kiss me more

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/30753065.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Haikyuu!!
Relationship: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou, Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Character: Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu, Suna Rintarou, Inarizaki Volleyball Club
(mention), MSBY 4 (mention)
Additional Tags: Friends With Benefits, But add in ~Feelings~, Osamu POV, Atsumu is
once again long-suffering, idiots to lovers, friends who boink, You Won't
Believe How Stupid They Are, Author yelled a lot writing this, love is
stored in the jam..., M for Mature but these idiots are Not, Friends don't
kiss so what are we?, Post-Time Skip, Canon Compliant, Mention of
alcohol, Apparently this reads as a T but please proceed at your
discretion, Heavily implied/referenced sexual content
Collections: SunaOsa
Stats: Published: 2021-04-18 Words: 15245

kiss me more
by yuzubalm

Summary

It’s simple; Osamu doesn’t actually have to say it out loud. Friends don’t kiss, because
kissing makes things weird. Suna said something before, the second time it happened. Be
careful, he’d murmured. Don’t wanna accidentally cross the line, right.

Friends don't kiss. Friends don't sleep over at each other's houses and touch each other and
sleep together, and they certainly don't keep doing that, over and over. Osamu knows this.
Suna knows this.

So, what are they?

Notes

So. This was a journey.

I did in fact tell Hannah that this would be 3,000 words long on April Fool's day, and we all
thought that would be the case. Well, look how far we've come. Who woulda thought.
(Hannah this is for you PLEASE ACCEPT MY OFFERING TO THE BOINK TAG)

Rated M for mild sexual content / implied sexual content - it's mostly feelings and idiocy
though, and I have been informed that it reads as a T so PLEASE. GO AHEAD. CHECK
TAGS. They boink, they kiss, they are STUPID-
 Have it. HAVE IT.

See the end of the work for more notes

Osamu wakes up to sunlight in his eyes, the scent of citrus, and a jacket half-wrapped in his arms.

It’s not everyday that he wakes up like this, rays of light filtering into the room from the window
on his left. He stirs and brushes his head against the pillow, sighing as he turns to the right, and
feels the warm but empty space next to him on the mattress.

It can’t be later than eight, he thinks, as he props himself up and blinks the sleep out of his eyes,
jacket falling into his lap as he raises his hands to his face and rubs his temples in a slow, circular
motion. In the quiet, eyes still closed, he can hear the rise and fall of his own breath, feel the
warmth of his palms pressing against the sides of his face as he blinks into consciousness, slowly
but surely, to the strange comfort of this apartment.

Today is not a day that requires him to wake up quickly. Unlike the usual weekday, he doesn’t
have a shop to open and staff to chase at the crack of dawn. The shop has rest days, and on this rare
Monday morning—seven hours away from his duties and obligations as owner of Onigiri Miya—
he does too.

In the faint distance, a bird chirps. A shower runs. Someone hums. The jacket in his lap is all white
and yellow, soft and electric, smooth and still warm.

Osamu blinks, and he blinks awake.

At 7.30am, in Suna’s apartment.

————————————

When Suna comes out of the shower, Osamu’s already in the kitchen, knife stuck in a jar of peanut
butter as he fishes out bread slices onto a plate.

“Morning,” Suna mumbles, running his towel through his hair as he shifts towards Osamu with
mild interest. “Priorities, I see.”

Osamu hums. “It’s just a sandwich,” he says, picking up the knife and spreading the peanut butter
across the slice in one, two, three precise strokes before reaching for the jam to his right. “Want
one?”

Suna replies with a noncommittal shrug. “I gotta go in a couple of minutes,” he says, grabbing the
jacket folded on the table next to Osamu. “Coach called us in; he probably has plans to share for
the coming season. I dunno. It’s too early for this shit.”

“Oh.” Osamu pats the sandwich together and slots it into a container. “Take this, then. PB & J.”
Suna blinks as Osamu taps the container shut and slides it across the table to him. “Thanks,” he
says after a while, fingers tapping on its lid before wrapping around it and pushing it into his
haversack. “I mean, there’s other things in the fridge, if you wanna.”

“Yeah?” Osamu raises a brow as he lifts the half-finished loaf of bread by its wrapper and shakes it
lightly. “This expires tomorrow, so no. Sandwiches only.”

“You can make toast, too,” Suna offers, grinning as he shakes his towel out and drapes it over one
of the pegs of the standing rack nearby. “The mini toaster works fine. I ran out of butter, though.”

“Ya don’t have any spreads but peanut butter and strawberry jam, and the jam doesn’t even contain
real strawberries, I swear.”

“It does, like, 20%.”

“God, just buy yourself some better jam.”

Suna only laughs.

“Only if you buy it for me,” he replies, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “The next time you
come over.”

————————————

He and Suna have been doing this for over a year now, this being their ‘arrangement.’ There’s
nothing to be said about it, other than, yeah, it happened, and it keeps happening, again and again
and again.

There isn’t much to it, really. Osamu lives in Osaka, and Suna stays in Shizuoka, except when it’s
the off-season, during which Suna moves between Shizuoka, Nagoya and Osaka. Their paths don’t
converge that often, only at games that Osamu sees, reunions they both attend, alumni gatherings,
team meetings, every single time Suna’s back in Osaka, or if they’re close enough to travel to each
other within the hour, well, alright, fine—

If Osamu really had to pin the blame on someone, it’d be Atsumu. Atsumu put them in the same
room by circumstance. Atsumu who didn’t know his alcohol tolerance well enough, and blacked
out at their Christmas reunion dinner. Atsumu’s apartment was undergoing some renovation at the
time, and so had to be dragged to Osamu’s for refuge—so that’s how the three of them ended up
there: Atsumu out cold in Osamu’s guest room, and Osamu and Suna in Osamu’s kitchen, because
Suna was nice enough to help him haul his brother’s ass back to his apartment.

Though, Osamu supposes, the fault’s all theirs for taking the next step. He’s not gonna lie, he
remembers what happened; every second of what happened.
 ————————————

“Honestly, it’s ‘Tsumu’s fault that we had to bail so early. Swear we weren’t anywhere near done.”

“It’s barely midnight.” Suna glances at the wall clock, amused. “I can’t believe Atsumu went and
played himself like that.”

“You know him,” Osamu groans as he slams the fridge shut and hands Suna a glass of water.
“Impulsive. Competitive to a fault. It’s all Gin’s fault for egging him on.”

“No, it’s Kita-san’s fault,” Suna laughs a little, and maybe it’s the remaining alcohol in Osamu’s
system that’s making it sound all soft and fuzzy in his ears. “Drank him under the table.”

“That’s Kita-san for you,” Osamu taking his own glass in his hand and raises it to his lips. “Perfect
control.”

“What I’d give to see him crack,” Suna meets Osamu’s gaze, and laughs a little more. “Just once. I
wanna see it.”

In the moonlight peeking through the blinds, Suna is a juxtaposition of hard angles and soft
textures. There’s one part of his hip that juts out just a little more than the other—visible from
Osamu’s angle—where the light’s hitting just right on his thigh. It’s a few inches below the sliver
of skin in between his jeans and his t-shirt which rides up slightly as he hoists himself up onto
Osamu’s kitchen counter, and the same beam of light travels across his side and up to his face,
painting a soft curve past his lashes and onto his cheek.

“Me too,” Osamu mutters, as Suna’s laughter slowly fades. “I wanna see it too.”

Suna settles on his kitchen counter easily, like it’s his own space, scooching his body further back
so that his feet barely touch the floor, toes grazing the kitchen tiles lazily, head lolling slightly to
one side and resting on his own shoulder as he smiles at Osamu, and his smile’s soft, perhaps
genuine—

And it’s kind of cute, Osamu thinks, that Suna’s laughter is always a bit looser when he drinks. It’s
not that he doesn’t normally laugh, or that it’s always faked when he does—it’s just that, at times
like these, he thinks that maybe Suna lets himself be less afraid of judgment.

And what is there to be afraid of, really, when you’re sitting on a counter in your friend’s
apartment at twelve in the morning, no lights on, with only the residual illumination of the
moonlight and street lamps outside framing your silhouettes?

In his dimly-lit kitchen, amidst the silence, Osamu sees and hears it all clearly: the gulp that Suna
takes when he swallows a mouthful of water,. the bob of his adam’s apple following the motion,
the clink of the glass as he sets it down just a bit too hard against the counter top, the slight sway of
his body when he passes the glass to Osamu, and the way they don’t break eye contact as Osamu
lowers the two glasses into the sink and wipes his hands on a towel.

Osamu notices it all. He notices the curve of Suna’s lips against the moonlight, the way one edge
curves up slightly more than the other, the way his tongue darts out and wets his lips in a
subconscious movement as he lets his legs sway. The way his smile starts to fade,, and his lips part
just slightly as time goes by, and the both of them are starting to become conscious of the fact that
it’s just the two of them in Osamu’s kitchen, separated by two meters of thick, empty space. The
way Suna’s gaze trails Osamu’s hands and the movement of Osamu’s hips as he steps away from
the sink and turns to face him again.

The silence in the room drags and dissolves into a thick cloud of static, and that’s all that Osamu
can feel now, a buzz flitting through his mind and coursing through his entire body.

“Uh…” Osamu tries to say something casual, like so, what’re you gonna do now? or where are ya
gonna go for the night? but it dies in his throat the moment he thinks of it. “Are you...” Okay?
Gonna go home? Do you wanna-

“Can I stay?” Suna says suddenly, eyes still on him. “I can go home in the morning. If that’s
okay?”

Osamu blinks. “Yeah,” he says. “‘Course that’s okay.” Atsumu’s in the spare bedroom and he has
his own bedroom, and he supposes there’s the couch and probably a spare futon somewhere.

Logistically, there’s no issue, but his mind is far from thinking about logistics because Suna’s still
staring at him, opening his mouth and closing it again, the tip of his tongue sliding against the
inner corner of his bottom lip as he does so, and all Osamu can think is how it might feel to kiss
that mouth. Shit.

Suna leans his body forward by just an inch, gaze piercing into him. “You…” he murmurs, fingers
gently scratching against the counter top. “You look like… well...”

“...Like what?”

