Archive of Our Own

Miya Osamu was having a terrible fucking day. 

It started as any other day does: Atsumu’s ugly mug leaning as far over the wooden railing of their bunk bed as gravity allowed and whining Samu Samu Samu over and over until Osamu got up. Every morning he somehow managed to entangle himself in some brand-new bullshit that he insisted on bothering his brother with.

Atsumu flung the phone into the bunk below. It almost slipped through the crack between the wall and mattress. “Look at this.”

[14/06/2011 - 05:48]

[LOML😍👩❤️💋👨]: im breaking up w u
[LOML😍👩❤️💋👨]: eat lunch with ur stupid friendss

Osamu groaned, passing the phone back into Atsumu’s dangling hand. “I really don’t give a shit, Tsumu.”

“I’m gonna starve without Yuna-chan’s bentos!” Atsumu slumped further over the railing, left eye cracking open. Gauging Osamu’s reaction.

As if Osamu was born yesterday.

“I hope ya fuckin’ fall.”

“My dearest brother, betrayin’ me like this~!” Atsumu pressed a hand to his forehead, like some sort of swooning maiden in a black and white film. He slipped slightly, eyes snapping open in horror and his hand flew up to grab the railing. There was a sharp clatter as his phone hit the floor, surely adding another crack to an already fucked up screen.

“Make yer own damn bentos.” Osamu rolled back over, desperate to chase a few extra moments of sleep.

His fragile peace was disturbed by seismic tremors as Atsumu clambered down the bed ladder and then slammed the door with a histrionic huff.

All the girls he took out on dates broke up with him. Either because he talked about nothing but volleyball or they determined his eyes were brown because he was full of shit. Yuna-chan lasted the longest — she was the girls team’s libero and somehow his stupidity made her laugh. Their relationship consisted almost entirely of lunch breaks — homemade bentos shared on the roof while Gin and Kosaku rolled their eyes. 

Still, the honeymoon period must come to an end. Atsumu dated Sakamoto Yuna for approximately twenty minutes.

Okay, three weeks. A new record, in fact.

It was all a bit pointless. Atsumu didn’t even care. Just upset that suddenly he had to fend for himself.

Osamu wondered when his idiot brother would stop trying to date when it’s clearly not doing him any favors. Or when his female classmates would stop trying to date Atsumu when it’s clearly not doing them any favors.

Typhoon Atsumu continued his rampage in the kitchen. Every single drawer, counter, and fridge slam jolted Osamu from his hazy slumber. “Fuck off.” He kicked at the bottom of Atsumu’s mattress, as if his brother was still up there. The third kick was the catastrophe of his Greek tragedy existence — socked toes hitting the wooden slats at full force.

Fuck fuck fuck. Teeth clenched, white spots dancing in the corner of his vision.

Downstairs, he discovered the horrendous aftermath of his natural disaster brother. Jam jars still open, knives murderously stabbed into them with blood red strawberry splattered on the counter. The last slice of bread carved from the loaf looked like it’d been hacked at with a chainsaw and not a knife. 

At least the toaster wasn’t on fire. Small victories.

He poked his head around the corner to see Atsumu’s ratty sneakers missing from the genkan, replaced by his house slippers. He was probably halfway to the Inarizaki gym already, ready to hit spike serve after spike serve until he felt better.

Who cares, honestly?

It was a relief, if anything, to Osamu. He rarely got a chance to cook without the mosquito buzzing in his ear. 

He withdrew a knife from the drawer — a proper bread knife and not whatever Atsumu used to decimate the shokupan. Two eggs from the fridge, cracked into a bowl and whisked with a little soy sauce, mirin and sugar. Hot pan. Olive oil. Heaven.

The toast popped as the scent of eggs and warm bread swept through the kitchen. Just one more thing and he’s all set.

Butter.

In the storm surge path of Atsumu, he’d dredged up a ridiculous mess. But to his credit, he did manage to put away one singular item he used that morning. The tub of butter. Beautiful, creamy butter.

Osamu plucked another knife from the drawer before peeling open the lid, relishing in that crisp snap.

And.

Empty.

Atsumu.

15 g unsalted butter

“Miya-kun?” Nakamura-sensei chirped in her telltale You’re Not In Trouble But You’re Not Going To Like What I Have To Say voice. She waved him over before patting a stack of papers on her desk.

“Yeah, sensei?” Osamu said, trying to bite back the groan bubbling in his throat.

“We have a new student joinin’ us today.” Nakamura-sensei’s eyes cast downwards as a manicured fingernail ran over the document. She tapped something twice then fished out another sheet of paper. He recognized it — the volleyball sign up sheet. “He’s interested in the volleyball club, so I’d like ya to show him around after school today.”

That settled it. Miya Osamu was having a horrendous fucking day. 

“Don’t make that face.” She scolded him. “It’s not going to be that bad. I’ve heard he’s a very nice boy. A bit quiet, but nice. Think of it as the birth of a brand-new friendship!”

“Is that all, sensei?” He nibbled at a piece of hard, dry skin poking up at the corner of his thumbnail.

Nakamura-sensei was silent for a moment as she stared at the stack of papers, her fingernails tapping against the desk. Finally, she looked up. “Did you do your science homework?”

“Yes, sensei.” He said, teeth trying and failing to rip the dry skin off. No, sensei. He’d just copy the homework from Asuka-chan during lunch break — strategically answering a few questions wrong to avoid suspicion.

Nakamura-sensei’s eyebrow cocked up, before she sighed. “That’s all. Return to your seat.”

Osamu slumped back into his desk, sparing a single glance at the vacant one next to him before pouring all his attention into his sketchbook. His classmates streamed in — the room becoming a cacophony of chatter and laughter. By now, he’d decided it was better not to get involved in their nonsense. Atsumu was enough to worry about.

The bell rang and there was a rustle and a metallic scrape as Nakamura-sensei stood up. “Everyone, I’d like you all to meet Suna Rin...Rintarou.” Confused by the hesitation, Osamu glanced up to see a tall, bone-skinny boy with a mess of hair he probably cut himself. “He will be your new classmate, so please take good care of him.”

Suna stood there, one hand clutching a backpack strap, looking bored.

“Suna-kun, you may sit down now.” Nakamura-sensei said, gesturing to the desk next to Osamu. The boy slid into the seat, shoved his backpack underneath his chair and immediately pillowed his head onto his arms.

Talk about a shit first impression.

It wasn't until lunch period that the boy next to Osamu was awake — jolted into attention by the bell's clang. For some reason, all their teachers had opted to ignore him. Lucky bastard.

"Hey, Suna right?" He tried. If he's stuck showing this kid around, he might as well attempt to be nice.

The boy turned towards him and Osamu had to bite his cheeks to stop from reacting.

He couldn't tell from the boy standing at the front of the class. But now that he was close, he could see a scabbed cut over Suna's cheekbones, a split in his upper lip, and a mottled black eye poorly hidden under too pale makeup.

"Yeah." He responded. "What do you want?"

Prickly.

"I'm Osamu." He considered outstretching a hand for Suna to shake. But the exhaustion carved in the boy's eyes and the sullen look that marred his face made Osamu pretty sure he'd get left hanging. "Heard ya were lookin' to join the volleyball team. Wanna have lunch wit' me 'n' the other first years?"

Suna scratched at the desk with a ratty fingertip, black nails chipped to oblivion. Band Aids covered several of his knuckles. He wondered how long it'd be until he got chewed out for wearing makeup to school. "Yeah, I guess. Not like I have anything better to do."

After a brief warning of his friends' various idiosyncrasies — Gin's a hothead, Kosaku's a teacher's pet, and Tsumu's the worst person I know — they found themselves on the roof of the school. The five of them slumped in a shaded corner, fanning at their hot skin with folded up homework. Introductions were brief and curt. Suna clearly didn’t want to be here in the heat any more than the rest of them.

Atsumu broke the silence, mouth full of tonkatsu — given to him by Kosaku after whining enough about Yuna-chan. “Suna. Ya talk funny.”

“You’re one to talk.” Suna spoke, ice cold. “You guys sound like a bunch of country fucking bumpkins.”

Kosaku laughed, pointing behind them. “Well…” Verdant traces of the Kita family rice farm could be seen beyond the town.

“Where’re’ya even from that yer gettin’ off on callin’ us country fuckin’ bumpkins?” Atsumu plucked a piece of hard-boiled egg from Osamu’s lunch, beaming Suna in the forehead with it.

“Yer doin’ an excellent job at tryna get him to join our team, truly.” Osamu mumbled, just loud enough to tick Atsumu off.

“Tokyo.”

Gin’s eyes grew to the size of the onigiri in his bento box. “Woah! That’s so cool! Why’d ya move here?”

