilter, pushes him out of alignment even as the world spins on its axis. 

Both of them are expected home. Osamu can’t bring himself to mention it.

His vision is fuzzy from the beer and darkness, but Suna is backlit in a wash of golden light from the street lamp. It looks like a halo.

His eyelashes brush the bare skin of Osamu’s clavicle, and they’re close, closer than they’ve ever been while sober; Osamu doesn’t dare to breathe in case it breaks the blanket of tension hanging between them, but he shifts slightly to wrap his arms around Suna’s shoulders tentatively.

Suna doesn’t move away.

━━━━━━

It’s been approximately a year and a half since Osamu came to terms (as much as one can come to terms) with the fact that he has a crush on his best friend, and in that time, he’s learned a few things. 

Pieces of advice, perhaps.

That when they tell you they love you, they never mean it in the way you hope they do. That letters aren’t replacements for confessions; that alcohol makes them say things that aren’t true—reckless, stupid things, and they’re so unaware of the things it does to your heart.

The real problem with loving your best friend, irrevocably and undeniably, is this:

It’s like a double knot in a game of tug-of-war. 

You begin to wonder if you should confront it head-on or leave it be. You begin to question your every action; is patting their shoulder an unintended double entendre? Would you have said that two years ago, before you cared for them with the same blazing fervour that you do now? 

Are you being too brave or not brave enough? Are you drifting apart, and is it because of your ill-advised feelings?

The questions build up, and the rope frays, and you exhaust yourself so entirely that you’ve forgotten what it was like to live without the crushing weight of loss. But whether the fifty tons pressing down on your beating heart are from losing the game of tug-of-war or losing your best friend, you don’t exactly know.

It’s not only this. There are other knots in the rope, knots that are harder to describe, knots that don’t keep you up at night but make you more tired during the day instead. One particular knot that plagues you day and night.

You set the stage here. You first tie this knot without knowing what to expect, and it turns into so many things. 

A knot is also a grip is also a block is also a handle is also a breaking point. A braking point too, if you’re extra creative with the rope.

A hug is also a truth is also a confession is also a necessity. A necessity is also the phrase, “I love you,” which morphs into: “I have feelings I can’t deal with, and they’re all because of you.” Which is also a guarantee, and also a cry for help—again, if you’re extra creative with it.

Osamu has never lacked for creativity. It’s the untying of the knot that he has trouble with. 

━━━━━━

During the liminal space between midnight and morning, Suna says it again. They’re collapsed in a tangle of limbs on the grass, floating in an uncertain haze, and their eyes are fogged with sleep.

Osamu suddenly thinks, I want a pancake right now. His stomach growls. 

Moonlight spills through the cracks in the canopy of trees; the dark sky is a gaping mess of cavities and black teeth and starlight fillings.

Suna’s cheeks are bright red. He spins the tab of a beer can between his fingers, and his helix piercing glints metallic. He’s pretty like this—eyes flashing silver, mouth flushed a gentle pink. Osamu is close enough to see the green rings of his irises.

He says softly, “I love you.” 

If the park wasn’t completely silent, Osamu wouldn’t have caught it.

His heart stutters. But still, he doesn’t reply, because what is he supposed to say to that?

You don’t even like me in that way, or please don’t do this to me, or just stop. None of them seem quite appropriate.

He doesn’t say any of this. Just buries his head in Suna’s hair and inhales the scent—clean and minty and a little sweet. His heart pangs.

“Okay,” he whispers faintly, the words making space in his ribcage for the cool night air to fill his lungs. “Okay.”

━━━━━━

Osamu opens his eyes and he’s lying on the grass, squinting at the slice of sunlight shining through the trees. It’s rosy and dim, so he supposes it’s only past dawn. 

He has a while left before he has to get up, which works for him; his head is pounding and it’ll take at least another hour to sleep off the alcohol.

There’s warmth emanating from the left side of his body and a leg thrown over his. 

After a moment in which he almost nods off again, he realizes that it’s Suna’s leg. 

One of his arms is tucked behind Osamu’s head, cushioning his neck from the hard ground, and they’re pressed together, shoulder to ankle.

He lays a hand over his eyes and resolves to think about it later. There’s still at least two hours of sleep waiting for him; he might as well use them.

━━━━━━

They stop at a street food stall before catching the train home. A yakitori skewer dangles limply between Osamu’s fingers, slick with oil, and he cuts off a piece of okonomiyaki with his chopsticks.

“Sunarin,” he says, between bites of cabbage. “When’re ya leavin’?”

Suna is headed to Tokyo for V. League tryouts soon; he’s gotten offers from two Division 1 teams and a handful of lower-ranked ones, and Osamu…has absolutely no idea what he’s going to do. He prefers not to dwell on it.

“Dunno,” Suna answers. He lifts a glass of ice water and winces as it goes down his throat. “My head hurts.”

“Shouldn’t have drunk that beer, huh,” he comments, licking his fingers and throwing the skewer in the trash.

Suna hums. “Probably not. Do you wanna keep doing volleyball after graduation?”

Osamu has thought about what he wants to do. 

His university entrance exam scores weren’t bad; scouts have sent him emails and given him brochures. He’s considered continuing with volleyball. 

It’s kind of impossible not to consider it when Atsumu is talking his ear off about scouts and tryouts and different teams. “Probably not,” he answers candidly. “It’s more of ‘Tsumu’s thing. ‘M not invested enough to make a career outta the sport, y’know?”

Suna nods, but Osamu isn’t sure if he really knows.

Volleyball keeps Suna in the gym past dusk, practicing guess blocking and stretching and always, always reaching for better, bigger, more tangible things than he has. 

Osamu is different. 

There’s a constant, hollow emptiness in his chest, the realization that he’s invested more than half of his life into something he would have quit earlier had Atsumu not been insistent on continuing. 

More than that: a slight hesitation that occurs after a teacher or a well-meaning adult asks what he wants to do when he grows up, and there’s no way to be completely honest because he can’t even be honest with himself in the first place. 

And how does he tell them: it ain’t much, I just lie awake at night wonderin’ if my whole life is going to be spent wishin’ I was passionate about anythin’, anythin’ at all?