There’s a loose few strands of hair swaying in front of Suna’s face. If Osamu were closer, he could
brush it away, tuck it behind his ear, maybe cup his cheek and find out if it’s as smooth as it looks
—

“Like you wanna kiss me,” Suna breathes. “Do you?”

In that moment, Osamu considers his options. One, he lies and says a definite no, and maybe Suna
will still stay over, maybe he won’t. Two, he brushes it off as a joke by adding one of his own, and
they try to laugh it off and go to bed, end of story.

Three.

Osamu swallows.

“Maybe I do,” his voice is barely a whisper, but he knows from the way Suna’s eyes widen that
he’s been heard, loud and clear. “What about it?”

Suna exhales, sharply, and Osamu’s mind whirs into overdrive. It’s too late for either of them to
retract their words. Maybe he and Suna can blame it on the alcohol, which, for him, is now reduced
to a soft, negligible buzz at the back of his mind, but what Suna doesn’t know won’t—

“Then kiss me,” Suna says suddenly. “Do it now.”

A single drop of water falls from the tap and splashes into the sink.

Friends don’t say shit like that, Osamu thinks. Friends don’t say yes to a kiss like that. But Osamu
and Suna are indeed friends, and it takes Osamu just two steps to reach Suna, two seconds to press
his mouth on his, and no time at all for Suna to sigh into the kiss and press back, hard, hands
reaching up to grab the front of Osamu’s shirt.

Suna tastes like apple cider, his mouth warm against Osamu’s, jaw slack as he lets Osamu smooth
one hand over his cheek and tilt his head just a degree to the left. Osamu’s hand slips past the side
of Suna’s face to the back of his neck, and Suna leans into the touch, pliant and willing, lips wet,
parted, tongue warm.

It’s warm—everything about this is warm—Suna’s hands on his torso, trailing up; their bodies
moving closer and closer together until there’s no space between them. Osamu’s fingers are
entangled in Suna’s hair, and Suna’s fingers are grasping, almost desperate, and the soft noise that
Suna makes at the back of his throat sends a hum through Osamu’s entire body that grows and
grows and grows—

Osamu’s mind is abuzz when they break apart with Suna still seated atop the kitchen counter, one
leg hooked around Osamu’s thigh. One of Osamu’s hands is in Suna’s hair, while the other is
pressed against his back, pulling him closer, and Suna is staring straight at him, hair mussed,
cheeks pink, and pupils blown wide.

Shit. Osamu has never wanted anything more than this.

“Fuck,” Suna murmurs, pressing against him and sending a rush of warmth straight through
Osamu’s chest and to his gut. “You wanna do this?”

He doesn’t specify what this is, but Osamu knows exactly what he means by the way Suna’s hand
moves to tug at his sleeve, fingers digging into his arm; the way his leg remains hooked around
his; the way he’s leaning in close, so close that Osamu can see his lashes and feel the warmth
radiating off his face as he continues to gaze at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Yeah,” Osamu mumbles, fingers slipping underneath Suna’s shirt and grazing his bare skin. Suna
shivers and leans forward, brushing his lips against Osamu’s once more before dipping his head
into the crook of his neck. “Yeah, shit, okay, I—”

“Your bedroom,” Suna’s arms are looped around his shoulders now, mouth hot and pressed against
Osamu’s neck, each movement of his lips sending waves of heat through Osamu’s body. “Can’t,
not with Atsumu here—”

“‘Course not,” Osamu breathes, arms making their way around Suna’s torso and pulling him off
the kitchen counter. “But that means you gotta move...”

“Mmmh, yeah,” Suna murmurs, shifting against him as he unhooks his leg from Osamu’s. “Lead
the way.”

————————————

The first time it happens that night, it’s kind of quiet. Suna whines, but it’s soft enough that it never
gets past the bedroom door, and Atsumu knows nothing when he wakes up the next day with a
massive hangover and three pairs of shoes still at the front door.
The next time it happens, it takes place at five in the afternoon on a Sunday. Suna texts him a
single hey three hours beforehand, and goes home with him after dropping by and buying two rice
balls from his shop. This time, Atsumu is thankfully absent, and Suna moans without reservation
into his mouth when he’s pressed up against the wall, one hand wrapped around Osamu’s waist,
the other slotted in Osamu’s back pocket.

It’s only the second time they’re touching like this, but Osamu knows that if he kisses the spot
behind Suna’s left ear, he will shiver, and if he sucks at that same spot and trails his mouth down
his neck, Suna will melt.

It’s exactly what he does, and it’s exactly what happens. Suna’s fingers scrabble desperately against
him, tugging at his belt loops, urging him closer even though Osamu’s already pressed up against
him, and Osamu keeps him there until Suna’s saying his name, Osamu, Osamu, ‘Samu-

It’s not like they don’t discuss it before it happens. Suna does ask, in a roundabout way, once on
the way home, once in the lift, and once more at his doorstep. “You okay?” Suna says on the third
occasion, poking his arm with his finger as they’re standing on his doormat.

It’s almost funny that Suna is this considerate, Osamu thinks, as he circles his wrist and pulls him
into his apartment. The door swings shut; a conclusive yes.

Neither of them ask for permission like that again, after.

The thing is, Osamu can’t say for sure what might’ve happened if Atsumu had never gotten
blackout drunk and forced them into Osamu’s kitchen that night. But maybe, he thinks, it would’ve
happened sooner or later. It might have happened on New Year’s Eve when they were supposed to
meet each other again, or later in January when Osamu was supposed to watch an EJP Raijin
match. Or, if either of them had wanted to, it could’ve happened earlier in October, when Osamu
had visited Shizuoka for a day and Suna had leaned against his shoulder for a little too long outside
the izakaya while they were waiting for taxis.

They hadn’t, but what if they had?

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters because the reality is that it’s been one year
since they first started sleeping together, and he doesn’t know if, or when, it’s going to stop.

————————————

By the time it hits 8 in the morning, Suna’s zipped up in his jacket, one side of his mask looped
around his left ear, swaying slightly as he leans out, grabs and tosses his water bottle into his bag.
“Don’t you have work to get to today?”

“I’m the owner, who says I need to go in?” Osamu rolls his eyes. “Nah. I’ll go in by two today.
Have the morning off.”

“Mmmm,” Suna hums as he grabs his keys and zips up his bag. “There’s a market nearby. Not sure
if you wanna check out the corner stall, think they sell new stuff every Tuesday.” He slings his bag
around his shoulder. “If you wanna take a look.”

“Cool.” Osamu glances at the remaining slices of bread on the table and considers whether Suna
would mind if he used up the rest to make his lunch. “I have a bit of time.”

“Yeah—ah.” From next to him, Suna pushes himself up and steps away from the dining table. “I
gotta go. Lock up when you leave, alright?”

Osamu holds a set of spare keys to Suna’s apartment, has held it for two months now. Is it normal
to have the keys to a friend’s apartment, he’d asked Google once, and then he amended it: is it
normal to have the keys to your friend’s apartment if we sleep together like, every other week?

Then he promptly deleted the query from his browser history and gave Suna a set of his keys in
return.

It’s alright that they’re like this, he supposes. It’s normal. Maybe exchanging apartment keys is a
bit much for the usual friends-with-benefits arrangement, but he and Suna are different. They’re
high school friends, good friends at that—not just random buddies fresh off the internet or picked
up from the streets. Osamu even knows Suna’s family, and Suna knows his. They know each
other’s histories. There’s a layer of trust that already existed from the moment they kick-started it
all.

It’s this layer of trust that allows Osamu to sit in Suna’s kitchen and play around with Suna’s
kitchenware while Suna loops the other side of his mask around his right ear and gets ready to
leave, the same way he did two weeks ago, and another two weeks before that.

“Yeah, I will,” Osamu mumbles absentmindedly, thumb separating the two slices of bread on his
plate as he picks the knife out of the peanut butter and starts slathering the spread on one side. “See
you when I see you.” It’s probably going to be fairly soon, he thinks, since the season kicks off in a
couple of weeks, and he’ll definitely catch him at his games, or when he’s got a booth set up. He’s
not sure exactly when. They’ve never been the type to fix a schedule.

Suna pushes his chair, which screeches quietly against the wooden floorboards. “See you when I
see you,” he echoes.

“Mmm. Take care, Rin.”

Osamu calls him Suna for the most of it, Rin only sometimes, when it’s just the two of them.
Today’s Rin slips out of him easily, rolls off his tongue like nothing. It’s been happening more
often lately, but it’s fine, Osamu thinks; Rin suits him. And he likes it.

From behind him, Suna hums, and as he passes Osamu by, he brushes the back of his head with his
hand, fingers running briefly against the shorter hairs on his nape.

Suna’s fingers are warm to the touch, probably from the cup of coffee he was holding earlier. A
finger traces a curl to the side of his head and strokes it before trailing away. It’s soft and strangely
soothing, and Osamu can’t help but let out a sigh.

And that’s the thing about Suna. Suna is soothing when you least expect it. On the court he’s all
sharp and taunting; in normal conversations he’s deadpan and snarky. Here with Osamu, in his own
apartment, he’s all of that and a little bit more, and it changes everything.

His thumb passes the corner below his ear and flicks his earlobe, gently.

“Bye, ‘Samu.”
As his fingers retract from Osamu’s neck, Osamu whips his head around to glance at Suna, mouth
opening to say something, but Suna’s got his shoes on and is out of the door with a wave of the
arm before Osamu can say anything more.

————————————

They never stick to a schedule, but there’s always something of an unsaid routine going on. The
first is that the other person will almost always stay over and leave the next morning, unless the
sun’s still up, or if they have separate accommodation. Suna, despite letting people think he’s lazy,
tends to wake up first (and occasionally before daybreak), and Osamu gets up pretty quickly after.
Suna doesn’t have the habit of eating a proper breakfast unless he has to, and tends to take pieces
of fruit or make an instant oats drink instead. Osamu grabs whatever’s available.

He drinks coffee. Osamu drinks tea. One of them usually leaves pretty quickly after.

The second is that they don’t talk about it in the open. A private arrangement between two
individuals is sanctimonious. Nobody has ever asked. They have never told.

The third is that Suna never kisses him goodbye. That’s expected. Osamu doesn’t either.

That’s it, the routine.

————————————

Suna leaves in the morning like a bit of a whirlwind—cup of coffee half-drank, chair half-tucked,
all the dishes washed save for one butter knife, one shoe out of place on the shoe rack, and the
pillows on his bed askew.