Suna stayed silent for a long moment. He took several bites of his pre-packaged konbini sandwich, made a face in displeasure as the white bread brushed against his split lip, before finally responding. “My big sister lives here. I moved in with her.”

“What’s the deal with yer face?” Atsumu mumbled out mid-chew. 

In the corner of Osamu’s eye, he could see Gin and Kosaku’s head whip in Atsumu’s direction. Kosaku mouthed words, eyebrows furrowing deeply in disappointment. But Osamu stayed focused on Suna, those green eyes lingering on bandaged fingers and the sandwich resting on his thigh. 

“I got into a fight.” He offered.

“Didja at least win? Or didja lose?”

Kosaku pulled Atsumu into a half-hearted chokehold, flicking his forehead to try and get that idiot to stop talking.

“Don’t think either of us won.” He turned his head and spit, wiped his bottom lip with the back of his hand, and smiled for the first time all day. “It’s really none of your business.”

And that was that. They let the conversation devolve into talking about the cutest girls in school, how they wanted to spend summer break, hypothesizing over the training camp regime, and freaking out about finals. Suna remained quiet, picking at his sandwich.

The final lunch bell rang and his friends sped off back to class — Kosaku trying to get to his desk first and Gin-Tsumu trying to not get chewed out for being late for the third time this week. Suna had his head leaned back against the chain link fence, face angled toward the sunny sky.

“Hey.” Osamu said. “Don’t let ‘em get to ya. They’re all shitheads.”

Suna’s head tilted in his direction, a faint smile on his lips. “You don’t need to worry about me.” He wiped at his under eye, a little more of the pale makeup coming off. “I’ve handled worse.”

“Fair enough.”

“You’re not going to ask me about it?” Suna tucked his knees close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “I saw you staring.”

He didn't want to admit those four words made his skin burn.

“It’s like ya said. None of my business.” Osamu pushed up off the ground and offered his hand to Suna. Long fingers gripped his forearm, and he pulled the scrawny boy upwards with little effort. “If ya ever wanna tell me, I’d listen. But that’s yer choice.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

6 large eggs

Life is a big, terrible, complicated thing. But there were small victories to be found.

Suna becoming part of Osamu's world was one of those victories. 

He'd joined them for practice that first day and their second year senpais immediately took to him. Aran was grateful for another relatively calm person to deal with the twins. Akagi sketched countless pictures of a lazy eyed fox for him. Oomimi spared him a smile or two every practice — just barely hiding how excited he was to have a middle blocker kouhai.

Kita? Yeah, no one's really sure with Kita. But Osamu saw their senpai's hand find Suna's shoulder in reassurance more than once.

(He didn't want to admit that made his skin burn too.)

Their coaches had a few rules. Starting players had to be divided during in-team scrimmages. So often, it meant Atsumu ended up on the other team and Suna — who wasn't a starter — was Osamu's blocking partner. 

Coach Oomi noticed their easy synergy together and invited Suna to the summer training camp with Itachiyama.

It was the early hours of the morning — the sun nowhere near ready to rise over the horizon — when Osamu set out from his house. Since he was still new in town and they lived in the same neighborhood, Coach Kurosu had him and Suna go together.

"Hey… uh… thanks for meeting up with me." Suna said, standing on the street corner near his house as Osamu approached. They weren't quite at the level of friendship yet where Suna felt comfortable inviting him over. And there was no way Osamu would ever invite him over to his house. 

"Yeah, no worries dude." Osamu adjusted his grip on his duffel. "I have trouble gettin' to the bus station on a good day much less in the middle of the night."

Suna let out a breathy laugh. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Is it workin'?" Osamu bumped into him, their heavy bags threatening to knock them over.

"Absolutely not."

"Don't worry yer head about it. I'll getcha there." Suna took a swipe at him, both of them on the verge of rib-splitting laughter. "How 'bout I treat ya to breakfast?"

"With what money?" They took off down the empty street, shivering in the witching hour chill. "Just last week you begged me to buy you lunch."

"To be fair, I just wanted ta see if you'd do it." Osamu laughed. "But, nah, there's a cafe around the corner. Tatsuki-obahan thinks I’m a handsome young man and always gives me a discount."

“I see.” Suna sighed. “So glad to see you’re an idiot who’s lucky to pass his science exam, who’s terrible at jump serves, and who’s an utter moron. But at least you know how to put those good looks to use.”

"Aww, Sunawin thinks I'm pwetty?" He batted his eyelashes, earning himself a kick to the ankle. "Also, ya called me stupid twice."

"Want me to call you stupid again?" 

Yer an aho, his internal monologue — which sounded shockingly like Atsumu — scolded him.

What he's being an aho about, he's not so sure.

"Maybe third time'll be the charm." He grinned.

"That doesn't even make sense."

They came upon the familiar cafe, a tiny place on the corner of Suna's street and the street leading to the bus station. It was the perfect time of early morning — Tatsuki-obahan was pulling baked goods fresh out of the oven. Swirls of cinnamon rolls and wafts of rich bread tickled at Osamu’s nose.

"I forgot to ask. Or maybe I didn't forget and just didn't want to know… but where's smelly?" Suna asked, face hovering over a glass case of bagels. 

"He got chewed out by Kita-san about not helping us clean after practice last Thursday." Osamu found himself next to Suna at the bagel case, enjoying the warmth radiating off his friend. "So he's on equipment duty."

"Ah, sucks to be him." Suna nudged him. "What should I get? You're the expert here."

"If ya want somethin' nice and simple, ya can't go wrong with a plain bagel with cream cheese." Osamu pointed at the row of jewel-toned jams on display above the case. "But with yer sweet tooth, I'd say half-cream cheese half-jam. Perfect for ya."

Suna smiled, one falling somewhere on the spectrum between sweet and genuine. A rarity in the month they've known each other. Most were fanged or feigned or both. “Thanks, Osamu.”

300 g cream cheese

Miya Osamu is going to murder Ginjima Hitoshi.

On a normal day and under normal circumstances, if you made Osamu play KMK with the non-Miya Inarizaki first years, the results would typically be the following:

Kiss - Ginjima. Wears a retainer so that might be weird but you gotta take an L sometimes.

Marry - Suna. No, Atsumu, Osamu will not elaborate.

Kill - Kosaku. What that bastard deserves for never letting Osamu copy his homework.

But today was different.

Ginjima needed to die.

It was their final training camp of the school year. With the third years retired from the club, their advisor booked a nicer hotel for them. Two players to a room. No Miyas together. Suna gets to pick his roommate.

Osamu was never quite sure why Suna got to choose while he usually had the looming threat of having to share a room with Atsumu. Or Kosaku who snored. Or Ginjima who always wanted to talk until the wee hours of the night.

He was relieved to find his friend selected him.

(It was either him or Kita. He almost felt honored to be chosen over their new captain.)

Their room was nice — two big beds, a shower and toilet room separate from the sink, and a tv that advertised free HBO. Osamu figured he and Suna could buy some snacks from the lobby konbini and finally give Game of Thrones a try.

(Maybe hang out in the same bed.)

(Maybe under the same blanket.)

(Just as friends, of course.)

They’d conked out quickly that night. The eight hour bus ride to Arakawa City plus an hour long meeting with the staff had wiped them out. The next day would start early and be a whole hell of a lot of training, running, and practice matches.

It was after their first practice game — one against Kishinmori from Akita — when Osamu first noticed. Gin’s arm wrapped around Suna’s waist, Suna’s arm draped over Gin’s shoulder.

Suna scowled, green eyes razor sharp. It’d been a tough game. They were still trying to find the best starting six, so Kishinmori throttled them in straight sets. He and Suna had gotten blown back more than once by their ace spiker. “It ain’t yer fault, Sunarin.” Ginjima smiled, hand patting at Suna’s side.

Osamu watched them head to the bench, stepping in unison and sipping from their water bottles between sentences.

Game after game. Win or loss. Kishinmori. Itachiyama. Yureizumi. Ryugunada. Arm around waist. Arm draped over shoulder.

Aho, said his internal monologue that sounded entirely too much like Atsumu.

Aho. Aho! AHO! SAMU!

Oh, wait. That actually was Atsumu.

“What the fuck are ya doin’?” Osamu’s smacked upside the head by his twin. “‘Tachi and ‘Mori need the court. We’re done for the day.”

After a quick dinner, he dragged Suna into the lobby konbini to pick out snacks. Predictably, Suna dug into the ice cream chest and pulled out a popsicle while his own arms were overflowing with bags of buttered popcorn, boxes of candy, and several varieties of ramune. 

“Gimme a hand.” Osamu jutted out a hip, letting Suna dip his hand into the pocket of his track pants to fish out their hotel keycard. The tips of his long fingers brushed against his upper thigh through the thin pocket fabric. He prayed the shiver tracing its way up his spine wasn’t noticeable. 