Instead of voicing these thoughts, he says, “Yeah. I haven’t practiced properly in a while, and it’s kinda late to get back to teams and stuff too. Plus, I already told ‘Tsumu I ain’t gonna be continuin’.”

Suna nods.

They walk to the train station. 

“Are ya gonna leave soon?” he asks, again.

Suna shrugs and acquiesces. “Maybe at the end of April?” he suggests. “I still have a few weeks left.”

“Sounds good.”

“Are you that eager to get rid of me?” he asks.

 It’s meant as a joke, obviously; except Osamu just can’t let anything go.

He laughs weakly. It sounds raw even to his ears. “Nah, just wanna know how much longer before I gotta start makin’ fun of ‘Tsumu alone.”

Raising an eyebrow, Suna replies, “I’ll send you ideas. It’ll be a two-person job. We’re a team, remember?”

Osamu hates the fact that his stomach does a cartwheel at the words.

━━━━━━

“Hey,” he says when they’re both firmly seated on the train, apropos of nothing. “D’ya remember what happened last night?” 

He dreads the answer, almost, and he doesn’t know whether a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ would be worse. His mouth is dry.

Suna purses his lips noncommittally. “Not particularly. I pretty much blacked out by midnight.”

“Oh,” Osamu responds. “Me too.” He feels like he’s been doused in ice water.

It isn’t until much later, when he’s curled up in bed at night listening to Atsumu snuffle and snort his way through every inhale as if he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of sleeping and breathing at the same time, that he thinks: 

Thank god. Thank god you don’t remember. 

Because if Suna doesn’t remember, then that means they can pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend Suna didn’t poke at his heart’s bare sides with pointed edges; pretend Osamu never exposed those sides in the first place.

They can say goodbye as friends. No strings attached, and definitely no feelings (that Suna knows about, at least).

That’s exactly what Osamu is afraid of.

3. when i’m brave enough to let go

The day that Suna is set to leave for Tokyo, it rains. Atsumu is already gone; he’d left for tryouts in Kyoto a week ago, but almost everyone else is here.

At noon, Osamu walks to the restaurant with his hood pulled up, but the effort is futile. The rain soaks through the fabric of his sweater and he shivers.

When he pushes open the door, the bell tinkles. Welcoming voices greet him. Aran waves him over to their table and he sits down next to Suna. “Hi,” he says, pulling off his jacket.

Ginjima throws an arm around his shoulder. “Good to see ya, ‘Samu. We’re bettin’ on how long it’s gonna take Sunarin to find a partner up in Tokyo.” He almost spits out the last word, but his smile is teasing all the same. “The big city, eh?”

“Why?”

“‘Cause it’s fun,” Yuuto supplies. “And we’re all single,” he adds, narrowing his eyes at Osamu. “Yer not hidin’ a secret date from any of us, right?”

He holds up his hands. “No way. I barely see anyone besides y’all anyway.”

“So, bets?” 

It’s Michinari, this time. Osamu glances at Suna.

“Whaddya think ‘bout this?” he voices.

“I don’t care,” comes Suna’s flat response. He looks tired, propping his chin on his forearm, and Osamu lays a hand on the small of his back.

“Want me to wake ya up when the food comes?”

“Please.”

Osamu hums in affirmation and lays the dry part of his sweater over Suna’s shoulders. “Sleep tight.”

He looks back up and everyone’s gaze is fixed on him, heads tilted, like they’re trying to figure out something that isn’t there. “What?”

Kita’s gaze is piercing, but he stays silent.

“C’mon, guys. What?”

Rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, Ren is the first to say something. “Well—y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you and Suna were…” his sentence trails off.

Osamu truly has no idea what Ren’s saying. Mostly because his facial expression never changes, so it’s sort of hard to know where he’s going with that thought.

Still, Michinari fills in to finish off the statement. “Together. You look like a couple,” he adds helpfully.

Osamu isn’t prepared for that. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, gaping like a fish and trying unsuccessfully to form a coherent sentence.

He settles on a succinct: “Oh.”

Oh, because he wishes his heart didn’t gallop at full speed when the thought soaks in. Because he wishes he didn’t hope for the same.

“Anyway,” Aran says pointedly, tapping his fingers on the table. Osamu feels a brief flash of sympathy for him. He’s back in Hyogo for a week, then he’ll leave to train for the next V. League season. This should be his break, but time never constitutes a ‘break’ when the (ex) Inarizaki volleyball team is involved. “‘Samu, ya want some tea?”

“Sure,” he says blankly, still stuck on him and Suna and couple.

It’s not that he hasn’t entertained the thought. He’s spent more hours than he can count thinking about Suna’s legs, for god’s sake.

(Sue him. They’re nice legs.)

But every fleeting fantasy he’s had about them has been just that—a fantasy. A product of his imagination he feels ashamed for imagining in the first place.

It would be easy, he thinks, to fall in love with Suna. He’s probably halfway there already. 

The thought doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should.

Aran clears his throat. “‘Samu. Teacup?”

“Sorry,” he says hurriedly. “Spaced out there for a sec.” He hands his cup to Aran, who fills it quietly and gives it back. The sound of bubbling water soothes his nerves.

The tea is nice, mild and mellow with a tang of sweetness, and he gulps it down. The scalding burn in his throat is better than falling into another pit of melancholy.

“Good, right?” Kita asks. “‘M friends with the owners. It’s a family recipe.”

Osamu nods. 

A waiter blows through the crowd and stops in front of their table, holding trays of steaming food in both arms, agedashi tofu and udon chief among them.

“Hey,” he says gently, placing a hesitant hand on Suna’s shoulder. “Food’s here.”

A hum. “No thanks.” 

“C’mon, Sunarin,” he wheedles. “Don’tcha wanna eat yer udon?”

“Udon?” Suna mumbles sleepily. He looks up and blinks the tiredness out of his eyes, lashes fluttering slowly, and Osamu’s gut twists.

“Yeah. Beef udon,” he says, moving the bowl closer to Suna. “Eat.”

“Fine.”

Osamu flashes him a smile. “Ya can nap on the train later.”

“‘Kay.”

━━━━━━

The knot doesn’t loosen, but the ends of the rope chafe and tatter. And still, you hold on, looking for an opening. You become more accustomed to the pain. 