I’m a responsible adult, I swear, Suna likes to say, but Osamu knows better. Osamu knows better
after having washed his cups and cutlery, pushed in his chair, kept his shoes, and made the
remainder of his bed one time too many. He knows that if left alone, Suna doesn’t wash his cups
until he gets home at the end of the day, and if left for too long, the remainder of the coffee may
stain their insides, evident from the marks left on the white mug on Suna’s coffee table, a mainstay
of his apartment. Suna also doesn’t have many groceries at any point in time, so Osamu resigns
himself to the life of sandwich-making whenever he’s over.

By the time it reaches 9 a.m. and Osamu’s done packing his extra sandwiches, his phone buzzes
next to him on the couch. Oi, make me a tuna mayo for lunch? Late like 3pm, Atsumu texts.

For you, it’ll be 1,000 yen, Osamu replies. Atsumu sends him a middle finger emoji and he sends
one back immediately with fireworks for added effect. He scoffs. Loser. It doesn’t matter. He’ll
make one for him for free anytime.

The notifications fade, and Osamu’s left to stare at his phone screen as he contemplates the time.
At this time in the morning, he has five hours to spare until he needs to continue with work again,
three until he needs to catch the train back, two until he needs to leave and lock up Suna’s
apartment.

Osamu runs his fingers past his nape, finds himself thinking about that last touch, and sighs,
collapsing sideways to lie down on the couch.

God, he needs to go to work, feed Atsumu, and face reality. God dammit.

————————————

Atsumu finds out about it approximately halfway into their stint, when Osamu reaches home at
eleven on a Saturday morning in a t-shirt that’s not his.

It’s not that he wanted to keep it a secret from his brother. He would’ve told him eventually, at
some point in time, maybe when they stopped. But they never did stop and, well, Atsumu just
happened to find out faster than he could get himself to say something about it.

It’s just, things like these don’t usually enter into normal conversation, until they do. It happens
when Atsumu’s leaning against the doorway of Osamu’s apartment, arms crossed, with skepticism
written all over his face.

Oh right, Osamu remembers. His brother, the owner of the other spare set of keys to his apartment,
did say he’d be free when they hung out the day before.

“Where were ya?” he says, cocking his head to the side.

Osamu shrugs. “Out,” he says, simply.

Atsumu clicks his tongue as he eyes his shirt, and Osamu just knows that he knows it isn’t his.
“Oh?” Atsumu drawls. “Where?”

“Do I hafta tell you?” Osamu frowns. “You’re not mom, stop botherin’ me.”

“I’m your brother, you can’t stop me from botherin’ ya—”

“Well, I’m stopping you now, get the hell outta the doorway—”

Osamu nudges forward and almost makes it into the house before Atsumu darts forward and
reaches a hand to yank at his shirt collar.

“What the fuck?” Osamu slaps Atsumu’s hand away and Atsumu recoils, looking scandalized.
“Get off—”

“Ah!” Atsumu yells, pointing at him accusingly. “I knew it! Fuck you, ‘Samu!”
“Huh?” Osamu follows the direction of Atsumu’s finger to the spot that Atsumu grabbed and pulls
his collar down. “What?”

Atsumu simply points towards the wall mirror, and he turns to see a purplish bruise forming at his
collarbone that definitely wasn’t there yesterday. Heat rises through his neck to his cheeks. Oh,
okay.

“Suna,” Atsumu says instantly, cornering him as he shifts his shirt back into place. “That’s from
Suna.”

Osamu winces. “How did you—“

“Bite mark,” His brother gestures a small curve with his index finger. “Suna has that left incisor
which curves a bit, yanno, you can see a bit of it whenever he opens his mouth.”

Osamu knows which one it is. He remembers it clearly because Suna’s tongue runs over that
particular tooth often, when he’s lost in thought, or when he’s about to say something deliciously
mean, or when he’s pinning Osamu down and observing, running fingers down his chest,
anticipating—

These are decidedly bad thoughts to have when he’s stuck in the hallway with his twin brother.
Osamu opts to slap him on the side of his head instead. “Wow, ‘Tsumu, you’re so observant it’s
gross,” he mutters, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets as he shuffles past the living room
towards the fridge for a cold drink. “Stop looking at people’s teeth for once, would ya.”

Atsumu shakes his head as he follows him to the kitchen. “You’re the one with a bite mark on your
neck, so who’s the gross one, really?” he says, bemused, pushing past Osamu and reaching into the
second row and tossing him a can of milk coffee.

Osamu catches the can easily and seats himself by the dining table, pulling a coaster close to him.
“It’s gross if you keep fixating on it.”

“It’s gross that we’re talkin’ about it.”

“...You started it.”

“Fuck you,” Atsumu scoffs, planting himself down on the chair across him. “I can’t believe you
guys didn’t tell me you were dating, I mean, we’re all friends, and I’m your brother and all that—”

Well, that’s the thing. “We’re not.” Osamu’s fingers trail down the side of the can, condensation
dripping at the edge of his fingertips. “Dating.”

“Oh,” Atsumu coughs. “Oh, okay.”

Osamu pushes the tab back and the canned milk coffee opens with a hiss. Across the table, Atsumu
is quiet, waiting, expectant.

Osamu sighs and leans back into his chair.

“It’s not like we tried to hide it from ya,” Osamu mumbles. Not really, he thinks. It just never came
up in conversation. Osamu didn’t think it was ever too important to mention it; after all, it wasn’t
too important for Atsumu to know that he and Suna had gone home together after watching the
Jackals’ exhibition match in Tokyo two months ago, or that last week’s ‘appointment’ was actually
two hours with him in Osamu’s apartment. Those were supposed to be inconsequential, mindless
things. “And you never asked.”
“Riiiight.” Atsumu leans forward, resting his head on his arm as he continues to glance at him.
“So? How long? Since when?”

Osamu lifts the can to his lips and lets the cool, milky sensation trickle into his mouth and down
his throat.

“December,” he mumbles after he swallows. “It’s been six months.”

“What the fuck.” And then, “Oh, so, like, during Christmas.”

And then, “Oh my god, Christmas?”

————————————

After those first few times, they tell themselves that they shouldn’t kiss so often. Kisses are
intimate and nothing about this is supposed to be.

Osamu already knows this. The problem isn’t the lack of understanding. The problem is that
Osamu has a weak resolve when it comes to Suna.

“We’re friends, right?” he says to Suna once with his back pressed against the wall, face flushed,
shirt half-unbuttoned, Suna’s fingers threaded in his hair.

“Yeah, right, ‘cause friends do this-” Suna leans forward and grazes his teeth across the side of his
neck, and Osamu’s breath hitches. “Does this mean that we can’t be friends anymore?”

“No,” Osamu mumbles back, hands dipping under Suna’s sweatshirt and coming into contact with
his skin. As his fingers trail the sides of Suna’s torso, Suna sighs into his neck, pressing his mouth
on his collarbone, warm against his skin. “‘Course we can just, y’know...” Suna dips his head,
trailing down his chest, and Osamu pulls him closer. “...do this...”

“Uh huh...” Suna withdraws his fingers from Osamu’s hair and fumbles with the next button down
his shirt. “So why’re you asking me this now, huh?”

“It’s just,” Osamu murmurs, “friends don’t kiss, do they?”

Suna pauses in the moment and glances at him, loose strands of hair falling past his ear and to the
side of his face.

“Maybe not,” He tugs at Osamu’s shirt with his slender fingers. “You wanna stop?”

Osamu shakes his head. “It’s just… you know. Don’t wanna complicate things.”

It’s simple; Osamu doesn’t actually have to say it out loud. Friends don’t kiss, because kissing
makes things weird. Suna said something before, the second time it happened. Be careful, he’d
murmured. Don’t wanna accidentally cross the line, right.

Then again, friends don’t touch the way they’ve touched each other. Friends don’t pin each other
to the wall and take each other’s clothes off the way they do; don’t end up on the bed and let
themselves be shifted in positions like they do.

It’s just, the touching of lips is far softer than the knocking of knees, or even the warm grasp of a
hand against a waist or thigh. The lips are vulnerable and far more sensitive than most other parts
of the body. You can’t take back a kiss—or, perhaps, it’s better phrased in this way—you can’t
take back the feeling you put behind a kiss. Simply put, you might catch feelings.

Simply put, it’s dangerous.

Suna’s gaze is still fixated on him now as he leans in close. “So what, then,” he says, face barely
inches away from his, “wanna make it an official rule? No kissing?”

The left corner of his lips quirks upwards, as though he’s taunting him, daring him to say yes, but
the way his gaze never leaves his lips says it all.

“No,” Osamu murmurs as he closes the gap between them and meets his lips, “not now.”

If not now, then when? It’s a question that needs answering, but in the moment, with Osamu’s
hands in Suna’s hair and Suna’s arms looped around Osamu’s waist, any semblance of a response
falls away and seats itself neatly in the back of his mind.

Maybe friends really shouldn’t kiss, Osamu thinks as he closes his eyes and presses against him,
but if friends can do the rest and get away with it, then perhaps kissing isn’t as sacred as they’re
making themselves believe it to be.

“Friends don’t kiss,” Suna mumbles, but he kisses him back anyway, lips soft against his, and
Osamu thinks that maybe, just maybe, Suna might have a bit of a weak resolve when it comes to
him, too.

————————————

“Oh, I see how it is.”

Atsumu’s observing him from his usual counter spot with one hand supporting his head and the
other swirling his cup of green tea, and Osamu hates it.

“What…do ya want?”

“I’m just saying.” Atsumu sets his cup back on the counter top with a quiet thud. “When are ya
gonna actually start dating him?”

Osamu can only stare back at him. “We’re not gonna date,” he says simply, because it is what it is.
They’re friends, maybe a little more than friends, given that they’ve seen each other naked way too
many times now, but they’ve drawn a hard line and neither of them intend to cross it.

“Uh huh,” his brother nods towards the table next to him. “What’s that, then?”
“Sandwich.”

“He made you a sandwich?”

“I made myself a sandwich.” Peanut butter and jelly, using the god-awful brand of strawberry jam
Suna prefers for no particular reason.

“In his kitchen.”

“Uh huh.”

“Using his groceries.”

“...Uh huh.”