They swipe their way in and collapse on their respective beds. Face down. Suna’s popsicle stick and wrapper tossed in the trash and Osamu surrounded by his konbini haul. “I’m so fucking sore.” Suna let out a comforter-muffled groan.

“Do ya wanna watch somethin' on tv?” Osamu offered, tilting his head to get a look at the boy in the other bed. 

“Well...” Suna angled his head so his chin rested on the bed. “Gin wanted to go hang out with the other teams in the game room and he invited me along. I’m the undisputed king of Foosball, after all.”

“Oh.”

“You can come, you know? I just figured you’d be bored to death.” Suna pushed himself off the bed and pulled on a clean hoodie. He was right. Osamu had no interest in getting tangled up in the small talk of strangers. No matter how entertaining it was to watch Suna demolish everyone at Foosball.

At the door, Suna tilted his head. One final offer.

Osamu shook his head and then he was gone. Leaving him alone with his buttered popcorn and his fingers hovering over the remote’s play button.

Almost the entire week rolled by and outside of breakfast, training, and sleeping, Osamu hadn't seen a single hair of Suna. Just Gin this. Gin that. Gin Gin Gin.

Where did that dude get off on trying to steal Osamu's best friend?

(... Sunarin's my best friend?)

There's a balcony on each floor of the hotel. Furnished with just a table and a couple lounge chairs. Osamu found refuge there on the last night of camp — lounging under a blanket, sketchbook in hand. Braced for another evening of wanting to hang out with his friend.

The glass door behind him slid open. "Osamu? Is that you?" He turned to see Suna slouching low — desperate to chase any semblance of warmth from his giant hoodie.

"Oh, hey."

Suna slumped into the lounge chair next to Osamu, tucking his long legs close to his chest. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Why are you out here?"

Osamu angled his sketchbook in Suna's direction — showing him the telltale messy cover declaring it to be Osamu's Sketches Do Not Enter!!! "Change of scenery. Bein' cooped up in the room every night got old."

Suna clicked his tongue. "Can't say I didn't try."

He had. Perhaps he had no right feeling slighted when Suna had invited him out each night.

"And why are ya here?" Osamu frowned as his pencil glided over the fresh page. A line here. Some crosshatching there. Add some words. "Ain'tcha s'posed to be hangin' out with Gin?"

Suna goes quiet, and Osamu doesn't dare look at him. 

He's fucked up their friendship. There's no doubt about it.

"They're going swimming in the indoor pool." Suna said, finally. "I don't swim. For… uh… reasons."

"Oh."

"So I figured I'd take you up on your movie night offer." Suna shuffled in the lounge chair and Osamu could hear his teeth chattering.

"Well…" Osamu closed his sketchbook and turned to face Suna. His face flushed from the cold — pink dancing along his ears, upper cheekbones, and a bright spot on his nose. "I already watched it."

"And what was that?"

"Game of Thrones."

"Oh no." Suna let out a breathy laugh. “This is worse than I expected.”

"Why did no one tell me the twins fuck! That's so fuckin' gross!" Osamu felt his skin go hot as he ranted and watched Suna's face morph into the ugliest expression he's ever seen. "Stop laughin' at me Sunarin. Yer a dickhole."

"God…" Suna exhaled between laughs. "I wish I'd stayed with you just to stop you from fucking up that badly."

"Yeah." Osamu turned his head toward the sky. Something about chilly nights always made the stars a little more beautiful. "I wish you'd stayed too."

"Hey." Suna's voice was soft. "Were you jealous?”

“Maybe a lil’ bit. Is that bad?”

“Gin is just trying to butter me up. That moron thinks because Mai-chan tutors me sometimes that I’ll put in a good word for him.” Suna said. “What he doesn’t know is Mai-chan likes girls, so he’s barking up the wrong tree. But I get free boba out of it, so I’m not about to tell him the truth.”

“Mai-chan likes girls?” Osamu recalled his own brief crush on her at the start of the year. Not that that mattered anymore since he had a crush on…

Someone?

Suna ignored his question, which was fair since it was more rhetorical than anything. “I actually went to middle school with a couple of the Itachiyama guys. I didn’t like who I was back then, but those two were cool. So, it was like spending time with old friends.” He hummed. “And I see you every day.”

“I’m so stupid.”

“Not gonna argue against that one, Osamu.” Suna laughed. “But I get it. You have the whole Twin Complex thing.”

“Now what’s that s’posed to mean?” He glanced over at Suna to see him staring up at the stars himself.

“Don’t worry about it.” Suna flicked his eyes Osamu’s way. “Now, c’mon. Let’s go inside. It’s too fucking cold outside for this.”

As they settled into Suna’s bed — bundled under a blanket with a bowl of popcorn between them and a movie that distinctly Did Not Involve Incest Thank Fucking God — Osamu decided that perhaps, just perhaps, Ginjima Hitoshi could live to see another day.

Perhaps.

60 g unsalted butter

It was May of their second year of high school when Suna Rintarou finally came over to the Miya household.

Osamu had gone to Suna’s house a handful of times, mostly staying relegated to his sister’s big kotatsu in the living room. Neither of the Sunas were too keen on letting Osamu loose onto the kitchen and upstairs remained off limits.

But Osamu’s house was a different story. It was an endless cacophony of sound he knew would be entirely too much for his introverted best friend. His dad loudly sang along to pop songs as he pan-fried vegetables. His mom and Atsumu bickered while they watched reruns of volleyball games. His granny was always on the back porch playing mah-jong and drinking sake with her friends even though she didn’t even live there.

Today had been the perfect opportunity to finally ease Suna into the Palace. His parents were in Poland for a business trip. Atsumu was taking advantage of that and spending the weekend at Gin’s place. Osamu heard rumors that going to Gin’s house would involve alcohol and well, cleaning up after his brother was extremely low on his to-do list.

He’d much rather have a chill weekend with Sunarin.

The bells tied to the front door jingled and Osamu crossed his toes inside his socks praying it was Suna — obeying his order of just come in, no need to knock! — and not his shithead brother. His relief was palpable when Suna popped his head into the kitchen, duffel bag hanging from his shoulder.

“What are you making?”

“Two things.” Osamu slid a tray of thick brown batter into the oven and knocked the door shut with his hip. “First… Fudgy brownies. American style.” He pulled a saucepan out of the drawer and set it on the counter. “Second… Granny sent me a recipe for caramel sauce. So I’m gonna attempt to make that.”

“Ooh.” Suna said, fully entering the kitchen.

“For yer sweet tooth.” Osamu smiled as his friend’s face lit up. “But first, lemme show ya upstairs so you can dump yer shit.”

The twins’ room was clean for the first time in months. Their mom had threatened to stay home this weekend if they didn’t disinfect the entire place. She didn’t need to know the amount of shit shoved into the storage bins beneath their bed.

“So tonight and tomorrow, ya can either sleep in Tsumu’s bed or ya can use our spare futon. Whichever ya prefer.”

Suna hummed. “I’d probably catch fleas if I slept in his bed, so I guess futon it is.”

Then it was back downstairs to the kitchen, the smell of the baking brownies already swirling through the room.

“So what do you have to do?” Suna propped his head on Osamu’s shoulder as he attempted to read his granny’s chicken scratch handwriting.

“Lots of sugar. Lots of non-stop stirrin’.” Osamu said, trying desperately to ignore the warmth enveloping his back. “Caramel is finicky. Super easy to burn.”

Suna’s forehead slumped against his shoulder. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy some?”

“Yeah.” He dumped a heaping scoop of sugar into his saucepan and plucked a spatula from the tool drawer. “But even homemade food that’s gone wrong... was still made from the heart.”

“Thanks for the wisdom, Julia fucking Child.” Suna peeled himself off his back and — based on the shuffling behind him — slumped into the breakfast nook. Osamu would’ve loved to glance back and soak in the sight of his friend lulled into a sleepy haze by the overwhelming scent of brownies. But stirring hot sugar was, unfortunately, the more pressing issue.

“I’m surprised ya even know who she is.” The sugar globbed together in clumps, the edges turning pale golden.

Suna scoffed. “Of course I do. Everybody knows Meryl Streep.”

“That’s…” Osamu dumped ninety grams of butter into the pot, watching in pleasure as the sugar mixture bubbled. “No. I’m not gonna get into it. Yer prob’ly fuckin’ with me.”

Suna groaned, a thump accompanied his head hitting the nook’s seat. “You’re no fun, Osamu.” He stole the tiniest of glances as he stirred the sugar and butter together, seeing Suna starfished. Long limbs stretched haphazardly and dangling off the bench. Once pleased with the consistency, he drizzled the heavy cream into the mixture and let it boil for a minute.