It becomes an afterthought, tacked onto the end of a sentence. It feels like the interlude before the storm.

━━━━━━

As lunch comes to a close, they split the bill and peel off one by one—Ren first, saying he has some business to attend to, then Ginjima; a package to pick up. Kita has to get back to the farm to help his grandma. Aran goes with him.

It’s just the two of them, now. Suna’s eyes are half-closed and he buries his face in the cradle of his arms, resting on the table. 

“C’mon,” Osamu says. “We should get goin’. Want me to walk ya to the station?”

“Sure.”

The train station is a twenty-minute walk away, rain considered, but Suna drags his feet, clearly exhausted. He still has Osamu’s sweater wrapped around his shoulders. 

“So I texted Atsumu this morning,” he says. “Y’know, ‘hey piss face’ and all that, but he was kind of down. I wouldn’t…I know this is a weird thing to say, but try not to tick him off too much if you talk to him, okay?”

Osamu squints. “‘Tsumu ain’t feeling well? ‘Bout what?” As much as he enjoys seeing Atsumu get mad, he doesn’t get sad over people. Or things. Not properly, anyway. 

It would be like seeing Ren laugh. He suppresses a shiver at the thought. 

A raindrop hits his bare arm and he picks up the pace.

“Someone,” Suna replies vaguely. “Just don’t bring it up and he’ll be fine in a week, probably.”

The conversation dies as they near the station. A board flickers in and out with boarding times. The next train to Tokyo is in twenty minutes.

“Wanna get coffee first?” he asks, angling his head at the cafe nearby. “Might help ya wake up a little. Plus, it’ll be warm.”

Suna nods and they step into the cafe, practically sighing at the warmth that envelopes them.

Suna orders some complicated whipped-cream monstrosity that’s more milk than caffeine, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the mountain of chocolate syrup sitting on the surface, nor the exorbitant price.

He curls his fingers around the cup and leans down to lick off the top swirl of cream, steam rising into his face. He has a dot of whipped cream on his nose; Osamu wants to lick it off, but he refrains. 

“You’ve got cream on yer nose,” he says instead, handing Suna a napkin and sipping his latte. 

“Thanks.” He wipes it away and still, Osamu stares at the spot where it used to be.

“No problem.”

They lapse into silence. Osamu checks the clock on the wall periodically—fifteen minutes until boarding. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do when I’m in Tokyo,” Suna confesses abruptly. At least, it sounds like it’s supposed to be a confession.

Osamu’s brow wrinkles. “Go to tryouts?” he guesses. “Isn’t that what yer goin’ there to do…?”

“Yeah. But when I’m not…here anymore,” Suna supplies, waving his arms around to illustrate a point. The whipped cream tower wobbles. “I don’t know how I’ll go on.”

It’s a dramatic way to put it, but Osamu agrees. “It’s gonna be different without ya here.”

Everything’s already changed. But Suna is the last thread hanging onto Hyogo, and that thread, too, will snap in ten minutes.

“You know that…you know I love you, right?” Suna says. He sounds scared, and his eyes are wide and glossy. He looks so much younger than Osamu has ever seen him; innocent and afraid and vulnerable. “And I’ll miss you. A lot.”

Osamu reaches across the table and takes his hand. “I know. Yer gonna be fine in Tokyo, I promise. And you can call me whenever.” He stops just short of asking Suna to elaborate on the ‘love.’ 

He’d rather not sour Suna’s last minutes in Hyogo with an unwanted confession.

Five minutes.

“Almost time to go,” he mumbles, dropping Suna’s hand. “We should start heading out.”

He drinks the last remnants of coffee and tosses his cup in the trash can. 

Suna mirrors him, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of Osamu’s sweater before they start to leak. “Do you want your sweater back?” His voice is tentative.

Osamu considers it, then shakes his head. “Nah,” he says out loud. “Ya can keep it. A souvenir, or somethin’.”

“Okay.”

“Take good care of it,” he says, only half-joking.

Suna flashes a thumbs-up, then he passes through the gate and wheels his luggage onto the train platform. 

Osamu hangs back just behind the turnstile. Suna’s shoulders are slight, his shirt sticking to his skin. Osamu’s sweater is wrapped around his waist.

The train doors open with a hiss. He spins on his heel and looks back, lifting his hand in a wave. A small smile graces his lips.

Osamu’s heart trips, skips, stumbles. He can’t help the returning grin that stretches across his face, and just before the doors close, he cups his hands around his mouth impulsively and calls, “Sunarin! Text me when ya get there!”

The doors shut, but Suna pokes his head out of the closest window and makes an ‘OK’ sign with his thumb and index finger. His hair ripples in the wind. 

Osamu’s chest tightens.

━━━━━━

The text comes at eleven, two hours before Osamu usually drags his eyes away from the Great British Bake-Off to look at the clock and decides he should go to sleep. 

When his phone buzzes, he almost scrambles to answer—throwing off the blankets and the precariously-balanced laptop, which wobbles and crashes to the ground next to an empty box of Pocky. He doesn’t even notice.

Spring rain taps gently at the window. Somewhere in the distance, a frog croaks.

from: suna rintarou

hey i made it

from: miya osamu

send me photos

from: miya osamu

what’s it like?

from: suna rintarou

cold

from: suna rintarou

i’ll take pictures tmr

from: miya osamu

okay :)

from: miya osamu

good night

from: suna rintarou

you too

Osamu grips his phone to his chest and breathes in deep.

4. between my head and my heart

“Table four’s ready!” he calls, walking through the swinging kitchen door with a tray balanced on his hip. “We gotta push together these three tables—” he jerks his head— “‘cause a big crowd’s comin’ in ‘round eight o’clock. Twenty people, I think they said.”

Riko passes by and whistles. She sets down her cleaning rag on the counter and pushes together the tables. “Volleyball again?”

“Unfortunately,” he answers, grimacing. “Dunno why ‘Tsumu always bothers bringin’ other teams here. It’s good for business, but it ain’t worth the cleanup.”

“At least they tip well,” Riko points out.

“True.”

The evening rush is just starting, the slow trickle of customers gradually becoming a flood as the hour gets later. 