“And—” Atsumu squints. “—using his tupperware, ‘cause that ain’t yours.”

“Well,” Osamu glances at the box. It’s not his usual set, which is plain white. Suna’s is transparent
with a blue lid; occasionally, orange with a matching lid, microwaveable. “I mean, yeah, I don’t
bring spare tupperware around with me all the time.”

“Okay,” Atsumu nods. “Yeah, alright. Ya see, that’s not normal.”

Osamu frowns, because it’s not usually in his brother’s nature to lecture him about this part of his
life. Atsumu may be nosy about everything in his life, but not this. Not his thing with Suna.
“What?”

“You’re usin’ his stuff, sittin’ around in his house, I mean—” Atsumu gestures at him. “—
sometimes you’re wearin’ his clothes, what the fuck’s all that about, huh?”

“Sometimes I just need spare clothes.” Which is true. He doesn’t carry spare clothes around with
him all the time, and sometimes, it’s just nice to wear something fresh. It helps that Suna buys half
his t-shirts one size bigger than his usual size, which is a more-than-comfortable fit on Osamu.

It also helps that his drawer has a particular mild citrus scent (it’s the scent sachet, Suna explained
to him once, I only buy it from this one brand—) that makes his tees smell, just faintly, like freshly
peeled oranges in the best possible way. No, his brother doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, so you’re just casually wearin’ each other’s clothes, now.”

“What, you have a problem with that?”

“No, but you see, it’s not just you.” Atsumu huffs and folds his arms. “Sometimes I see Sunarin
and he’s just casually wearin’ one of your hoodies, and I know for a fact he hangs around here
sometimes waiting for you, and you know what? I still remember that one time I came over and I
didn’t know, and you were in the shower and I sat with Suna in your living room and he looked
kinda out of it and now I know, now I fucking know, it was all you—”

Oh, Osamu remembers. “Well, that’s on you for visiting early, ya dumb shit—”

“No, that’s on you for not tellin’ me you had someone over! I made conversation with him for five
whole minutes before we left him there!”

“Well, yeah, ‘cause that someone was Rin so it didn’t matter—”

“Well, precisely because it’s Suna, like I’d never let you just walk in on me after, when I’m with
—”

Both of them freeze at the same time.

“Rin,” Atsumu says, just as Osamu says, “Are ya seeing someone?”

“You called him Rin.”

“Who would I walk in on you with?” Osamu frowns. “‘Tsumu, tell me who?”

“No, answer me first.” Atsumu’s eyes narrow as he slowly folds his arms. “Ya just callin’ him
‘Rin’ casually like that?”

“I mean, we’ve known him for years, now, does it really matter?”

“No, it’s different from ‘Sunarin’; I’d never call him ‘Rin’ like that—” his brother cringes. “Ew,
yeah, no thanks.”

“No?” Osamu folds the kitchen towel and slaps it neatly onto the table. “Well, I say it sometimes
now. It doesn’t matter. Who are you seein’?”

“Nobody.” The tips of Atsumu’s ears sear a faint pink as he folds his arms tighter. “‘Samu, look.
You and Suna… I dunno what you think is goin’ on between you two but...”

“It is what it is,” Osamu mutters, reaching his arm out to refill Atsumu’s tea. “It doesn’t mean
anything and you know it.”

“Yeah, but ya see, I don’t know,” Atsumu takes a gulp and sets the cup back down again, “and I
don’t think so. I don’t think you mean what ya say.”

Osamu can feel mild waves of irritation prickling against his skin. “Oh, ya think so?” he says,
setting the kettle down with a thud and glaring at his brother. “Ya think?”

“Oh, I know so.” Atsumu scoffs. “I’m tellin’ you, you needa figure it out right now, or else you
won’t know what hit ya when you realise it later on.”

It’s not often that Atsumu’s cryptic, given that he’s usually more in-your-face about things, but
when he is, it irritates Osamu even more. “You make no sense.”

“I do.” Atsumu’s sporting a smug grin on his face, like he’s just said something profound, although
to Osamu, he’s most definitely just talking out of his ass. “You’re just stupid, ‘Samu.”

Osamu heaves a sigh. It’s almost four in the afternoon. Whatever it is his brother’s getting at, he’s
going to let it go and tackle it another day. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, ‘Tsumu.”

“Fine, I’m just gonna say this—” Atsumu leans across the counter and flicks him on the arm.
“Don’t make things weird between you and Sunarin, okay?”

And, fine, because they’re twin brothers and Suna’s one of Atsumu’s closest friends from high
school (as much as he is Osamu’s), Osamu will agree. It’s not like he wants to make things weird,
anyway—or any weirder than they already are. He doesn’t think it’s that weird, anyway. Things
between them have never been weird, even after that first time they had sex in Osamu’s apartment.

“‘Course not. Who do you take me for?”

“An idiot, that’s what.” Atsumu sinks back into his seat and rests his elbows against the
countertop. “That’s why I’m sayin’ it to your face.”

“Right, right.” Osamu grabs Atsumu’s empty plate and taps him on the head with it. “Then I’m just
gonna have to guess who you’re bangin’.”

“Christ, ‘Samu—”

“I’m gonna keep saying shit like that until you tell me who it is.”

“...This conversation is over.”

————————————

Whatever reservations Atsumu has about him and Suna, they’re obviously stupid and completely
uncalled for. Osamu’s not making it weird by calling Suna, Rin, neither is Suna making it weird by
shortening his name for convenience’s sake. Yeah, he calls him Rin sometimes, and Suna calls him
‘Samu at times too; sometimes casually when they’re hanging out alone; sometimes when he’s
inside him and Suna’s grasping at the sheets and gasping his name between short breaths. Potato,
potato. There’s really nothing new about it.

There’s also nothing new about him borrowing Suna’s t-shirt and old Inarizaki sweater, which
smell very faintly like the mandarins growing in Kita’s backyard. Neither is there something new
about him returning Suna’s tupperware the next time he sees him, washed and dried.

(There is something new about him buying Suna a new jar of blueberry jam to replace his crappy
one, but there’s nothing to it, anyway. It’s just a benefit. An added benefit for them both, since
Osamu gets to use it too.

Anyway, they’re friends. Can’t friends buy each other jam?)

————————————

It’s a little over a week later before they next meet, in between practice sessions during the off-
season. On this particular morning, Suna’s in Osamu’s apartment, lying horizontally on his couch
and taking up its entire length, scrolling his phone with a bored expression. It’s typical of Suna to
show up at Osamu’s apartment and drop onto his couch like he owns the place, especially since he
has his own set of keys now.

Ah. Osamu sets his mug down on the kitchen counter, where he’s standing. He never told Atsumu
that they exchanged apartment keys.
He wonders what Atsumu would have to say about that.

“Hey,” Suna says from across the room, “how’s your schedule looking today?”

“Uh,” Osamu glances at his phone, which lights up upon his touch. “I’ve got to get out by ten, so I
have another two hours?”

“Okay.” Suna’s gaze doesn’t leave his phone screen as he continues to scroll down the page. “So I
can lie here for a while more.”

Osamu can’t help but laugh a little. “I gave ya my keys. You can leave anytime.”

Suna hums absentmindedly, shifting a little in the grey hoodie he has on. It’s slightly large for his
frame, and has a small, clean logo on the sleeve, and oh, that’s Osamu’s.

“I gotta go at about the same time anyway,” he says, fingers slowing mid-scroll, “so we can leave
at the same time, if you wanna.”

“‘Kay.” Osamu watches him peruse the contents of his Instagram feed for a few moments before
glancing back at the arrangement of items before him. Osamu was supposed to sort out his dry
foods and spices last night, but Suna was around, and between kitchen organization and Suna,
decisions had to be made.

Suna’s quiet on the couch, and with nothing but the mild whirring of his standing fan, hum of the
fridge, and chirping of some birds in the near distance, Osamu’s mind is clear to think. He sets
aside two bottles to the left and one packet to the right. There’s leftover miso which probably
won’t last any longer than another month, and next to his brand new bottle of soy sauce there’s a
half-empty, expired bottle of pepper. Figures, he doesn’t use pepper that much in his cooking, but
it’s just a little bit of a waste. Sighing, he grabs the tiny bottle and tosses it neatly into the trash bin
at the other end, and it lands with a soft plop.

“Nice toss,” Suna calls.

“Nice kill.” Osamu shakes his head, smiling a little, as he moves to wash his hands at the sink.
Suna’s presence in his apartment is a welcome one, if he thinks about it. Suna’s not particularly
messy, doesn’t make much noise (generally, all things considered), offers funny memes and snarky
comebacks whenever he approaches him. And when they’re alone together, like this, it’s never
awkward.

After the first night, Osamu might have been a little concerned that things wouldn’t be the same,
and Suna would run away and never speak to him again. But he remembers that morning, when he
woke up and his limbs were in a tangle, and Suna was lying next to him in one of his t-shirts,
scrolling his phone like nothing had happened. When Osamu brushed his arm against his while
sitting up, he’d glanced at him and smiled, just a little.

“Morning,” he’d said, “wanna check up on your brother?”

It’s comfortable, Osamu has come to realize, this space that they’ve created around each other. For
him to look up and see Suna on his sofa like he’s supposed to be there. For Suna to have an extra
toothbrush at his house, just because he drops by so often. For Osamu to take control of Suna’s
kitchen, for Osamu to buy groceries for Suna, for Suna to meet him for dinner every now and then,
just the two of them, to talk and, well. Aside from the intimacy.

To enjoy each other’s company.

Osamu shuts off the tap.

“I’ve been thinking,” Osamu says.

On the couch, Suna freezes, eyes widening ever so slightly as he lets his phone drop onto his lap.
“Uh….huh?” he says, raising his head to glance at Osamu, and Osamu can’t help but feel like
Suna’s nervous about something that he has no clue about.

“No, I—” he gestures at his pantry. “I figured out what else you can make with your jam.”

Suna’s shoulders visibly relax. “Oh,” he says, leaning his head back against the couch, “what is it,
then?”

“I mean, you can use it on bread, toasted or not, but you can also put it in yoghurt, yanno?” Osamu
points at the jam he’d bought Suna, sitting on his counter—the superior brand to Suna’s cheap
junk. “If ya wanna be fancy, you can use it in crepes and stuff, but did you know you can also use it
with meat—”

“Like those meatballs they sell at IKEA?”