“And yet here ya are. Willin’ly spendin’ yer whole weekend with me.” Osamu said, earning another groan from Suna. “Put yerself to good use and check on the brownies.” He obliged, coming in close to Osamu to pluck the tray out of the oven.

“They look fine. Can I eat one now?” Suna mumbled.

“No.” Osamu slid the saucepan off the heat and dumped in a spoonful of salt. As he stirred, he fished a long kabob skewer out of the tool drawer to hand to Suna. “Ya gotta poke it. Make sure it ain’t wet inside.”

Suna prodded the crackled surface before wholeheartedly stabbing it. He grinned — a row of sharp teeth and squinty green eyes — and Osamu felt his gut ache. The skewer is pulled out crumb free and immediately shoved between Suna’s lips. “I think they’re good.” He spoke, slightly muffled.

By the time the two finally evicted themselves from the kitchen, the tray of brownies and vat of caramel had long been eviscerated. 

“We’re gonna regret that come Monday practice, huh?” Suna mumbled, eyes heavy. Despite the clearly agreed upon decision that Suna would sleep on the futon or in Atsumu’s bed, he was tucked under Osamu’s navy comforter. Pulled all the way to his chin and squeezed next to Osamu on the tiny bunk. Dark brown hair splayed out on the pillow like a fluffy halo, a contented smile on his lips.

It’s unfair, honestly.

“I don’t regret a thing.” Osamu whispered, fingers twitching uselessly from their resting place between them. 

“No?” Was the last thing Suna said before he surrendered to sleep, eyes drifting shut and his mouth parting. 

He looked at peace, in a way he never quite managed while awake. Bladed green eyes had been sheathed into a feathery curve of black. Long fingers tucked beneath his cheek and settled on the pillow. The tension had released from his jaw and shoulders — both softened to a level Osamu had never seen.

Just how on edge was Suna all the time?

His eyes drifted to Suna’s fingers. Yellow stains on his nails and cuticles — spectral remnants of dark nail polish scrubbed off. Slivered cuts, busted up knuckles, and calloused palms. He’d helped bandage them before countless games and practices.

But now, all he dreamed about was sliding his own fingers through the grooves of Suna’s knuckles and slotting them together. To curl them until the pads of his fingers brushed against palms.

Osamu could do it. 

No.

Better not.

Just looking was enough.

200 g heavy cream

It’s late Summer when Osamu finally admitted it to himself.

I like Suna.

(And unfortunately, admitting it to himself involved Atsumu finding out.)

Festivals had long been one of Osamu’s favorite parts of living in their town. The peaceful early mornings trudging up the winding greenery-lined stairs to the temple. Stealing just a brief moment of tranquility. The beat of taiko drums, dancing school children marching down the street and fireworks that reverberate through the marrow of your bones. Food stalls lining the street — overflowing with tasty takoyaki, yakisoba, okonomiyaki.

Months before — eager to plan their weekend in advance — he and the other second years agreed to go as a group. 

Then, three weeks ago, Gin started dating a girl from class 2-6 and bailed. Dreams of having his first kiss under the fireworks with a cute girl in a yukata won out over hanging with his smelly volleyball friends.

Now, Kosaku had food poisoning. His family made the mistake of trying a new recipe a day before the festival and it had gone tragically wrong. So he was left house ridden, texting them every hour begging for photos and updates.

That left Osamu, his brother and Suna.

His plan from the start was this half-baked idea to try and get Atsumu, Gin, and Kosaku to abandon them. They’d probably disappear down the game alley of the festival — throwing darts at balloons and getting their fortunes read instead of wandering around with boring SamuRin.

But now that it was just the three of them, getting rid of his brother was a lot more daunting of a task.

They’d met up with Suna at the street corner — looking like a daydream with flicked out red and black eyeliner and a yukata to match. In comparison, Osamu felt underdressed in his own navy and gold yukata — one identical to his brother’s, except reversed.

“Lookatcha Sunarin!” Atsumu shoved his way between Suna and Osamu as they walked towards the festival, his face scrunched up in his best shit eating grin. “Yer lookin’ hot. Where’s yer girlfriend?”

Suna shoulder checked him and there was a loud clatter as his brother stumbled in his sandals. “Funny you should say that.” Suna’s eyes were narrowed, paired with a wolfish smile. “She’s actually hanging out with your non-existent girlfriend tonight.”

“Get a room.” Osamu groaned, sparking twin looks of horror from Atsumu and Suna.

“That’s so gross, have you seen him?” Suna gestured at Atsumu’s entire body. “Not in a million years.”

“So yer sayin’ you’d kiss a dude if it wasn’t me?” Atsumu leaned towards Suna, sticking his lips out like a fish and making loud kissing sounds.

“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.” 

“Betcha want yer boyfriend to put more than just words in yer mouth.”

“You’re a perv!” Suna grinned, using his couple of centimeters on Atsumu to loom over him. “Wait ‘til I tell Saki-chan abou-”

Atsumu rushed forward, shoving his hand over Suna’s mouth. “You wouldn’t!” He hissed. His face morphed into disgust — presumably the result of a tongue ghosting over his palm — and he wrenched his hand back. “Gross!”

Arriving at the festival was even more of a blessing than usual, finally getting Osamu’s brother and best friend to stop bickering for three seconds. Their noses were suddenly too busy being enchanted by the smell of food wafting from a side street.

Osamu was drawn to a cart of fresh cotton candy — the attendant poured vibrant floss sugar into the center and swirled the stick through the clouds of multicolored fluff. Their parents only gave him and Atsumu an allowance of 800 yen and he bit his tongue with want. He shouldn’t waste half of his money on something so insubstantial. Not when there was fried squid, karaage, and countless other possibilities to indulge on.

“Are you going to stare all day?” Suna’s voice came from behind him, an arm draping over his shoulder. Osamu tilted his head slightly and found himself eye level with Suna’s full mouth — chewing a bit of his taiyaki parfait. He was always a bit of a freak when it came to ice cream in cones, taiyaki, or crepes — preferring to bite it instead of licking it.

“Ma only gave me a lil’ money.” Osamu said, turning back to face the cart instead of staring at the tiny bit of chocolate ice cream in the corner of Suna’s lips. “Shouldn’t waste it on some cotton candy.”

Suna sighed. “You’re pathetic. Here, why don’t we just share one?” He peeled his arm off Osamu’s shoulder and fished 200 yen out of his pocket.

Everyone who knew Osamu knew — at minimum — one important fact about him: Miya Osamu didn’t share food. 

If he willingly cooked it for you? Sure, you were golden.

But sharing? No matter how many times Atsumu begged, or Gin made starry eyes at the delicious bentos he prepped, the answer was always no . 

And stealing his food? Sacrilegious. You’d probably lose an arm in the process.

“Okay.” Osamu surrendered.

They settled into a nearby bench, Osamu holding the cone of cotton candy between them. Suna plucked off shreds of baby blue raspberry and Osamu pastel red strawberry. 

“Are you happy now?” Suna said, elbowing Osamu in the side. He grinned, his teeth slightly stained blue, before shoving another chunk of sugary floss into his mouth. Suna’s grin softened into something of pleasure as the candy dissolved on his tongue.

Osamu opened his mouth to respond when he heard a throat clear. 

Atsumu stood there chewing on something, hooded eyes at half-mast and one hand on his hip. “Hey, Sunarin.” He said, swallowing. “They’re sellin’ fox masks the next street over. If ya buy me and Samu one, we’ll pay ya back.”

“Now, why the fuck would I do th-” Suna stopped as the expression on Atsumu’s face shifted. Eyes bulging like someone interrupted his serve. “Right. I’ll be back in a second.”

Suna snatched a final bit of cotton candy before disappearing down the street. “Tsumu… what was that all about?”

“I think I should be the one askin’ ya that question.” Atsumu folded his arms over his chest. “Why’d I come back here findin’ ya makin’ mooney eyes at Sunarin? Sharin’ food? Ya never share food.”

“I ain’t makin’ mooney eyes. Yer delusional.” Osamu leaned against the hedge behind him. “He paid for half. He gets half. Only fair.”

Atsumu slid onto the bench where Suna once sat. “Look, dude. I just want ya to be honest with me. Are ya gay?” Osamu felt his brain empty of all intelligent thoughts. Where on earth was this coming from? “It’s totally cool, ya know? Ya don’t gotta hide from me.” Atsumu paused, just long enough for Osamu’s head to catch up. “Yer just… yer different ‘round Sunarin.”

“No, of course not.” Osamu mumbled, fingers twiddling with the empty cotton candy stick. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh huh.” Atsumu said. “But, I’m right, no? Yer gay?”