The restaurant fills with chatter and warmth and the smell of cooking food, and Osamu stops dicing cucumber long enough to wipe his forehead with the corner of his shirt. He turns off the stove and checks the clock.

“They’ll be here any moment soon,” he notes. “Brace yerself.”

And then as if on cue, almost twenty athletes (ranging from six to seven feet tall) fall through the door, laughing. 

“Hey, ‘Samu,” Atsumu shouts, waving his arm in the air.

Osamu rubs his temples and shoots him a middle finger. “D’ya hafta disrupt my customers like that?”

Atsumu pouts and takes a seat at the furthest end of the table. “Fuck off and lemme be happy fer once.”

“Shut up, Miya,” Sakusa Kiyoomi says tonelessly as he sits down beside Atsumu. He only wrinkles his nose slightly, so Osamu takes it as an improvement from last time (when he agreed to sit next to Atsumu solely because there were no other spots available and pushed his chair away as far as humanly possible). 

Clearly, Atsumu does too, because his face brightens.

“C’mon, Omi,” he whines. “Yer s’posed to defend me!”

“Why?”

Komori sits down on Sakusa’s other side and snorts. “Hey Osamu,” he greets him, a cheeky grin on his face. “Sorry about these two. They’re kind of a mess.”

“I resent being referred to in the same breath as him,” Sakusa grits out, jabbing a thumb at Atsumu, who promptly crosses his arms and kicks Sakusa under the table.

“Please act civil in my restaurant,” Osamu suggests. “I ain’t gonna hesitate to kick both of ya out.”

Sakusa scowls and straightens up. Atsumu just kicks him again, oblivious.

It’s only after they stop outright arguing that Osamu casts a perfunctory glance around the table to check how many plates he’ll need to grab. His eyes land on Suna.

He probably shouldn’t be surprised to see him here, but Suna usually declines to attend after-match gatherings, and they haven’t seen each other in a while, anyway. Not for two or three months.

“Sunarin,” he says. “Welcome. Nice to see ya here.”

Suna’s lips quirk and he replies, “Same to you.”

Osamu blushes. Atsumu hoots. “Hey, lovebirds! Come on over here ‘Samu, why don’tcha? We wanna get some drinks.”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he responds automatically, but he still pulls out his notepad. His cheeks are pink.

Suna’s face is impassive.

━━━━━━

Miya Osamu is 25 years old. He is a fully functioning adult; he has a restaurant, for god’s sake, and he pays bills, and rent, and taxes. Fucking taxes, which are the pinnacle of adulthood.

(Again: 25 years old. He’s Responsible with a capital R.)

Also, he still has a tiny (read: massive) crush on his best friend slash old high school teammate slash pro volleyball player Suna Rintarou, and it’s getting to be a problem.

The mere act of being in love with Suna Rintarou is a wild, flighty beast, and in seven years, Osamu has never learned to tame it.

It’s all-encompassing and inexplicable, spinning hundreds of thousands of fractals that go on forever and cling to him like washing-machine static, suffocating.

The crush itself isn’t difficult to deal with, exactly. It’s like a constant buzzing under his skin, just loud and ticklish enough to be annoying, but easy to forget about after a while.

Then he sees Suna in real life, outside of sporadic texts and stray games on the TV, and it all comes rushing back. 

The mole under his eye. The wrinkles around his mouth, the green and gold splashes of colour in his irises; he’s grown into his long limbs and flexible joints, and now he wears them proudly, albeit still with a slump.

Osamu is so weak for him, and Suna is either oblivious or doesn’t care. 

Atsumu has a twisted, mostly-wrong understanding of said weakness that sprouted from Osamu accidentally liking a photo of Suna’s legs on Instagram.

He lets Atsumu believe what he wants, because trying to put Miya Atsumu on the right path is like trying to fix an unruly plant—treacherous, difficult, and fruitless.

Miya Osamu is a 25-year-old man, and he’s had a crush on the same boy since second year of high school. It hasn’t gotten any better.

━━━━━━

Three hours after Atsumu and company first blew through the door of Onigiri Miya and drove out the rest of the paying customers, they’re still sitting at the same table, knocking back shots of sake and slapping each other on the shoulder.

Riko has gone home already, along with the waiting staff. It’s just Osamu now, cleaning up and hearing the occasional chant of ‘drink! Drink! Drink!” float through the kitchen door. 

The atmosphere in the restaurant is warm and fuzzy and loud and careless, and Osamu is pretty sure he’s the only one who’s sober in a ten-foot radius.

“Hey,” he says, poking his head through the door. “Ten-minute warning and y’all gotta clear out. Some of us wanna go to bed tonight.”

“Such a killjoy, ‘Samu,” Atsumu slurs, dropping his head on Sakusa’s shoulder. “Why’re ya so mean all the time? Omi, ya gotta back me up here…”

Sakusa tenses. Still, he doesn’t pull away.

He looks to the other side of the table for help, but Komori’s already vacated the scene, saying goodbye half an hour ago with a tipsy, impish grin. And no one else would be any help.

“Excuse me,” he appeals directly to Osamu. “Does he usually—stay here overnight? When he’s drunk?”

Osamu rolls his eyes and drops the mop back in the bucket with a splash. A few drops of water tip over the edge and spill onto the floor.

Sakusa’s eye twitches.  

“He’s not supposed to,” Osamu answers. “But he does anyway, ‘cause no one else wants to drag him back to the hotel. I’m kinda busy today, though. Any way ya could do it fer me?”

Sakusa clenches his jaw. “Fine.” He pulls down his sleeve to add another layer of protection and places his arm under Atsumu’s arm to support his shoulders. “We’re going home now, idiot.”

Osamu silently celebrates. Usually, this occasion is synonymous with ‘getting zero sleep and having to take care of Atsumu with a hangover,’ but maybe he’ll break out of his routine this time.

“Thanks,” he says, grinning. “Lemme know how he’s doin’ tomorrow! He usually takes a couple of painkillers when he wakes up. But don’t give him more than a bowl of noodles when he asks, all he needs is a kick in the ass.”

“Got it,” Sakusa replies. There’s a deep furrow between his brows. “I appreciate the advice.”