“Like Swedish meatballs,” Osamu nods. “Ya can just use it as a condiment, just plop it on the side,
makes your meal twice as fancy...”

From across the room, Suna sits up slowly and pockets his phone, hood falling back, hair brushing
the side of his face. It’s still messy, uncombed and unstyled, and a lock of hair sticks to his cheek,
the edge clinging to his eyelashes even as he shakes his head a little.

Metres away, Osamu kind of wants to reach out and brush it out of his face.

“You’re such a food snob,” Suna stands up and stretches, the hem of the hoodie lifting just slightly
as he raises his arms over his head and stuffs his hands back into his pockets. “I’m happy having
my jam with white bread, thanks very much.”

“Nah. Elevate your food. Make yourself feel better.”

“Yeah, nah...” Suna’s strides are long, and he makes it to his counter in seconds. “Are you gonna
talk about food all day, or are you actually gonna cook something?”

By all accounts, Osamu thinks, they’re not domestic. Or, at least, they’re not supposed to be. They
have no reason to be. But every now and then, Osamu cooks and Suna cleans up, and it’s not weird
at all, because they’re friends, and that’s what Osamu does, he cooks for a living. There’s nothing
more to it.

“Maybe.” Osamu glances at the remaining stack of items to his left. “But you gotta wait for me to
sort through my stuff. I was cleanin’.”

“Ah,” Suna leans against the kitchen counter. “Then how about we go out?”

Osamu raises a brow. “Out?”

“Y’know,” Suna nudges him with his foot, “there’s a nice cafe two blocks down, right? You’re
always talking about it.”

“Oh,” Osamu knows the place, just a short walk down, opened by a lovely couple with two cats.
It’s been on his list for a while. It’s just—
“I wanna get coffee,” Suna tilts his head to the side as he continues to glance at him. “Come with
me, alright?”

He sighs. “It’s 500 yen for cold brew. I could make cold brew right here, right now.”

“No, you can’t,” Suna laughs; it’s light and airy. “C’mon. I’ll pay, okay? I know you wanna try
their eggs.” That’s entirely true. Osamu heard that their supplier’s really good. “There, got you
tempted. Pull on a jacket and let’s go.”

Osamu blinks.

This is new. They don’t usually go out the morning after—if they eat, it’s at home, and usually not
together, because one of them usually has to rush out before the other, and the remaining one’s left
to make breakfast for themselves.

He nearly, very nearly flinches when Suna leans forward and taps his knuckles with his fingers. “If
you’re busy, it’s okay,” he says lightly, “but I’m gonna go and leave you here by yourself, then.”

Osamu doesn’t know why, but it sounds less like I’m gonna go without you and more like I’m
asking you nicely because I actually really want you to come, but you don’t have to go if you really
don’t want to, you know?

He flicks at Suna’s fingers.

“Gimme five.”

“Okay,” Suna rests his hand on top of Osamu’s, curling his fingers in to wrap around it. His skin is
warm against his, Osamu thinks, probably from the heat stored while sitting in his pockets and
thumbing away at his phone, and it’s nice, a familiar weight.

Osamu looks at Suna, catches his eye, and smiles, just a little.

It’s instantaneous. Suna’s eyes widen a little, and Osamu can feel his fingers twitch against his
hand, grasping it a little tighter.

“You okay?”

“Um. Yeah,” Suna withdraws his fingers to tuck his hair behind his ear, hand lingering at his own
cheek. Osamu turns his palm face-up, the back of his hand pressing against the cool surface of the
counter-top, and he finds himself suddenly missing the contact. “Hurry, then, I’m hungry.”

It’s only when they’re halfway out of the door that Osamu realises that Suna’s never really tried to
hold his hand like that before.

————————————

The evening before Suna’s supposed to skip town and return to Shizuoka, Osamu’s busy stir-frying
ginger pork with cabbage just as Suna jumps up from his seat and says, “Oh shit, Coach called.”
“Huh? They need ya?”

“Maybe…” Suna squints at his texts. “Yeah. It looks like I can’t stay.”

“Aw,” Osamu turns off the heat and removes the frying pan from the stove. “You’re not gonna call
him back?”

“No need to. He texted.” Suna frowns. “Changed his mind about practice tomorrow...guess I have
to go in by morning, but it’s pretty early. Ugh.”

“Ugh all right.” Osamu empties the stir-fry neatly into the porcelain plate on the table and puts the
pan away. “You wanna stay for dinner?”

“I can’t.” Suna huffs, irritation showing in the way he’s picking up his jacket and discarded items
and stuffing them haphazardly into his backpack. “Gotta make the last train, so I have to bail.” He
glances up as he’s stuffing his jacket into the main compartment. “Sorry I couldn’t stay,” he says,
dipping his head apologetically. “Tell Atsumu I send my worst regards.”

“Sure.” Osamu glances at the cooked food on the table, at the rice cooker, and back at Suna again,
who’s scrolling through his phone again with a furrowed brow, probably looking at available train
timings. “Wait, Suna.”

“Yeah, yeah, I didn’t forget the jam, it’s in here somewhere—”

“Rin.”

At the mention of the nickname, Suna blinks, pauses in his actions and glances at Osamu, who
points at the food on the table.

“I’ll pack ya somethin’ before you leave the house, so don’t move for a minute, okay?” There’s too
much for him and Atsumu, anyway. Or, well, not really, because he’s sure they can finish it all, but
he’d rather let Suna have some.

“Oh.” Suna closes his bag up with a satisfying zip. “I mean, if you have extra.”

“Idiot.” Osamu scoffs, opening his rice cooker with a bento box in hand. “I cooked for three.
Besides, what kind of a chef would I be if I left customers starvin’, huh?”

Suna says nothing, but Osamu can feel his eyes on him as he scoops a portion of rice into the box.
On a normal day, it’s only slightly unnerving to have Suna stare at you—on the court, it’s
occasionally terrifying and a whole other matter—but here in his apartment, it’s different. Suna’s
gaze is inexplicably softer, a warm presence behind his back as he sets the box down and closes the
cooker. “So what do ya wanna bring back?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Suna says, and when he speaks it’s a little softer than usual despite the
callousness of his words. “Give me whatever.”

Osamu turns around, chopsticks in hand, and watches as Suna walks up to the table slowly. “Then
I’ll just portion it out the way I usually do,” he says as he starts lifting vegetables into the box, “and
you can text me your review later.”

Suna scoffs. “Don’t be silly,” he says, his thigh bumping the edge of the table gently as he comes
to a stop, “you know I like your cooking.”

The thing about Suna Rintarou is that he doesn’t really give compliments unless it’s sarcastic or
he’s trying to make a point. The point is, real compliments come and go, fast, and Osamu’s only
caught a glimpse of it once, when Atsumu got picked by the MSBY Black Jackals and Suna
laughed and said, well, they picked you ‘cause you’re actually the best .

He catches a glimpse of it a second time today, in his kitchen, as Suna watches him heap pork and
cabbage into the third compartment of his bento box like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever
seen.

“What time is the train?” Osamu murmurs as he picks a piece of egg and folds it to fit next to the
rice.

“In a bit.”

“Need me to drive you—”

“Nah,” Suna waves his hand. “I’ll make it. You stay here, Atsumu’ll probably come soon anyway.
Besides,” he smiles, and for some reason it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, “you know it’s not
something you have to do, right?”

We’re not like that, right? goes unsaid.

Osamu doesn’t waver. “I don’t have to do this either, right?” He places the lid on the bento box and
taps it shut before reaching out for a wrapping cloth. “But I’m doin’ it anyway.”

“Mm,” Suna blinks as he watches Osamu fasten it together and finish the wrapping in a secure
knot. “I mean...”

“You’re welcome.” Osamu puts the box in his hands. “Now go home. I’ll see ya when I see ya.”

“Okay,” Suna’s still blinking at the box in his hands, backpack slung over his left shoulder. “I…
thanks, ‘Samu.”

“No problem.” Osamu follows him to the door. “It’s hot now, but if you’re gonna wait until ya get
home to eat it, then ya might have to microwave it at home.”

“‘Kay.” Suna’s shoes are on and the front door is open, allowing a mild breeze to flow through, as
he stands in the genkan while Osamu stands at the landing before it. Suna’s dressed in a pair of
black sweatpants and Osamu’s grey hoodie, one hand in his pocket, one hand holding the bento by
the knot in the cloth as he checks his bag and pockets for his belongings.

It’s kind of cute, Osamu thinks, the way Suna shifts his shoulders and adjusts the sleeves of his
hoodie while checking that his shoes are on right and his wallet is indeed in his pocket. All this
while, the bento in the furoshiki sways gently in his hand, securely fastened with the knot at the top
onto which Suna clutches.

When Suna glances back at him, Osamu can’t help but smile at him, just a little.

“See ya, Rin,” he says. “Text me later.”

Suna’s lips part and purse together again, and he swallows.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer to Osamu, hand reaching out to grab his arm as he pulls Osamu
towards him. “I will.”

Then, just as Osamu’s about to say something in reply, Suna tilts his head and presses a kiss to
Osamu’s cheek.

It’s just a peck, and the moment passes quickly, a fleeting instant which Osamu might’ve missed if
he’d been distracted. But right as Suna’s lips touch his cheek, his breath catches right in his throat,
and when Suna leans away, the sensation on his skin lingers, prickling against the night breeze.

“Thanks,” Suna says a little breathlessly, and right as he pulls away his fingers trace the side of
Osamu’s arm, down to his hands, lingering at his pinky, before he lets go, turns around, and exits
through Osamu’s front door.

Oh, Osamu thinks, as the door swings shut and he hears Suna’s footsteps fade in the distance while
his heartbeat thrums in his ears. They may have just crossed the line.

————————————

“...to ‘Samu. Earth to ‘Samu.”

“Huh?” Osamu blinks, and realises his brother’s sitting opposite him, snapping his fingers at him.
“What?”

“What yourself,” Atsumu says. “What’s up? You’re spacin’ out.”

“Nothing’s up.” Osamu picks his chopsticks back up and puts a piece of ginger pork in his mouth.
Atsumu narrows his eyes at him as he chews.

“Ya didn’t dip it in the mayonnaise.”