Osamu had never really thought about it. He crushed on a handful of girls throughout high school and middle school, but never got around to confessing even though several clearly liked him back.

He thought about the sharp curve of Suna’s jaw and how it softened when he fell asleep. Shadowed olive green eyes that held thousands of secrets just waiting to be unearthed. The softness of his genuine smiles and the cackle of his laugh. His face lighting up every time Osamu mentioned dessert, sparkling with a passion he rarely expressed. The weight of his chin when he rested his head on Osamu’s shoulder. Long fingers that blocked volleyballs during the week but found their true splendor on the weekends — shiny black lacquered hands flicking out eyeliner.

How maybe, just maybe, he wanted to brush his thumbs along the soft purpled skin beneath Suna’s drowsy eyes and across the angle of his jawline. Chase that genuine smile with his own and let Suna laugh into his lips. Make desserts until they slumped over in the living room — too full to move, too happy to care. Let Suna rest his head whenever he wanted and let him snake his arms around his waist. Let those fingers do as they pleased — flick eyeliner above hooded eyes, paint varnish over bitten nails, or slide until they entwine with his own.

“Wait.” Osamu whispered. “I like Suna?”

Atsumu groaned, leaves rustling as his head slumped backwards against the hedge. “Yer useless. Utterly fuckin’ useless, Samu.”

“I like Suna.” Osamu said louder, face planting into his open palm. How long has he liked Suna? Why didn’t I fuckin’ realize? “Tsumu, what do I do?”

“This is gonna be like the worst fuckin’ advice of yer entire life but like…” Atsumu raked a lazy hand through his blonde hair, knocking several leaves out of it. “I don’t think ya can do anythin’. Like what’d be the fuckin’ chance the guy yer crushin’ on is gay too? I know he got the nails thing ‘n’ the eyeliner, but that don’t mean shit.”

“Tsumu.”

“I mean, like, y’all got it good right now. Yer always hangin’ out with him. Confessin’ might make it weird.”

“Or he could feel the same.”

“Or he could feel the same, yeah.”

In the distance, he saw Suna walking back towards them, amicably chatting with a pretty girl he recognized from class but didn’t really know. It’s not like he ever paid much attention in class — hard to when the tiny cowlick at the base of Suna’s neck was so much more interesting. She stopped, waving a trailing hand as she turned away. Suna mirrored the gesture, and a massive smile grew on her lips.

“Hey, Tsumu?” Osamu said, eyes fixed ahead. “Bi. I think I’m bi.”

In the corner of his vision, he could see Atsumu raise his fist and outstretch it. Osamu bumped it with his own, feeling a worry he didn’t even realize he had lift. “Love ya, aho.” Atsumu jerked him into a headlock and rubbed his knuckles through Osamu’s hair.

“What the hell are you two so chummy about?” Suna stood before them, a fox mask tied to the side of his head and two more in his hands. He passed one to each of them. The wood was smooth under Osamu’s fingers and painted black with white, silver, and vibrant blue accents.

“Just twin shit. Mind yer business.” Atsumu pulled his mask over his face — identical to Osamu’s but lined with gold and red instead of silver and blue. “How do I look?”

“Definitely an improvement.” Suna mumbled. “You’re a lot easier to stomach when I don’t have to look at your ugly face.”

Atsumu tilted his mask up to glare at Osamu. A look that clearly said, ya just had to pick this one? “Thank you for the lovely compliment, Sunarin.” He suddenly perked up and fished his phone out of his pocket. “Oh man, Gin’s askin’ me to be his backup for his date. See y’all around.” In the corner of his eye, Osamu could see the screen was notificationless.

And then he was gone.

Ah.

“He’s so fucking weird.” Suna mumbled, eyes trailing after Atsumu as he disappeared down the street. 

“Who needs ‘im?” Osamu pushed up from the bench. “That aho doesn’t know how t’ hang anyway.”

“Too right.” Suna grinned. “Wanna grab some more food and go find a place to watch the fireworks?”

Maybe Atsumu was right.

They’ve got it good right now.

No reason to risk that for a silly crush.

60 g sugar

Miya Osamu has had better ideas.

Atsumu was gone for the week. He’d been whisked away to his super fancy training camp in Tokyo. Osamu could imagine him being a nuisance to his best frenemy slash rival slash mutual annoyance Sakusa Kiyoomi. Or perhaps he was busy finding some new first year setter to harass.

Unfortunately, while Atsumu was off gallivanting in Tokyo, half of Inarizaki had fallen victim to the flu. Practice was cancelled for the week, and Osamu — one of the few survivors of the zombie apocalypse — was bored beyond measure.

Everything he and Suna — another survivor — thought of was entertaining for approximately four minutes. PES got old after Suna kicked his ass one too many times. CS:GO didn’t have couch co-op, so as nice as it was having Suna hanging over his shoulder, he couldn’t join in. Their attempt at baking a gorgeous chocolate cake for Suna-Neesan’s birthday was foiled by Osamu slipping on a puddle and knocking the bag of cake flour all over the entire kitchen.

Let’s just say Ma wasn’t too pleased about that one.

“We gotta get out of the house.” Had been Suna’s idea.

The aquarium’s closed. The movie line-up at the cinema was bleaker than bleak. No volleyball practice. No money for lavish meals nor tickets to Osaka.

That led them here. The quote unquote skatepark — if you could call a singular halfpipe and rail a skatepark — near the shore.

That was the reasonable part of their plan. It'd been a long time since either of them had the chance to skate. The risk of injury was a bit too great, and volleyball always took priority. But a single afternoon wouldn’t hurt, as long as they took it easy and didn’t do anything too foolish.

The questionable part of their plan was the fact that it was December. And while there was no snow on the ground yet, the breeze off the water was below freezing.

"Osamu." Suna's teeth chattered. They were slouched against the wall of the halfpipe, as shielded from the wind as they could manage. "This is quite possibly your worst idea."

"I'm… I'm with ya on that." Osamu's feet were on the board, rocking back and forth trying to create some semblance of warmth.

"So much so that I am never listening to you ever again." Suna pulled a hand from a pocket and showed it to Osamu — his nails had become a pale purplish blue that definitely wasn't nail polish.

"I think that's fair." Osamu withdrew his own hand. He always ran hot — a result of his metabolism burning off all the calories he ate. He offered it to Suna.

Suna hesitated for a brief moment before clasping it. Osamu shoved their hands into his pocket and ran his thumb in circles over icy skin. For warmth.

For warmth. 

Definitely.

Suna exhaled a deep, foggy breath before tilting his head towards Osamu. Cheeks and lips stained red in the chill. His fingers were loose in Osamu’s grip, providing him with an escape should he desire. But they also had to try and warm up a little before they made the frantic run across the soccer field and into the safety of the nearest konbini.

“Can I-” They said at the same time, eyes going wide in surprise at the echo.

“Go ahead.” Suna said, quickly averting his gaze.

I like ya, Osamu wanted to say.

“I’m quittin’ volleyball.” Osamu said instead. It’d been a thought simmering on the backburner for several months — perhaps even longer. But it wasn’t until he realized how unbothered he was by Atsumu attending the training camp that his brain caught flames. Set on the grill and seared into a concrete realization.

And Suna was his taste tester.

“I… wow.” Suna mumbled. “So, what does that mean? Are you done? No nationals?”

“No, I… I’m gonna play ‘til we graduate then that’s it.” Osamu tilted his head against the halfpipe wall. “Not goin’ pro.”

“You love volleyball, though.” 

“It’s jus’ a hobby. Not m’life passion.” Osamu stole a glance at Suna to find him staring up at the clouds — thick with snow. “Don’t got the same hunger as you or Tsumu.”

“Who said I wanted to go pro?” Suna’s face shifted, winter coat crinkling as his cheek settled against his shoulder. His eyes were expressionless — a challenge for Osamu to solve. “I thought I told you I wanted to be an architect.”

“Ya did.” Osamu said, recalling a past conversation about their post-graduation plans spent curled up under the kotatsu. Osamu had finally asked about the piles of massive books on the shelves in Suna’s living room. “But I also know ya. You pretend like ya don’t give a shit about volleyball. About any of this. But you do.”

Suna donned that soft smile and the grasp on his fingers tightened. “Yeah. You got me. I really wanna play for the Falcons or EJP while I’m taking uni classes. I just don’t know if they’ll let me.”

“Yer good enough. They’d be stupid to pass ya up.”

Suna bit his bottom lip for a brief second, looking conflicted. “Does Atsumu know? That you’re quitting?”

“Ah… well. That’s the kicker, eh?” Osamu’s eyes settled on the goal post of the soccer field though his brain was dedicating the majority of its processes on the hand tucked in his pocket. “Haven’t figured that out.”