Osamu waves them off with a salute. He even opens the door because he’s feeling extra benevolent, and a rush of cold air hits him in the face. Hinata bounces out the door after them, and Bokuto follows.

As the four of them head out, Atsumu raises a fist to the sky drunkenly. “He’ll never love me back,” he groans, dropping his forehead on Sakusa’s shoulder. “Why? I’m tryin’ my best!”

Sakusa visibly flinches. His shoulders are tense. “Shut up, Miya. I’m trying to help you here.”

“Poor Atsumu-san,” Hinata sighs.

Their voices fade away as they turn the corner of the street, and Osamu pulls the door closed again. He turns back to survey the stragglers—Washio is on the phone, a slight blush painting his cheeks. But other than that, he’s steady.

Inunaki is crafting a mountain of empty soy sauce packets, giggling every time it crashes down. A lock of hair bobs in his line of sight and he bats it away easily.

Suna snores away, his forehead pressed against the table. A trail of drool trickles from the corner of his mouth to his chin. Osamu sighs.

“Washio,” he says. 

Washio looks at him, stoic, and tips his head in acknowledgement. “Yes?”

“Couldja get Sunarin home? Dunno if he can stand by himself right now.”

Washio presses his lips together and blows out air. “Sorry, Osamu. I wish I could, but I’m meeting up with someone later and I probably won’t be staying at the hotel tonight.”

Osamu kind of wishes he hadn’t asked. “That’s fine,” he says quickly, nearly flailing in his rush to take back the request. “I’ll just—” he looks out the window— “get him a cab?”

But then he remembers Suna is absolutely shit with directions, and the hotel is almost twenty minutes away, and he isn’t sure how many cab drivers would have the patience necessary to deal with a drunk Suna Rintarou.

Washio also seems to remember this. “I could call Komori to pick him up?” he offers. “I’m sure he’d be fine. Although he’s not the most…cautious of drivers.”

Osamu winces. “Nah.” He casts a glance up the stairs, where his apartment awaits him, and relents. “I should probably just keep him here. When are y’all checkin’ out of the hotel?”

“Not until tomorrow evening,” Washio tells him.

“Great. I’ll drive him back whenever he wakes up, I guess.”

“Thanks, Osamu,” Washio says. He looks grateful. “I’d normally take him home, but y’know…”

“Yep! I get it,” he replies, flapping his hands. “Have a great night. Come by again soon.”

He packs up Washio’s leftovers and holds the door open for him. Inunaki finally gives up on his soy sauce mountain and pulls on his coat, preparing to leave.

And suddenly it’s just Suna, cheek pushed up against the cool wood of the table, sleeping soundly. Osamu leaves him there while he finishes the rest of the cleaning, only stopping to fix the position of Suna’s neck so he won’t feel sore later.

He puts away the mop, wipes down all the tables again, and fields reservations for the next day, Suna’s unhurried breathing a welcome soundtrack to his nightly duties.

“Hey, Sunarin,” he whispers, adjusting his baseball cap so it doesn’t hit Suna’s head. “Time to go.”

Suna makes an involuntary, drowsy sound in the back of his throat. “‘Samu?” he murmurs, and Osamu tries not to die from the cuteness.

“Mm-hmm. One sec, I’m gonna try and carry you. Don’t panic.” Emphasis on the try, since Suna is both taller than Osamu and a professional athlete (read: 175 pounds of pure muscle).

As Osamu attempts to figure out the best way to go about picking him up, Suna hums and lets his head fall back against the chair.

Eventually, he settles on a fireman’s carry, supporting Suna’s legs with his arms and hooking his head behind his shoulder while he takes the stairs one at a time.

“Faster,” Suna whines, and Osamu rolls his eyes.

“No.”

“Please.” He hits his fists on Osamu’s back. It’s sort of—no, really adorable, the childishness that overtakes drunk Suna, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before Osamu says that to sober-Suna’s face.

“Almost there,” he declares when they come to the last few steps.

Suna mumbles into his shirt unintelligibly and nuzzles his face deeper.

“What?”

“I said,” Suna raises his voice, but his words are still hopelessly garbled. “I love you.”

Osamu freezes on the last step. “Sure,” he replies after a beat of silence, heart thrumming traitorously, so loud Suna can probably hear it too. “Good to hear.”

“‘M serious,” Suna says petulantly, curling his fists into the fabric of Osamu’s shirt. “Really.”

“Okay, Sunarin,” he answers patiently, and it dawns on him how ridiculous this whole thing is—the man he’s spent every waking hour thinking about for seven-odd years, telling him he loves him (in some drunken, sleepy stupor, no less) right before he’s about to crash in Osamu’s bed. 

And then they’ll wake up and forget about this whole thing.

The situation would be laughable if it was anyone else. But it’s him, so he just grips tighter on the back of Suna’s legs and unlocks the door with his free hand.

He pads through the apartment with Suna’s knees wrapped tightly around his waist and sets him down on the couch while he boils water.

It’s almost as much of an ordeal to pick him up again. Suna digs in his heels and turns away stubbornly to bury his face in the very same couch cushions Atsumu sobbed all over and got snot on when he dropped by the other day. 

(Osamu doubts sober-Suna would enjoy that factoid.)

“Up ya go, Rin,” he says, hoisting Suna onto his bed and tucking him in. “Sleep well.”

Suna mutters something incomprehensible against his pillow and Osamu places a bottle of hot lemon water on the bedside table. 

He slips out of the bedroom and opens the sliding door to the living room balcony instead, stepping out onto the cold platform with socked feet. 

The inky sky is prickled with tiny flecks of colour—city lights and stars; planets and satellites. 

Osamu tips his head back and closes his eyes.

━━━━━━

You’re nervous, now. Jittery, on-edge, anticipating an inevitability. You just don’t know what, or when, or how.

You wear yourself to the bone; worrying, cursing yourself to hell and back. Heat bubbles under the surface. The pain is back; the calluses have been peeled away and raw skin exposed to the battering and bruising of the knots. It hurts, but you keep picking at them.

How do you think the world will end?

You’ve never had an answer to that question. 

Now, though—now you’ll be sticking around long enough to see it happen.  