Osamu swallows, sighing as he places his chopsticks back down. “...‘Tsumu.”

“‘Samu,” Atsumu mimics, pointing his chopsticks at him. “C’mon. Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Bullshit.” His brother raises a brow. “It’s about Sunarin.”

“...If you knew, why didja even ask?”

“Ha,” Atsumu puts another portion of rice and egg into his mouth. “I was bein’ courteous. Giving
you a chance to be honest.”

“Jerk,” Osamu flicks a grain of rice at Atsumu, who swats it away. The rice grain lands on the side
of the table and sticks to it. “There’s nothing for me to say.”

“Sure.” Atsumu sets his chopsticks down next to his bowl. “Then why do ya look like you’ve been
hit by a truck?”

“What? I don’t.”
“Ya do. What happened? Suna dump ya? Oh wait—” Atsumu taps his finger against his forehead
in mock thought. “—ya can’t be dumped, ‘cause ya ain’t going out with him.”

Osamu frowns at him. “No, he didn’t ‘dump’ me, I told you, he was supposed to stay for dinner but
he couldn’t.”

“So, then—”

Osamu cuts him off. “Eat,” he says, picking his chopsticks back up and gesturing at his brother.
“Or do you not appreciate the good food I cooked for us?”

Atsumu makes a face, but complies anyway, scooping out some vegetables with his spoon.
“Thanks for the food,” he mumbles, putting the spoon into his mouth, and Osamu nods, content.

The apartment is silent for the next minute, with just the sounds of chopsticks clicking and mouths
chewing filling the room. Atsumu frowns at him every now and then, but with each bite of food, he
lights up, and it’s equal parts amusing and satisfying for Osamu to observe.

Ginger pork, onions and cabbage go well with white rice, and the lightly fried omelette slices go
well as a main side dish to his smaller side dishes. There’s seaweed, pickled radish, leftover carrot
which he steamed and cubed. It’s good. Balanced. Would go well together in a bento, Osamu
thinks.

He wonders if Suna will be home soon.

Suna, who doesn’t have a big appetite. Suna, who secretly likes steamed vegetables. Suna, who
kissed him on the cheek an hour ago and let it linger.

Osamu looks up, utensils stilling in his grasp as it hits him.

“We went out for breakfast,” he says aloud.

His brother raises yet another brow at him. “...Uh-huh.”

“Uh,” Osamu gestures vaguely. “We went out. Like, it wasn’t at home or whatever, we went to a
cafe and we got coffee. The point is, we went out.”

“Huh?” Atsumu scoffs. “You eat brunch with him one time and you freak out?”

“It wasn’t brunch, it was eight-thirty in the morning and I only got scrambled eggs—“

“It’s the same thing, ya idiot.” Atsumu reaches out and slaps him on the head in a half-hearted
fashion. Osamu hisses and kicks him back in the shin. “You eat with him all the time anyway.”

“No, but, you see, this is different.” Osamu slides lower into his chair and covers his face with his
hands. “When two people go out for breakfast it means that they’re dating, right? Is that what
we’re doin’? Dating?”

There’s silence for a while, and when Osamu lifts his hands away there’s only Atsumu, rice bowl
in one hand and chopsticks in the other, staring back at him like he’s the biggest dunce on the
entire planet.

“‘Samu,” Atsumu says, tone hushed, “What in the ever-loving fuck are you talkin’ about.”

“It’s when you stay the morning after and—”

“Yeah, no, I get that, ya dumb shit, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” Atsumu sets his bowl
and cutlery down and slams both palms on the table. “Do you like him?”

Osamu’s hands shift around his bowl. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s really not.”

“It is.”

“Yes or no?” Atsumu drums his fingers on the tabletop. “It’s a simple dichotomy.”

“No, okay, look—” Osamu groans. He hates this. He should never have started telling Atsumu
about this. Atsumu should never have gotten this invested. “Something else happened today.”

“Huh?”

“...Cheek.” Osamu can’t look his brother in the eye. “He kissed me on the cheek. Before he left.”
He’s never done that before, and the more I think about it, the more I can’t stop thinking about it.

Atsumu whistles, long and low. “...Oh.”

“Yeah.” Osamu sighs. “Oh.”

He looks up, and as he meets his brother’s gaze, Atsumu starts to laugh, the corners of his eyes
crinkling slightly as he prods Osamu with his foot.

“You’re a total idiot, y’know that?”

“I didn’t make dinner for you just to get insulted,” Osamu mutters, reaching for his mug and
ignoring the warmth rising up his neck.

“And I didn’t come here so that I could hear about your sad attempt at romance, but look where we
are now?”

“It’s not…” Romance dies on the tip of his tongue as he brushes his fingers against his cheek and
feels it burn. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Atsumu’s smiling at him now, less snarky and more fond, closer to the smile
he bore all those times when they were kids and they sat up at night and talked about silly things,
traded secrets they both already knew, except that this time, Atsumu knows something that Osamu
doesn’t. “‘Samu. Talk to him.”

“I just—” Osamu hesitates. “I just don’t wanna cross the line.”

From across the table, Atsumu gives him a look and, eventually, sighs.

“I dunno how to say this,” he says, slowly, “but, yanno, I think you guys crossed the line a long,
long time ago.”

————————————
There are things that the public knows about Suna Rintarou, Inarizaki alumnus and EJP Raijin’s
persistent middle blocker. They know he’s flexible. They know that he tends to slouch off the
court, but straightens up when he’s in the zone. They know his social media handles, his birthday,
his favourite flavour of gum (strawberry), his favourite pose in a photo. Right now, it alternates
between a peace sign and a fox sign, where he presses his middle two fingers to his thumb and
sticks his pinky and index like they’re ears. His Instagram followers seem to think it’s cute.

Then there are things that some people know about Suna. The fact that he has pierced ears but just
doesn’t wear any piercings to practice because they’d get in the way, or the fact that he has a
younger sister who shows up at half his matches dressed in shockingly bright clothes because she
thinks it’s hilarious. The fact that he’s gotten at least one tattoo since he graduated from high
school, but he’s never expressly told anyone what and where, opting to make people guess. The
fact that he actually laughs pretty often because he’s easily amused, but it’s subtle and not so easily
noticeable, especially when he’s next to more expressive people, like Atsumu, Gin, or Komori.

Then, there are things that only Osamu knows about Suna, like the fact that he wakes up
surprisingly early on days that he has to be at practice but sleeps in on days off. Like the fact that
the public only kind of knows that he’s flexible, but he’s actually much more flexible than what he
lets on, and, oh, Osamu knows this a bit too well. That he’s not all snark and spice, that he can be
breathy and incoherent, too. Like, did you know, if you press right here and squeeze right there, he
will gasp and let his eyes fall shut, and let you do whatever you want?

Like his first tattoo, a branch of orange blossoms on the side of his left rib which Osamu knows
must’ve stung when he got it, and the second tattoo of a crescent moon on his ankle which
might’ve stung even more; like the exact placement of the mole on his back, a pinprick of a mark a
third of the way down his spine, the precise corner of his neck, close to his jaw, that’s sensitive to
touch.

Or, perhaps, like the fact that he sleeps curled up on his side, fingers twitching without him
stirring; that he buys crappy strawberry jam, sliced bread and a couple of random things and
nothing else, only for him to complain that there’s nothing in his fridge for him to eat; that he has
one playlist for the morning and one playlist for the evening and a penchant for cold brew coffee,
and lights up much more than people think he does, bright eyes and keen smile and all—

And, shit, surely he knows too much now for Suna to take it all back, but it makes him think, how
much of Osamu does Suna know about, and how much of that had Osamu just willingly given
away?

————————————

“...Did I tell you I gave him the keys to my apartment back in September?”

“...‘Samu.”

“Don’t judge. He gave me his, too.”

“Oh, know that I’m fully judging the both of you.”

“...”

“Hey. Hey.”

“...What.”

“Don’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like the world’s gonna end, idiot. Just talk to him.”

“Yeah? What if it gets weird?”

“...So what if it does? Ya won’t know until you do somethin’ about it, right?”

————————————

Osamu actually doesn’t get the chance to see him until the next month, three weeks from the last
time, when the EJP Raijin are matched up against the Tachibana Red Falcons in their home turf.
It’s in Shizuoka, two hours away by train, and Osamu doesn’t have a stall set up for the game.

He goes, anyway.

He goes for Aran-kun, who will be there, playing on the court as the Red Falcons’ powerful
outside hitter. He goes for his old teammates, Akagi and Ginjima, who took leave in advance to
watch the game and asked to have dinner afterwards. He goes for his dumb brother, Atsumu, who
has time off to watch the game with some of his teammates, whom he recognizes fondly from their
outings to Onigiri Miya and other gatherings.

Before the game, he texts him.

I’ll be there

Good luck

Atsumu gives him a knowing look as they settle down next to each other, for what, Osamu doesn’t
know. Akagi flanks his other side eagerly, quickly asking if the stadium’s selling any snacks.
Bokuto points helpfully to the bottom area, and Akagi leaps one row down towards the stairs,
pulling Gin along with him.

“Ya shoulda gotten a license to sell onigiri at this game,” Akagi calls cheerfully as he slips down
the stairs, tugging Gin along. “They woulda sold out sooo fast.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Atsumu says to him, grinning, as they slip out of sight. “My, my.”

“Idiot, we all travelled here together,” Osamu points out, but Atsumu continues grinning anyway.

“Yeah, but we have a good reason to be here. Don’t ya have a business to run?”

“And don’t ya have volleyball to play?”

“Spectating is equally important, yanno—”

“Miyas.” Sakusa’s voice cuts them short. “The game’s going to start.”

Sakusa’s not wrong—there’s an announcement, and some members of the crowd quickly scramble
back to their seats. From the row behind him, Osamu hears Bokuto asking his teammates whether
anyone wants anything to eat before it’s too late, and in the distance, he sees players lining up to
get to the court.

In that moment, his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he takes a quick glance.

Let’s see how much I get to play, huh?

Atsumu looks over his shoulder and laughs. “Can’t believe he’s still on his phone, the game’s
gonna start, for fuck’s sake.”

Osamu knows that Suna fiddles with his phone all the way until the start of the match. It’s
common knowledge; fans always spot him scrolling in between warm-ups and tweeting before
matches. It’s no wonder that people are always curious as to whether he gets distracted during
games, though the answer is always no, and Suna has his gameplay and track record to show for it.