“He’s gonna be pissed no matter what you do.” Suna said. Osamu thinks it's a figment of his imagination, but there’s a brush of a thumb over his skin. “Might as well rip the bandaid off.”

Nestled up against each other and shivering, silence fell between them. They’d need to make a run for it soon, but for now they were comfortable.

“Osamu.” Suna said, his fingers dislodging from Osamu’s. He immediately missed the warmth. "I have a secret to share too."

"Yeah?" Suna's hand remained in his pocket, fingering at the jacket fabric. 

"I moved here cause my parents kicked me out." Suna breathed out a puff of white fog. "That's why I had…"

"The bruises." Osamu said. "This whole time I thought ya got expelled for fightin'."

"Nah. All my dad." A bitter laugh. “He… uh…” Suna paused, his eyes burning as they stared into the middle distance. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m gonna tell you this.”

“Ya don’t have to, Suna.”

Suna smiled for a brief moment — eyes curling into crescents — before letting it slip. “You shared a secret, now it’s my turn. My dad got pissed off because I brought my then girlfriend over. I never told him we were dating, but I guess he figured it out.”

“Kicked you out for just havin’ a girlfriend?” Just how strict were these people? “Way harsh.”

“See.” Suna plucked his hand out of Osamu’s pocket and curled his arms around his legs, tucking them close to his chest. He was suddenly reminded of the first day they’d met — sitting on the roof of the school talking about this very topic. “He thought I was gay.”

“Huh?”

“A lesbian.”

What.

What?

“What?” 

“Then I told him I wasn’t a fucking girl. He got pissed off. Bing bang boom. I’m in Hyogo.” Creases formed in the corners of Suna’s mouth and Osamu got hit with the sudden urge to kiss them.

Not that wanting to kiss Suna was a rarity.

But perhaps this wasn’t the right time to think about that.

Not when he had something else to process.

“Wait.” Osamu said, his brain not quite catching up to the words Suna spoke. “Oh.”

He was lucky Suna knew him by now. Knew how long it took for him to come to realizations. Otherwise, he was sure his friend would have panicked himself into the next century.

“Yeah. I’m trans.” Suna shrugged. “Now ya know.”

Osamu stared at his skateboard, feeling a smile form on his lips after hearing the tiniest twinge of accent in Suna’s voice. “So that’s why yer not sure you can go pro.”

Suna hummed. “Wanna hear something fucked up? I was invited to that camp your shithead twin is at.” He rewrapped his blue and silver scarf — one he’d bought during their last visit to Osaka together — around his neck before continuing. “Kurosu had me gather all my paperwork together, but I obviously couldn't get a copy of my Koseki. So, we sent a copy of my passport. I guess as soon as the Olympic committee saw the F they rejected me.”

“They can do that?”

“That’s just how it is. Too much of a girl for some folks. Too much of a dude for others. It’s just figuring out the tiny place in the middle where I’m just right.” 

“Hey.” Osamu leaned his head in Suna’s direction, feeling his cheek sting against the cold halfpipe. “To me, yer perfect just the way you are.”

Suna’s gaze flicked ever so slightly to the left before settling on Osamu’s eyes. He smiled. “Thanks, Samu.”

Osamu offered his pinky finger in Suna’s direction. “And yer secret’s safe with me.”

“I know.” Suna responded, curving his pinky around Osamu’s. After sealing the promise, they lingered briefly before slotting their hands together again. “We really should get going. My non-existent nuts are gonna freeze off.”

“Damn. Can’t have that, can we?” Osamu grinned, hauling himself and Suna to their feet. Hands still linked, they bent to pick up their skateboards and tuck them beneath their armpits.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

They ran. Laughing as they slipped and slid over the icy soccer field. Hands slotted together like they were designed that way. Grin plastered across Suna’s lips like he’d just committed the heist of the century. 

Osamu was pretty sure he did.

80 g cake flour

In December, Suna Rintarou stole Osamu’s heart.

In January, Karasuno stole Inarizaki’s title chances.

“That shoulda been us.” Osamu said, eyes transfixed on the court and the players warming up. The white, black, and gold of Fukurodani. The brilliant green of Ichibayashi.

Suna — arm notably pressed up against his — rolled his eyes in the corner of Osamu’s vision. His burgundy track jacket was zipped all the way up, with his chin tucked inside. With only two teams playing on the court and most of the fans still milling about trying to buy mozzarella corn dogs, the stadium was chilly. His voice was muffled as he spoke. “Mhm, like you care.”

“Hey now.” Osamu bumped him with his shoulder. “Just cause I’m quittin’ don’t mean I don’t care.”

“Tell that to Atsumu.”

The insufferable twin in question was sitting several rows away with Gin and Kosaku (and Kita, hovering close by for safety purposes). They were over their initial fight — that one was settled over several games of PES and two large pizzas. But as the loss stewed over the past few days of quarters, semis, and now finals, the bitterness was becoming thick enough to cut.

Atsumu would get over it, and they’d be cool again. But for now, the second years had firmly drawn battlelines.

Or well. Sorta.

Gin and Kosaku didn’t care about the Miya histrionics, but Atsumu had probably conned them into some stupid arrangement to get them to ‘stick it’ to Osamu. Like agreeing to take on their cleaning duties or doing their homework or being their wingman. But it was only a matter of time before one or both of them caved.

Suna — ever the eternal and loyal best friend — stuck by Osamu’s side. Though, much like Gin and Kosaku, he didn’t care about their drama. Mostly, he was with Osamu because he wasn’t about to give up his personal space heater that easily. Actual best friend things like wanting to try and quell the volcano inside Osamu’s empty brain cavity before it exploded came secondary.

Not that he minded having Suna’s shoulders pressed against his. Or his weight settled on Osamu’s back as he wrapped his arms around his waist. Or his hand slipped into Osamu’s pocket. All for the sake of chasing whatever heat Suna could find.

“He’s fine.” Osamu mumbled, eyes sliding to Suna’s hand resting between their thighs. It wasn’t cold enough in the stadium to justify slotting them together. Nor did he need anyone — Inarizaki or otherwise — seeing them holding hands.

Especially now that he knows Suna likes girls.

The temptation is wrenched from him completely by Suna leaning forward to fish for something out of the heaping plastic bags they’d gotten from the konbini cashier. A bottle of gatorade is passed into Osamu’s hand — radioactive yellow he’d picked up despite Suna scowling that lemon-lime was the worst flavor. But he’s not about to take criticism from someone who only drinks blue gatorade.

Suna peeled the seal off the inside of his bottle — careful not to spill any of the vibrant blue liquid — before screwing the cap back on. Osamu watched as Suna tucked the bright orange plastic between his lips and twisted it open with his teeth. Took several hearty swigs then sighed contentedly.

Not right now Osamu. Stop it.

There’s a resounding cheer throughout the arena as Fukurodani and Ichibayashi took to the court.

He and Suna settled into their seats, leaning heavily against one another. Mostly comfortable silence with the occasional comment about the match. Suna hated watching volleyball games — comparison will kill you. But between the choice of sitting in the hotel doing absolutely nothing and watching a volleyball game, Suna would pick the game any day of the week.

It’s the middle of the second set when Osamu felt fingertips brush against his hand. He glanced at Suna to see those narrow green eyes watching the Ichibayashi libero receive a downright vicious serve from Washio. Something pointy touched his skin and his eyes shifted to see a shiny pastel green candy wrapping in his palm.

One of the many flavors of kasugai gummies he and Suna liberated from the konbini. 

“Thanks.” He mumbled, unwrapping it slowly. The ghostly feeling of Suna’s long fingers lingered on his skin as he pushed the gummy into his mouth. He bit, severing the muscat gummy in half with his incisors. A rush of sweet and effervescence flooded his tongue. He couldn’t help but hum in delight.

Suna — eyes still focused on the game — smiled.

What goes on in that head of yours?

He was always doing tiny things to make Osamu happy. Sharing his snacks. Buying him drinks from the vending machine. Texting him the stupidest memes he could find. Perhaps it was just paying back for all the times Osamu did things just to make Suna happy.

But a secret part of Osamu hoped they did it for the same reasons.

Friendship.

Camaraderie.

Affection.

...?

For the rest of the final, they continued to play this game. Suna’s hand would dip into the bag. Then, he’d slip a gummy between his own lips as he tucked one into Osamu’s palm. Fingers trailed slow and gentle — a tiny lightning storm dancing through his bloodstream — over skin. Then, nothing. Back to normal. Eyes transfixed on volleyball, hands tucked into track pants pockets. Repeat. 

A puff of air caressed his ear and warmth bloomed over his cheeks as Suna leaned in close to whisper. “Their manager is kinda cute, don’t you think?”