5. hidden in heartbeats, exhales

Four months after that debacle, Osamu finds himself setting up an onigiri stall on the sidelines of the Adlers’ game against EJP Raijin, after much persuasion from Komori about the sales.

(He’s ninety-five percent sure Komori just wanted the food himself.)

The crowd rises in a sea of yellow and white (Osamu spots a few Suna Rintarou jerseys among the sea of Kageyama Tobios and Ushijima Wakatoshis), surging forward and cheering madly when the players walk onto the court.

Suna looks slightly listless, but his eyes are bright and the side of his mouth lifts. Komori must see it too, because he gives him a high-five before getting into position. 

Then the referee blows the whistle, and they’re off.

Osamu doesn’t get to see most of it. He’s too busy taking orders and handling the food prep by himself since he didn’t enlist any of his employees to help, but every once in a while he sees Suna block an especially vicious spike from Ushijima, and the yellow-clad audience goes wild with screams.

The Adlers are indefatigable in the best of times. Osamu isn’t surprised to see them take the first set. 

The second set goes narrowly to EJP after Komori saves a setter dump and Washio sends the ball flying over the net. Heiwajima dives for it, but to no avail.

The rest of the game continues in a similar vein: the Adlers attacking and EJP going on the defensive, scoring a few points here and there that build up. In the end, Hoshiumi takes the match point, blasting a nasty spike past the middle blockers that lands just inside the court line.

The game ends 3-2. 

Osamu wants to congratulate Suna, but he’s swallowed by the sheer volume of post-match orders. He spends the next hour shaping and reshaping rice, mixing the filling, wrapping each onigiri neatly in wax paper and handing them to customers.

He notes at least ten Suna Rintarou jerseys and a few Komori Motoya ones in the mix too. Komori will be pleased, he thinks. Liberos don’t usually get much of the credit.

It’s only when the stadium clears out that he finally has a chance to breathe. He puts away his things in a small suitcase and goes to leave.

At the exit, he runs into Suna, who’s got his bag slung over his shoulder.

He’s wearing Osamu’s sweater.

“Rin,” he blurts out. “I saw a ton of people wearin’ yer jersey today. I mean, you played great,” he corrects himself.

Suna smiles, small. “Thanks. You got any leftovers?”

“Definitely.” He digs out a Tupperware container and chooses one with fried rice. “The unagi one’s been popular recently.”

“That’s good,” Suna says absently. “Are you headed back to the restaurant?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Gotta make sure Riko and Iwasaki ain’t alone to deal with the evening crowd.”

Suna looks up at the buzzer clock. “You’ve still got a few hours. Do you…” he hesitates, then forges ahead. “Do you want to come over? We haven’t talked in a while.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Sure,” he agrees.

The train ride to Suna’s hotel is quiet. Suna has always preferred silence after a game, using the time instead to analyze the match and think about his mistakes instead. 

It’s strange for Osamu, who’s grown up with a brother that doesn’t even have the word ‘quiet’ in his vocabulary, but he welcomes it nevertheless.

Suna swipes the hotel keycard through the scanner. It blinks green and the door swings open.

Osamu toes off his shoes, sets the suitcase of supplies next to the door, and sits down. “Ya won’t believe the shit ‘Tsumu pulled the other day.”

Suna looks at him from where he’s dumping out the contents of his volleyball bag on the floor. “Go on.”

“So I told that dipshit I won’t spill the beans on whether Sakusa’s into him and he’s been buggin’ me ‘bout it all month, even though he says it ain’t that big of a deal. Then last week, he finally broke and…”

━━━━━━

Hours later, they’re both spread-eagled on the couch, watching some documentary about polar bears narrated by a man with a soft British accent, because the hotel’s collection of movies is negligible and Osamu is too lazy to hook up his phone and stream on YouTube.

“A polar bear’s diet typically includes seals, fish, and whale carcasses,” the man says, subtitles flashing in yellow across the bottom of the screen.

“Sounds like Atsumu,” Suna observes calmly. 

Osamu snorts. “‘Tsumu’s too weak for whale carcasses. ‘Sides, I’m the one who cuts up fish all day fer work.”

“Atsumu’s the one who eats it, though.”

He shrugs. “Yer not wrong.”

The documentary continues cheerily. “Although they are often portrayed as overly aggressive, polar bears typically choose to escape rather than fight when a challenge arises.”

“See? Atsumu,” Suna says definitively, leaning back against the armrest of the couch. His knee brushes Osamu’s elbow.

Osamu laughs this time and Suna joins in after a second. His shoulders shake with the effort, full-throated and happy, and Osamu thinks he could look at him all day.

━━━━━━

By mid-afternoon, Suna’s drifting off to sleep, his eyeliner smudging slightly and making his eyes look sunken.

The sun is dipping behind the buildings, and Osamu knows he should be getting back to the restaurant, but Suna’s head is pillowed on his thigh, and he doesn’t want to wake him.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I gotta get goin’ soon.”

“Mmm,” Suna murmurs. “Love you.”

His lungs contract. That familiar swooping feeling lands in his gut. It feels like a punch, this time. “I know,” he manages to get out. “You’ve told me.”

His ribcage twists with the effort of brushing off the words but he stretches out his limbs anyway and moves to stand up. 

An arm stops him halfway and he falls back down on the couch, landing with a soft oof.

“What?” his voice is harsh, too harsh for Suna. He grimaces.

Suna sits up and rubs his eyes blearily. “Why do you never…”

“Never…?”

“You never say it back.”

Osamu’s gut twinges. “What’re ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

Suna blinks, and hurt is palpable in his stare. “You never say it back.”

“I didn’t know you expected me to,” Osamu points out, tugging his eyes away from the softness of Suna’s mouth.

“I’ve said it so many times. What else would I expect?” An edge creeps into his voice. “I keep trying and trying but you just push me away. What do I have to do, Osamu?”

He blanches, but keeps his guard up. “Ya never told me that you—felt like that.”

Suna throws up his hands. “Maybe because I was so busy thinking of how I could tell you that I didn’t just want you as a friend. Maybe because I knew you would never feel the same way for me. Maybe I just didn’t want to get hurt, Osamu. Did you ever think of that?” The words are sharp and cutting.