Who’re you always texting? Interviewers like to ask. Are you just very dedicated to social media,
or is there a special someone you’re messaging?

And in response to each question, Suna always coolly answers, there’s nobody.

Osamu slips his phone back into his pocket just as his brother jabs him in the ribs. “Look, It’s
Aran-kun!” Atsumu says, pointing a finger excitedly, and Osamu follows it to spot their senior
amongst the players below. It’s incredible how good Aran looks in this bold shade of red, the Red
Falcons’ classic attire, which contrasts nicely with the EJP’s white and yellow tones on the other
side of the court, and both twins grin and cheer as he moves to his spot at the lineup.

He knows Suna’s not usually on the starting lineup—part of his coach’s strategy or whatnot—so
he doesn’t try to spot him once the match starts to pick up its momentum in the first set, opting to
focus on the unique plays of each team instead. It’s always interesting to watch professional
matches, even more so in-person, and even more pertinently so when he has his brother with him,
keeping a running commentary on great sets and serves.

(It’s perhaps even more interesting to watch his brother with his not-so-new teammates: Bokuto,
who’s ordinarily expressive and excitable but can sometimes fall completely silent, eyes wide and
focused as he watches a particular play; Hinata, who watches the entirety of the match with the
concentration of a hawk and the awe of a hardcore fan, as though he’s not a big-time volleyball
heavyweight himself; and Sakusa, who is ordinarily reserved and curt with his words, but his eyes
shine with enthusiasm whenever he catches a good play. He occasionally whispers something to
his teammates that Osamu can’t quite hear, and they agree, nodding and giving comments in
return, Atsumu sometimes taking down a note or two on his phone.

Sometimes, Osamu thinks about what might’ve happened if he’d continued down this path
alongside his brother, made the same connections with these people like his brother had, walked
onto the court again as a player to come face to face with his high school opponents and much
more. But, as he continues to spectate alongside his brother and their friends, he finds himself not
feeling the pinch of regret he thought he’d still carry.)

It’s at about halfway through the first set that EJP’s coach decides to call for the first time-out of
the match, and Osamu finds himself staring at the court in anticipation.

“Oh?” He hears Hinata say from behind him, and Osamu watches as one of EJP’s middle blockers
cross to the side of the court and switches with Suna, who smiles as he slaps his hand and crosses
the court. As he mutters something to the player next to him and gives the opponents a cheeky
peace sign, the the Red Falcons’ libero groans, and Komori, right behind Suna, grins widely.

“You haven’t watched him play live recently, have ya,” Atsumu says, sounding smug for
absolutely no reason at all.

Osamu hasn’t. He’s been watching replays over the past few months given his schedule, sometimes
alone, sometimes with his brother or with friends. “It’s been a while, yeah.”

Atsumu hums. “Sometimes he starts, sometimes he doesn’t,” he says, pointing towards the court.
“But it doesn’t matter when he’s put on. The liberos hate him ‘cause his trajectory is completely
unpredictable, the asshole.”

Osamu laughs, just as the whistle blows and the Red Falcons serve. “I’m sure he loves that.”

“Oh, he does.” On the court, Komori saves the ball and Suna swings sharply to the left, the
blockers on the other side of the net following right after. Next to Osamu, Atsumu smirks. “Look.”

Suna jumps, tilting to one side, and Osamu immediately knows that he’s going to land the point.
Atsumu’s right, watching a match live is different from watching it on a screen. Here, he sees the
movements of each player as they advance, their slight tells and quirks and the way the team
moves together to complete the play. He sees the slant of Suna’s arm and curve of Suna’s torso as
he bends and strikes, and the way the ball lands cleanly on the other side of the court, avoiding all
of the Red Falcons’ blockers in one clean swoop. Aran grimaces, and Suna smirks.

“Rintarou’s a slow starter, remember,” Atsumu echoes loudly in his ear, grinning even as Osamu
pushes his face away and kicks his shin. Next to them, Hinata watches their exchange curiously
while Sakusa slaps his thigh and tells him to pay attention to the game instead, to which Atsumu
responds with a wave of his hand. “But the better the blockers are...”

“...the easier it is for Suna to manipulate them,” Osamu finishes, eyes still on the court as the EJP
Raijin gets ready to serve.

Atsumu leans back in his seat, satisfied.

“Ya get it.”

Osamu nods as he watches Suna, EJP’s number 7, lean forward, hands on his thighs, eyes forward
and focused with intent.

“I’ve always gotten it.”

————————————

“So, what did you think?”

It’s just the two of them now, walking along a dimly-lit street, in a different direction from the rest
of the crowd.

“Hmm?” Osamu glances at Suna, who’s, for once, not stuck on his phone, and has both hands in
his jacket pockets, gaze fixed ahead.

“The match.” Suna tilts his head from one side to the other, slowly and deliberately, and there’s a
slight crick. “You haven’t been to one in a while, have you?”

Osamu laughs a little as they round the corner. “Not since the last one in Osaka.” Which was
maybe three to four months ago, he can’t really remember exactly. “It was a good match. Sorry ya
lost, though.”

“Eh, it’s fine.” Suna shrugs. “It was a close call. Don’t think we did that terribly.”

“You definitely didn’t.” Osamu nudges him with his elbow. “Definitely gave ‘em a hard time
today.”

At this, Suna laughs, and it rings loud and clear in the open air, settling pleasantly in Osamu’s ears.
“I sure hope I did,” he says, the corners of his lips lifting into a slight smirk. “If not, I’d be out of a
job.”

“Dumbass.” Osamu steps into the complex, following in his companion’s footsteps. “Well, it was a
good game. I’m happy I came.”

“Mmmm.” At this, Suna turns around, and his smirk melts into a softer, smaller smile. “Thanks.”

After the match, the lot of them had ended up in a nearby izakaya: the Inarizaki alumni with
Bokuto, Washio, Hinata, Sakusa and Komori, squeezed at one long table at the back. They’d
scattered two hours later, parting ways at the front of the restaurant, and when it was time for him
to decide whether he should take the train back to Osaka or not, Suna tugged on his sleeve from
behind him and silently asked him to stay.

And that’s how they’ve ended up here, on the first floor of Suna’s apartment complex, waiting for
the lift to arrive.

“Y’know ‘Tsumu knows, right?” Osamu huffs a laugh. “He can’t stop yappin’ about it lately.”

“He gave me a giant wink before he left just now.” Suna cringes. “Seriously, your brother.”

“I know, I know.” The lift arrives with a soft ding, and the two of them step in. Osamu presses the
button, level 14. “He’s an idiot. Ignore him.”
“Yeah,” Suna folds his arms and leans against the lift railing. “So, what does he say to you? Weird
stuff? Bad stuff?” he asks casually, eyes trained on Osamu. “I wanna know.”

...Yanno, I think you guys crossed the line a long, long time ago.

Osamu shakes his head.

“Nothin’ important,” he lies through his teeth, “you know how he is.”

Suna eyes him carefully, but says nothing more as the lift continues to ascend, its mild mechanical
whirring filling the silence.

The past three weeks between them have been a flurry of instant messaging. Just the usual, memes
and normal texts about mundane things, like the new regular customer at Onigiri Miya, Kita-san’s
latest suggestion of a seaweed supplier, the contents of Suna’s sandwiches and his playing
condition, Atsumu’s latest viral tweet, so on and so forth. It’s always been easy to keep things the
way they have been through text, because there’s always the option to leave the conversation, or
change the topic, or add a haha and leave it be, for it to be interpreted as nothing more than casual
banter.

In the narrow space of the elevator, there’s almost no room between the two of them. Osamu’s arm
brushes against the sleeve of Suna’s jacket, and Osamu can sense each of Suna’s movements, like
the shift of his weight from one leg to the other and the movement of his hair following the slight
shake of his head.

Osamu knows his heart’s beating faster than it should be, even though there’s no reason for it to be
because they’ve gone through this routine this many times before. Tonight is no different.

Except it might be. Tonight, Osamu goes in having realized something he wishes could have
stayed at the periphery of his mind for a while longer; namely, that he may have something to say
to his friend and long-time fuck buddy whom he feels something for, and has no idea how he’s
supposed to go about doing that.

Suna takes his keys out of his pocket as the elevator door creaks open and they step out, one after
the other, the entirety of Suna’s arm gently pressing against Osamu’s back as they cross into the
corridor. “It would’ve been good to win, maybe.”

“I thought you said you weren’t bothered about that,” Osamu says quietly, shifting to the side as he
lets Suna lead the way, although he knows exactly where to turn.

“I’m not. But it’s always nice to win.”

Osamu hums. “So you are competitive.”

The keys jangle lightly as they dangle from Suna’s finger. “Well, you knew that already,” he
mutters, reaching to unlock his front door.

“It’s okay. You’ll win the next one.” Osamu flicks the back of his jacket lightly. “And I’ll go to
watch.”

Just as the door to Suna’s apartment clicks open, Suna pauses, turns to Osamu, and catches his
wrist.

“Thanks,” he says quickly. “For coming to the match. I mean, I know, it was for Aran-san and
everyone, but you know.” He swallows. “I mean. It’s been a while, but I’m glad you came.”
“Oh.” Osamu steps a bit closer, so that they’re both huddled on the doormat outside Suna’s
apartment. “Ya know I still watch your games, recorded even if I don’t go, right?”

Suna blinks at him, eyes widening.

“You…actually watch all of my games?”

Osamu scoffs. “What, you didn’t know that?” He reaches for Suna’s jacket sleeve and holds onto
it, fingers curling further up around his arm as Suna’s grip on his wrist loosens. “Of course I watch
‘em. What kinda person do ya take me for?”

“Oh,” Suna’s voice wavers for just a moment. “I...didn’t know.”

“Well,” Osamu laughs faintly, “now ya do. I watch them at home when I can’t go.”

Suna’s fallen into silence, lips slightly parted as he stares at Osamu with wide eyes, and Osamu
can’t help but continue to speak.