Osamu’s eyes drifted to the auburn haired girl sitting on the Fukurodani bench next to the coach — absent-mindedly eating an onigiri as she wrote on a clipboard. “She’s cute, yeah.”

Suna hummed. “I like the whole lazy eyed big eater thing she’s got going on.” He settled back against Osamu’s shoulder. “Definitely my type.”

Another candy is slid into Osamu’s palm.

Slow, gentle fingers.

That he wished would entwine.

½ lemon

"I think I want an undercut." Suna said, slumping into his couch and flinging his legs over Osamu's lap.

"Uh huh." Osamu said, staring at the ceiling trying not to groan as Suna's bony ankles dug into his skin. 

"Just to try and cool off a little bit, y'know?"

"Uh huh." It was entirely too hot for this — existing. He could feel sweat pool under his thighs and he feared the inevitable wet mark he'd leave behind. Only a matter of time before Suna noticed and laughed about him pissing himself.

"I was thinking you could do it."

"Uh huh." Osamu wondered if there were popsicles in the fridge. Something, anything to take the edge off. This is Suna's house. They had to have popsicles. No way Suna wouldn't have popsicles.

"My sister has a zuzzer in her bathroom. We could do it now."

"Uh huh." Suna definitely had popsicles, but Suna-Neesan probably bought the boring kind flavored with vegetable juice. She was always trying to get Suna to eat healthier. Was Osamu desperate enough to eat a popsicle made with stevia?

"I could try my hand at cleaning your undercut up too. It's looking ragged."

"Uh huh." Plus, he'd have to get up. Which meant peeling Suna's legs off of him and he could already feel their skin sticking together. And then the long walk to the kitchen. Maybe he could just sit here and die instead.

"Osamu are you even listening to me?"

"Uh huh." Dying definitely seemed like the best option he—

Suna's sharp heel smacked into his thigh and he's jolted into attention.

He stared at Suna, mouth hanging open uselessly. His friend was looking as miserable as he was. Skin dripping with sweat and a vibrant flush spread over his cheeks and shoulders. Beneath the strap of his tank top, the visible part of his binder had discolored to a darker blue.

"You're a real shithead, Miya." Suna sighed.

“Takes one t’ know one, Rintarou.” Osamu allowed himself to smirk at the cost of another kick to his thigh. There’d be a bruise bloomed there in the morning, but pissing Suna off was his favorite sport at this point.

Certainly loved it more than volleyball.

Only six more months, then he’s hanging the kneepads up for good.

But man, he would love to piss Suna off for the rest of his life.

“As I was saying…”Suna said, spacing the words out ridiculously slow as if talking to a small child. “Give me an undercut and I’ll fix yours.”

Osamu pondered it for the splittest of seconds. “Dye my hair and it’s a deal.”

Suna groaned, head slumping against the arm of the couch. “We’d have to buy the dye. Which means going outside. Which means…” He groaned again, nearly an indignant whine. 

“I’m not lettin’ ya near my neck with a sharp object without proper compensation.” Osamu flicked the sole of Suna’s feet.

“Oooh.” Suna’s grin was borderline monstrous. “Com Pen Sa Tion. What a big word! I’m so proud of you.”

“Suuuuunarin.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll dye your hair if you buy me a chuupet.”

“I’ll buy you a chuupet if you buy me a suika bar.”

They bickered pointlessly for several minutes — adding more and more useless items they didn't need to their shopping list. Then, Suna carefully extracted himself from the couch and whipped off his tank top. Osamu's sure the shirt landed on the floor somewhere but he's far more focused on the muscles of Suna's shoulders and back.

In the seven months since Suna revealed his secret, he'd progressively gotten more comfortable with Osamu. Allowing him into his bedroom when he invited him over. Sharing the bed, without a care in the world if limbs got a little tangled. Changing in front of him — peeling off his clothes leaving him in nothing but boxers and a tight binder.

The rest of the team still didn’t know — though now that they were third years there wasn’t much point telling everyone. It wasn’t their business anyway.

Suna slid a fresh, unsoaked shirt on and sent a glare Osamu’s way. You coming?

One trip to the konbini and the beauty store later, Osamu found himself shirtless, perched on Suna’s bathroom counter with his friend between his legs. The surface around him was covered in a million random objects — a roll of aluminum foil, a big jar of coconut oil, and a bottle of lemon juice. My big sis thinks if she puts lemon juice in her hair it’ll lighten it naturally. 

Suna’s tongue poked out in concentration as he swirled the bleach mixture around in its bowl — occasionally stealing glances at Osamu’s hair.

“Ya’ve never done this before, have ya?” He said as Suna’s eyes snapped to meet his. He wrapped one of his hands around Suna’s and lifted it and the brush up towards his hairline. “It’s easy, just brush it onto my roots. If ya get it on my skin, jus’ wipe it off.”

Suna nodded, set the bowl down on the counter and took a chunk of Osamu’s hair between his fingers. He was entirely too close, his flank brushed against his thighs and his face loomed in the corner of his vision. Tingles ran down Osamu’s spine as Suna worked his fingers through his hair and the cold bleach mixture gently touched his scalp. 

“Hey, Suna?” He said, letting his eyes drift closed in contented pleasure. “Ya totally don’t have to answer this if it’s inappropriate or whatever. But… how’d ya pick yer name?”

"I kept the Rin from my birth name. Always liked the character. Ethics. " Suna paused, and Osamu could hear the tiny clatter of the brush swirling around the bleach bowl. "The Tarou though? My perfect ‘fuck you’ to my dad."

"Ethical eldest son." Osamu laughed. "You got more balls than all our friends combined, dude."

He cracked an eye open to see Suna's lips parted in a gentle, crooked smile — no trace of the feral shithead grin he’d grown accustomed to. The jury’s still out, but perhaps Osamu preferred this one.

"Thanks Samu." 

30 g lemon juice

Miya Osamu didn't regret his decision to retire from volleyball after this year.

But, he also didn’t regret his decision to play in the Interhigh.

The adrenaline in his bloodstream hummed — echoing the roar coursing inside his teammates. Every single cross-shot. Every single sting of the palm. Every single successful block. Every single flying leap. Every single 8 second serve.

He still loved it.

Atsumu was silent as the chance ball floated through the air in a perfect arc towards him. No words. No hand signals. No whistles. No subtle facial gestures. 

He didn’t need them, only trust. 

The ball was Osamu’s. No doubt about it.

It always goes to the ace in the end.

Osamu started his run up as the ball reached its apex. The ball touched Atsumu’s fingers and up they went — Osamu and the ball. Hand curved. Arm steady. Legs flying.

It’s spiked — a cross — into the space between a pair of receivers helpless to stop the powerful quick.

Osamu landed, feet hitting the ground in a reverberating thump. He stared for the briefest of moments at the other team. Their eyes downcast and red, jerseys wiped against faces, defeat setting in.

He's only allowed this second to process what just happened.

Because the next thing he knew, he was on the floor of the arena, buried under a dogpile of sweaty highschoolers. Hands gripped and slapped at his arms. Elbows wrapped around his neck as knuckles ground into his scalp. Kosaku was heavy against his thighs. Gin grinned into the crook of his neck. Atsumu crushed his internal organs.

Suna…

Suna is not here?

The dog pile breaks apart, leaving Osamu breathless on the floor. Shreds of fat black, burgundy, and white confetti stuck to his skin as he starfished, the exhaustion of his limbs catching up.

"Hey." A voice said. 

He craned his head to see Suna standing to the side — hands shoved into his shorts.

"Hey." He echoed, a little too transfixed by the way the stadium lights haloed Suna's head to think of anything coherent.

"Need some help?" Suna extended his hand.

"Please." It comes out weaker than he'd intended, a faint whine. He gripped Suna's hand, encircling his thumb and forefinger around Suna's thumb.

Suna wrenched him up, letting out a loud groan from the effort. Osamu’s gotten denser as third year progressed — arms and shoulder muscles thicker, stomach softer. 

But at the same time, Suna’s gotten stronger, too. Long hours spent doing extra workouts prepping for V.League tryouts. He adjusted his weight distribution and suddenly there’s too much momentum in his pull. By the time Osamu realized, it was too late to stop it.

He’s sent careening into Suna’s taller form and the two go tumbling to the floor. He blinked, eyes opening in terrible clarity, as he realized he was on top of Suna.

“Hey.” Osamu mumbled, realizing Suna’s hand was still firmly in his grip.

"Hey." Suna echoed somewhere near his ear, voice steady and clear.

He pushed himself away from Suna's chest, just far enough to see his teammate's face. Sweaty hair whipped in every which way. Eyes exhausted and rimmed with hazy purple bags but painfully soft. His lips… were… lips.

Osamu, you fucking gay bastard. Stop.