Osamu thinks, what the fuck. “I dunno why this is my problem.” Suna’s eyes go shiny and he immediately regrets it.

“You’re always so clueless about—” Suna flings his arm out, and a hotel pen rolls off the table— “everything. Can you just get something through your thick head, for once?” 

Suna stands up, and then Osamu mirrors him, nerves worn thin, and suddenly they’re facing off against each other like they’re on opposite sides of the court, and he realizes: oh my god. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

But what comes out of his mouth is—

“…Fuck, Suna. I didn’t know any of this—why’re ya blamin’ me here?” 

“Because I don’t have anyone else to blame except me!” Suna shouts, voice wavering at the end. His lashes are wet. “Because I’ve loved you for so long, and you just keep—stringing me along, or something…like it’s a game. Just tell me no this time,” he says, breaking into a whisper at the end. “And I’ll leave you alone.”

“Sunarin, wait—”

“Please let me go,” he mumbles, voice tinged with a rawness that spills out of the cracks of his laid-back veneer. He won’t meet Osamu’s eyes, scuffing his toe on the carpet. His gaze jumps from the dent in the wooden floor to the LED lights of the TV to the piece of lint sticking to Osamu’s t-shirt. “I need some space. I’ll talk to you—whenever.”

Then the door opens and closes, and Suna is gone.

Osamu curls his hands into fists, throat burning. He clenches them so hard they go white and bloodless, and when he loosens them a fraction, all the blood rushes back. 

His fingers tingle with the pressure and his chest is tight. Regret holds him in an iron-clad grip. 

He feels like he’s been stripped bare and pushed out into the cold, the chill whipping around his head and biting at his skin. 

Suna’s clothes are strewn around the living room; he hadn’t taken anything with him. Just his phone.

from: miya osamu

hey komori its osamu

from: miya osamu

can u check on suna i dunno where he went

from: komori motoya

is he hurt?

I made him cry, he types out, trembling so hard he almost drops his phone. It still doesn’t feel real. 

He made Suna cry. Perpetually dry-eyed Suna, who doesn’t cry at sad movies or books where the main character dies, or even the worst volleyball defeats. Suna, who doesn’t cry, period—and he finally did. Because of Osamu.

He glances at the door. His finger is poised over the send button. He deletes it and writes, we had a fight, instead. Backspace.

from: miya osamu

some stuff happened and i can’t contact him

from: miya osamu

just call him and make sure he’s doing fine

from: komori motoya

oh shit ok (○´･д･)ﾉ

from: komori motoya

want me to let you know when i find out?

Yes please, he writes. He sends it before he can think twice.

The polar bear documentary is still on. 

“Male polar bears can weigh up to one thousand, five hundred pounds,” the narrator drones. “They use a thick layer of fur to insulate themselves from the chill. Occasionally, polar bears will mate by…”

Osamu tunes the rest out and drops his face into his hands.

+1. in the hope of open hands

The knot in the rope is gone. But so is your best friend.

You feel awfully empty inside, like someone’s taken away a part of you that you didn’t even realize you had until now.

━━━━━━

At the end of the V. League season, EJP Raijin plays against MSBY Black Jackals. Afterwards, they all crowd into Onigiri Miya, heckling each other and generally acting immature.

Osamu grins when he sees them. As terrible as the cleanup is, the endorsement from Japan’s biggest volleyball players has driven thousands of new customers to Onigiri Miya in the past few months alone.

The atmosphere is light-hearted. MSBY had taken the last set, but none of the EJP members look especially angry about it; Komori and Hinata have struck up a conversation, and even Sakusa isn’t scowling as deeply as usual.

Then Osamu sees Suna, and the smile slips off his face like water off a duck’s back.

Suna spots him at the same time. A lamp above his head bathes him in golden light and softens the angles of his face—his sharp chin and chiselled cheekbones, ruddy with cold.

They both look away, and a lump sticks in Osamu’s throat. His cheeks redden. Unease coils in his chest, looming and ugly. 

It’s the first time he’s seen Suna since then, making excuses left and right to avoid running into him. He’s certain Suna’s been doing the same.

Atsumu is starting to get suspicious, but it’s nothing Osamu can’t handle.

When he goes back to the kitchen, he almost cuts himself while chopping onions.

Riko pats him on the shoulder. After Osamu had gone back to the restaurant that day, she’d ordered him to take the evening off and force-fed him sushi while he got the tears out of his system. 

She sort of knows what happened, but no one understands it properly. Least of all Osamu himself.

“Want me to take their orders?” she murmurs under her breath.

Osamu swallows. “Yes, please.”

She leaves and comes back with their orders. “They want drinks too, but I said I’d go back out and get them.”

He can’t help it—he glances out at the seating area anyway. 

Suna is gone.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s fine. He ain’t here. I can do it—I gotta talk to ‘Tsumu anyway.”

Riko raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. ‘Sides, yer s’posed to leave early today. Ya deserve the time off. Hand those orders to Iwasaki, ‘kay?”

He doesn’t give her time to object, flipping up the bill of his baseball cap and heading out with a notepad.

Komori smiles when he approaches. “Hi, Osamu. Suna just left, in case you were looking for him,” he explains, completely oblivious. “Said he isn’t feeling well.”

“That’s fine. What can I get y’all fer drinks?” 

“Just beer, thanks.”

Then Atsumu orders a highball, and Bokuto echoes him, and suddenly Osamu’s carrying out a tray of fifteen glasses. They wobble as he sets the tray down on the table.

“Thanks,” Adriah sighs, knocking back his whisky. “Hits the spot.”

Osamu narrows his eyes. “Don’t y’all have rules ‘bout alcohol or somethin’?”

Atsumu tips his head. “Yeah, but we only got one match left, and it’s in a week.”

“Sounds like a shitty excuse to drink.” Sakusa sips a glass of water placidly.

“Shhh, Omi.”

“Didja see where Rin—I mean, Suna. Didja see where he went?” Osamu asks suddenly. “I need to talk to him.”

Atsumu shoots him a strange look. “No?”

Sakusa nods. “He said he was taking the train back to the hotel. I think he wanted to sleep early.”