“I used to think that your coach should always put ya on the court from the get-go, but I get it now.
His strategy works, when ya show up halfway through a set after having seen the first few plays
—“

Suna reaches out to grab the front of Osamu’s shirt and starts pulling him into his apartment, oh-so-
slowly, but Osamu’s heart is hammering and he can’t stop talking, even as he steps into the semi-
darkness of the genkan. “And I dunno if ya see it when you’re on the court, but you should see the
looks on everyone’s faces when you manage to do a sick block. It’s great, it’s really so—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, though, because the moment the door clicks shut behind them
Suna’s arms are looped around his neck and he’s kissing him, hard, and all the words on the tip of
Osamu’s tongue and in his mind are wiped entirely clean.

Almost as quickly as he pulls him in, Suna pulls away, breathing hard. “Yeah?” he breathes, “Is
this okay?”

And Osamu doesn’t know why Suna has to ask for permission to kiss him, because, he realizes, his
answer will always, always be the same.

“...Yeah.”

And then Suna kisses him again, soft and slow this time around, leaning even closer. It’s warm.
Suna’s fingers trace up his nape and stay there, and his body presses up against Osamu’s, but he
makes no move to tug at any articles of Osamu’s clothing. Osamu’s hands move forward to hold
Suna’s waist, and he kisses him back. Suna is warm and comfortable against him, and his lips are
soft and moist, it’s all he can think of at the moment.

When they break apart this time round, Suna nudges his forehead against Osamu’s and rests it
there, and Osamu can feel his soft, warm breaths against his cheek. There’s nothing but stray light
and the moon gleaning in from behind loosely shuttered window blinds to illuminate the room, but
it’s enough for them to see each other—at least, for Osamu to see Suna, his eyes a swirling mix of
yellow-green, seemingly glow-in-the-dark, his lips and cheeks pink, his chest rising and falling in a
rhythm that doesn’t match his heartbeat.

“Rin,” Osamu whispers, nudging him back with his forehead, brushing against loose strands of
hair. “Rin, tell me what you want—”
“Kiss me,” Suna murmurs back, “kiss me more, please…”

“Like this?” Osamu tilts his head and presses his lips against Suna’s, hands reaching to unzip
Suna’s jacket slowly while he deepens the kiss, causing a soft noise to escape Suna’s throat. “Tell
me,” he murmurs against his mouth, “Rin…”

“Yeah,” Suna whispers back in between kisses. “Please, ‘Samu, please...”

In the moonlight, in the shared space of the entrance of Suna’s apartment, in each other’s arms, it’s
all Osamu can do to oblige him, and oblige some more.

————————————

When Osamu wakes up the next morning, he realizes three things: first, that he’s wearing a t-shirt
that’s not his; second, that there’s a bruise that’s starting to form on his left inner thigh that wasn’t
there yesterday; third, that Suna’s still in bed, asleep and curled up next to him.

Suna, whose expression is peaceful, whose chest rises and falls slowly with each breath, whose
tattoo peeks out from where his t-shirt rises up on his side. Suna, whom Osamu kind of wants to
kiss again, even though he remembers doing so over and over last night.

Osamu knows he needs to speak to him and tell him everything before he lets this chance slip away.

“Hey.” Osamu brushes his fingers over Suna’s cheek, pushing his hair away. “Rin…”

He knows that Suna’s generally a light sleeper and will wake to the slightest deliberate touch.
Surely enough, Suna stirs and moves his head against the pillow, rhythm of his breath shifting as
his eyelids twitch and his eyes open slowly.

Osamu gently tugs the hem of his t-shirt down. “Good mornin’.”

“Nnnh.” Suna brings a hand to his face and rubs his eyes. “Morning...what time…?”

“I haven’t checked.” And that’s fine. Osamu cleared his entire schedule for the day, so he’s free.
“How are ya?”

Suna’s voice is just slightly scratchy in the morning, rough from sleep. “Aching a little,” he
mutters, rolling on his back, left arm reaching to massage his right shoulder, “I’m okay.”

“Okay.” Osamu picks up the water bottle sitting on the bedside table and takes a gulp before
passing it to Suna, who sits up and accepts it. “Need a patch?”

“No, it’s alright.” Suna brings the bottle to his lips. “It’ll fade.”

As Osamu watches Suna drink, Adam's apple bobbing as he sips, he opens his mouth to start
talking, but realizes that he’s stuck not knowing where to begin.

What’s he supposed to say, hey, you kissed me for real last night and I think I might be in love with
you?

There’s no way around it.

“I think we need to talk,” he murmurs, “about us.”

“...Oh. Okay.”

Suna may play it cool, but Osamu knows better than to take it at face value. He sees the way
Suna’s eyes widen by just a fraction, the way his arms tense up and his grip on the water bottle
tightens, the way his shoulders straighten, almost imperceptibly. The way he’s desperately trying
to hold Osamu’s gaze but his eyes keep darting around the room as though searching for an
emergency exit route out of this conversation, whatever conversation Suna thinks Osamu’s going
to raise with him, whatever situation it’ll put him under.

But right now, Osamu’s sitting on his bed, right next to him, and there’s no way out.

Osamu inhales deeply, steadies himself, and looks Suna in the eye.

“I think we might be more than friends,” he starts.

Suna scoffs back, though there’s no bite to it. “Yeah, no shit.”

“No, I mean it. In a more-than-friends kind of way.”

“Is there any other way?”

“Yeah, like what we were doing—Rin.” Suna stills as Osamu says his name. “Rin, listen. I need to
tell you something.”

Suna swallows and sets the water bottle down in his lap. Osamu thinks it’s a good sign that he
hasn’t tried to reach out for his phone as a distraction. “Okay,” Suna’s saying now, nodding his
head slowly like he’s processing the conversation and resigning himself to it. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

“Rin, look.” Osamu shifts so that he’s sitting facing him, fingers brushing lightly against Suna’s
leg. “I think—”

“Actually,” Suna says abruptly, “I think I need to tell you something—”

Osamu’s hand settles on Suna’s thigh, and Suna immediately falls silent.

“Rin, listen,” Osamu confesses, “I think I like ya a lot more than I should. I think we should kiss
more. I think we should date, actually, because I think I might be in love with ya.”

In the wake of Osamu’s words, silence fills the room, and Osamu can hear Suna’s breath hitch.
Tentatively, he shifts his fingers to brush against Suna’s hands which lie in his lap, loose and
warm. Suna’s fingers twitch, and, after a while, his pinky curls around Osamu’s.

“Y’know, Osamu,” Suna says, voice quiet, “I’ve known for a long while.”

Osamu blinks. “That I...?”

Suna shakes his head, expression softening.

“No,” he murmurs, “known that I would eventually fall in love with you.”
Osamu’s breath catches midway in his throat.

“Since when?” He reaches for both of Suna’s hands and wraps them in his. “Rin, since when did
you...?”

“I dunno.” Suna drops his gaze. “Since you first kissed me,” he says, “on Christmas. In your
kitchen. Or maybe even before that. I don’t know.”

Osamu’s heart stops.

“Why didn’t you say something?” His voice threatens to crack. “Rin, I…”

“I didn’t know, y’know. Neither of us really knew what it was. We agreed to keep it as-is, no
strings attached.” Suna laughs, just a twinge of bitterness remaining on his palate. “What was I
gonna say to you, hey, we had sex last night and I think I might actually, really, wanna date you?
Wouldn’t that just have scared you off?”

Osamu watches him, heart thudding against his ribcage, as Suna’s hands tremble slightly in his. “I
couldn’t, then,” Suna mutters, still not meeting his gaze, “and even now, I can’t quite say it to you
without thinking I’m gonna fuck this up.”

Osamu thinks about all those times Suna let his touch linger, the gentle feeling of his fingertips
against his neck, shoulders and face, that turning point three weeks ago when he kissed him on the
side of his face and left him in his apartment to think, reflect and realize.

Slowly, he leans forward and kisses Suna on the cheek.

“There,” he says gently as he pulls away, “Now we’re even.”

Suna laughs weakly. “Don’t be an idiot, ‘Samu.”

“You’re the idiot.” Osamu releases one of his hands to cup Suna’s cheek, and Suna closes his eyes,
leaning into the touch. “You said nothing.”

“I know.” Suna rests his cheek against his palm. “I’m sorry.“

“No, I’m sorry for bein’ stupid about it, too.” Osamu moves his other arm to pull Suna in by his
shoulder, and Suna blinks his eyes open, finally returning to meet Osamu’s gaze. “Go out with me,
please?”

“...Yeah.” Suna reaches his arms out to loop them around Osamu’s waist, eyes wide and bright.
“Yeah,” he repeats, “‘Course I’ll go out with you, you idiot.”

“Good.” Osamu leans in, and his heart’s still beating at a mile a minute, his hands still a little
shaky, but he knows what he wants, and that’s to kiss Suna on the lips and not let go.

So that’s what he does. Suna’s eyelids flutter close and he kisses him back, soft and tender, and
shit, they’ve kissed so many times before, so why does this time feel so different, and why does this
time feel so good?

“You should kiss me more,” Suna mumbles as they break apart. “Kiss me always. Kiss me
forever.”

“Forever’s a long time, Rin,” Osamu says back, but he’s smiling a little as he leans back in, and
Suna’s smiling a little, too, because time be damned, what matters is here and now, and, well, if
 that persists, then so be it. “You sure about that?”

Because Osamu’s pretty sure. Everything that Osamu’s ever said or given to Suna, all those parts
of him—he never wants to take it back.

“Yeah,” Suna whispers, closing in, “however long that may be.”

Forever is a long time. That’s perfect, Osamu thinks as he closes his eyes and kisses Suna again.
That’s precisely what he wants. Precisely, in the comfort of Suna’s apartment, in his arms, his
warm, soft lips pressed against his, his fingers trailing against his skin and tracing each detail as
though Osamu’s something to be treasured.

Today, he can take his time. Tomorrow, he will have to leave this place. But, he will return, again
and again for as long as they have, however long that may be.

Kiss him always. Kiss him forever.

End Notes

Yes. It was supposed to be 3k. Yes, I thought I'd be able to write it over a weekend. Did I
expect this? No. Should I have? Well, that's another question to be answered...

Thank you so much to Ewin and Hannah for listening to me ramble from the very
beginning about this WIP, and to Robin for reading through and listening to me yell. And
SPECIAL thanks to wifey Nae for leaving me approximately 290 comments on my Google
Docs and being really the best beta reader I love you Nae

See you, here or on twitter!

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