“Thanks, Sakusa.”

He goes through the motions of the following hours, but his heart isn’t really in it, and he mixes up Washio’s order with another table.

“Sorry,” he says, apologizing profusely. 

Washio brushes it off. “Don’t worry.”

“Osamu,” Iwasaki says when he goes back to the kitchen. “I'll call in Fujiwara to help and we can cover for you tonight. Go find him.”

Osamu stares at him, jaw slack. “…What?”

“Go after that guy you’ve been chasing for years,” Iwasaki clarifies, rolling his eyes. “ I’m not stupid. You’ve been sad for a while now, Osamu. And he doesn't come around so much anymore. This is your chance.”

Osamu grits his teeth. “It’s gonna be hard to find him.”

Iwasaki shrugs. “You’ve got all night.”

And that’s all the encouragement Osamu needs to grab his coat from the hook and run out the back door. The volleyball players always stay at the same hotel; five minutes away from the stadium. He can make it there by nine pm if he takes the next train.

The neon signs, advertising everything from sake to karaoke, flash pink on the crosswalk and he runs across. The street thrums with life. 

A busker is playing guitar, but he doesn’t stop to listen like he normally would, merely tossing a coin in his case and making a beeline for the train station.

A cluster of fluorescent lights greets him when he steps on the train. 

Tinny pop music blasts out of the earbuds of a high school student sitting next to him, but otherwise the compartment is quiet, businessmen and workers on their commutes home.

The doors slide apart with a whoosh, and he almost sprints the two blocks to Suna’s hotel.

He stops right in front of the spinning entrance door and a shadowy figure at the side of the building catches his eye.

“Suna,” he says, a little cautious but mostly relieved, walking over.

Suna flinches and looks up, blowing out a puff of smoke. It smells acrid. A cigarette glows amber between his fingers and he raises it to his lips lazily. 

“I didn’t know ya smoked.”

Suna looks down and exhales loudly. The smoke forms ribbons in the air. “I’ve been trying to kick the habit.”

“Huh,” Osamu says. “Listen, Rin—Suna, I mean,” he corrects himself, again. “I was thinkin’ about what ya said.” Bad start, he thinks, and Suna knows it.

“Oh?”

“I…I’m not gonna tell ya no,” he replies, stumbling, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. He’s never had to talk to anyone like this; especially not Suna. “I can’t.”

“Why not, Osamu?” Suna asks, taking a particularly large drag of his cigarette. “Do you just get some weird—satisfaction from not letting me move on?”

“Suna,” he breathes. Tears are collecting at the corners of Suna’s eyes and he panics, but he tries to keep his voice level. “Please just let me talk.”

Suna looks down. “Sorry.”

“I can’t,” he continues. “‘Cause I—” he swallows— “I don’t want to.” Why is this so hard?

Suna narrows his eyes. “Explain.”

“I love you,” he blurts out, in a rush. “I have since…god, since second year at least. When ya gave me that letter that said ‘I love ya,’ and ya told me ya didn't write it—I musta cried fer a while, ‘cause I’ve never forgotten ‘bout it. And every time after that, I just told myself ya were sayin’ it as a friend, or ya were drunk so it didn’t count. I wouldn’t let myself think ya felt the same way. I didn’t even know ya liked me until ya told me that day. Then I just…panicked.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Suna whispers, wisps of smoke trickling past his lips. 

A car honks and time seems to stretch between them, waiting. Lingering.

Osamu barks out a short laugh. “So many reasons. They were all stupid ones; I was scared. I thought I was gonna lose ya. I didn’t think I could live if ya cut me off.” He spreads his arms. “It happened anyway.”

Suna is silent. “If you’re joking right now,” he begins, voice shaking. “If you’re joking—”

Osamu wraps his fingers around Suna’s wrist. He can feel the racing of his pulse. “I would never,” he says, earnest and determined. “I would never joke ‘bout somethin’ like this.”

Suna’s eyes fill with tears. Osamu wipes one away with his thumb, but he feels his vision blurring too, and he hopes Suna can’t see it under the shadow of his baseball cap.

“I was just waiting for you to realize,” Suna mumbles. “To realize and tell me no. Or say it back. But you never did.”

“I’ll say it now,” he says softly. “As many times as ya want me to.”

Suna drops his cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with the toe of his shoe, grinding tobacco leaves into the gravel. “Say it, then.” It sounds like a challenge.

“I love you,” Osamu responds, and it feels like he’s been waiting his whole life to say those words. Those words he's thought in his head about Suna so many times yet never said aloud.

He opens his mouth to repeat it, but Suna leans down and captures his lips. 

He tastes like smoke and artificial fruit and his hair smells like salonpas when Osamu twines his fingers into it. He’s making breathy noises in the back of his throat, gasping for air. 

Osamu mumbles it against Suna’s mouth one more time: “I love you.”

Suna pins him against the brick wall and kisses him harder, and he can’t say anything more.

━━━━━━

Here, Osamu thinks, is where he belongs: Suna pressing sleepy kisses on his collarbones and mumbling his name against his skin like a prayer, the glare from a traffic light outside setting the room aglow in amber.

“I love you, Rin,” he says, again and again.

Here, now: only dawn, and dusk, and twilight, and everything in between.

━━━━━━

The next morning, he wakes up before Suna, untangling himself to get dressed in last night’s clothes and brush his teeth.

Suna’s eyelashes fan out across his cheek, shadowy and dark. His lips are swollen, and light purple bruises pepper the skin of his collarbones.

“You’re leaving?”

He’s awake now, sitting up against the headboard. Osamu plops himself back down at the edge of the bed. A tuft of Suna’s hair sticks straight up.

“Almost,” he answers, patting down the tuft. It springs back.

“Stay awhile,” Suna says.

“‘Kay. Go back to sleep.”

Suna hums and stretches. “Only if you do.”

He crawls back into the mountain of pillows, throwing an arm across Suna's shoulders. “Deal. Sleep tight, Rin.”

“Mmm. Love you.”

A grin threatens to split his face in two. “Love you too.”

━━━━━━

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you directly without problems or pride:

I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,

so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,

so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

- Pablo Neruda, Love Sonnet XVII