"Osamu?" His eyes snapped to Suna's as his friend opened his mouth to speak. "I…"

"Hey guys!" Suna's expression changed in a split second to one of annoyance. Get off me, he mouthed, placing a hand on Osamu's shoulder. "The award ceremony's startin' soon."

Ginjima Hitoshi needed to die.

“Gin!” He heard Atsumu shout, the sound muffled in his ears. “Aho!”

"Wha'd'I'do?!"

Osamu rolled off, back hitting the court. Their hands remained linked between them as they regained their breath but Suna’s words died on his lips.

Naturally, the award ceremony was a tedious affair. First, they had to wait for the staff to engrave the Interhigh trophy with their 2013 victors. Then, had to wait through the third and second place ceremonies. Finally, Inarizaki was crowned, and Atsumu could raise that golden trophy above his golden head of hair — proud, deserving. 

Before long, they were on the bus back home, medals hanging around necks. The majority of the team were shoved in the front half of the bus — singing and cheering and celebrating their victory. But Osamu found himself in the very back seat, a tiny island of peace.

He was next to Suna, as always. Suna’s phone rested on his thigh, as always. One earbud in Osamu’s ear, as always. One in Suna’s ear, as always. Thrumming with western indie music, as always. Silence settled between them, as always.

But rather than their usual, comfortable silence, this silence was something else. It felt wrong. Like it needed to be filled with the words left unsaid.

Suna leaned against the bus window — the expression reflected in the glass was unreadable. His hands rested in his lap, fiddling with the plastic cap of his sugary melon soda.

Osamu bumped his knee against Suna’s thigh. “Hey, Rin?”

The reflection’s eyes flicked towards him — though Suna himself remained still. “Yes?”

“What…” Osamu exhaled, angling his head towards the roof of the bus. “What were ya gonna say?”

Suna turned his head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Huh?”

“Earlier. Ya started t’ say somethin’.”

“I… uh…” Suna nestled deeper into his hoodie. He’s trying to hide, Osamu realized. “I was just gonna say I’m glad you’re my friend.”

“That’s all?”

“What? You don't appreciate my friendship too? I'm wounded, Osamu." The corners of Suna’s lips curve and his teeth are displayed, but Osamu wasn’t so sure he could call that a grin. Feigned. 

“No, I do.” Osamu replied. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

Suna’s gaze softened ever so slightly. His hand met Osamu’s thigh and patted twice — an intended reassurance. “But yeah… that’s all.” He turned back towards the window, and his eyes drifted shut. Suna’s breathing grew heavy and the tension released from his body as he fell asleep.

Yet the hand lingered on Osamu’s thigh — fingers curving over white fabric and heat sinking into skin.

Do ya do this with yer other friends?

300 g sugar

December hit like a truck. The normally mild winter dumped heavy snows across the city. As part of preparations for his MSBY tryouts, Atsumu had been whisked off to camp after camp every weekend.

Osamu never quite wanted to admit he almost missed his brother.

Luckily, he had Suna to fill in that definitely non-existent void. 

“So.” Suna started, decked in a massive winter coat and leaning against the front door frame of the Palace. “Why did I get a text from you at 3:46 am saying you were having an emergency at noon?"

"I'm havin' an emergency!" Osamu grabbed Suna's shoulder, trying and failing to drag his friend inside. Cold air crept in and bit Osamu's socked toes. “Shut the door! I’m gettin’ frostbite.”

“An emergency. That you pre-planned.” Suna refused to budge, finding some sort of sick pleasure in the way Osamu jogged in place, rubbing his hands over his arms. “Y’know, that’s not how emergencies work, right?”

“Aho! Just come inside!” Osamu ran back to the kitchen — screw Suna, he had chicken sautéing on the stove that was far more important.

He was grateful to hear the front door close and several shuffles in the genkan as Suna removed his snow boots and coat.

“Ah.” Suna came around the corner and slumped into his usual spot in the breakfast nook. “So I’m being poisoned. How quaint.”

"For the last time, I ain't poisonin' ya." Satisfied with the doneness of the chicken, he slid it into another skillet simmering with sauce. He gave it a hearty stir, smiling at the vibrant scent. “Yer my taste tester.”

Suna sighed dramatically. "And here I was hoping you were gonna sinisterly watch me convulse on the floor as my life is slowly snuffed out. I stare up at you, raising a hand and groaning 'Why!' before slumping to my death."

Osamu grinned as he took the curry off the hot stovetop. "What kinda shit have ya been readin' lately?"

"Poe."

"Poi?" Osamu fantasized briefly about the thick purple dish he tried on a visit to his cousins in Hawaii.

"No, you idiot. Poe. Like Edgar Allen Poe."

"Never heard of him." He had.

"Are you…" He heard Suna's head hit the breakfast nook table. "Samu, we had to write an essay about one of his stories."

"Nope, doesn't sound familiar." He'd gotten a 75 on the essay, in fact. His highest grade on an assignment so far this year.

"Cask of Aman... Amantelldo?" Suna said. "Ring any bells?"

"Amontillado." Osamu turned around just in time to get beamed in the face with a wooden chopstick.

"This friendship is over." Suna extracted himself from the breakfast nook to investigate the pan.

I wish it was, Osamu couldn't help but think.

"Ooh, this looks fucking delicious." Suna snuck a chopstick-wielding hand in the narrow slot between Osamu's flank and arm.

Osamu pulled his arm close, cutting off Suna's movement before he had a chance to get a swipe of the yellow curry. He whirled around to face him, releasing his arm in the process.

"Now." Osamu leaned close to Suna's face. "Who said this is for you?"

Suna pouted. "You're evil."

"I toldja yer here to taste test." Osamu grinned. "This is my tried 'n' true Thai curry recipe. Why would I need this taste tested?"

“Evil.” Suna attempted to get past him again, trying brute force this time. They roughhouse — wrestling and batting at one another — for a minute before Suna bumps into the pan’s handle and nearly knocks the curry off the counter.

"Okay, okay. That’s enough." Osamu whispered, grabbing Suna by the shoulders. "Yer food is in the fridge."

"What is it?"

"Onigiri."

"Onigiri?" Suna tilted his head. "You need me to taste test onigiri?"

“Yeah.” Osamu’s hand slid to Suna’s wrist and pulled him towards the fridge. “I… uh… I figured out what I want to do after graduation. Run my own shop.”

“Wait.” He turned to see Suna, a genuine smile plastered across his friend’s face. “Osamu. Dude. I’m so proud of you.”

He was pretty sure his heart just stopped.

"I jus' think I'm… pretty damn good at cookin'." As Osamu spoke, Suna looked progressively more on the verge of tears. "I don't think it's jus' a hobby like volleyball was. Well, is."

"Alright Onigiri Man." Suna gestured towards the fridge. "Show me what you got."

Osamu produced six onigiris, each recipe inspired by a friend. Tuna belly and spring onion — a tweaked version of one he’d made Atsumu after a pointless argument. Bacon and potato — for Gin, despite his lofty position on Osamu’s shit list. Apricot jam with sugared rice — designed with Kosaku’s bizarre preferences in mind. Raw whitefish — a special treat for Oomimi-san for his frequent visits back home. Spicy tofu burger — a thank you to Kita for the generous rice discount. Furikake and Ritz crackers — a last-ditch effort to try and put Aran’s favorite snack in an onigiri.

Suna ate each of them like a man who'd been in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. Even the ones that made him scrunch his nose and shake his head with a laugh on his lips.

As he stood in the genkan that afternoon, pulling on his coat and boots — Suna pulled Osamu into a hug. Tight. Emotional. Though, he wasn't quite sure which emotions reverberated through his spine. "I'm so proud of you." Suna repeated, little more than a whisper in Osamu's ear.

Osamu merely smiled.

2 tbsp apricot jam

After their loss at Spring Nationals, Osamu made the decision to keep practicing until the end of the school year.

It was nice to have a reason and motivation to keep exercising. Especially since the multitude of dishes and onigiri combinations he'd been concocting made his waistband tight.

He didn't mind that he was getting a little softer around the midsection — a fat chef was a good chef after all. But perhaps he wasn't ready just yet.

However, he was starting to regret that decision as he jogged through the streets trailing behind the entirely too fast Suna Rintarou. Heavy snow in December had led to an early heat wave in March.

"Rin, ya gotta slow down!" Osamu breathed heavy, his voice nearly gasping every time his foot met the road. 

"Not a chance in hell, fucker!" Came Suna's voice ahead of him. He wasn't even running at his max pace — instead lingering just in Osamu's sightline. Occasionally jogging backwards bearing a pout full of mock pity.

"What's Kurosu gettin' off on by makin' us run the last day of school?" Osamu panted, barely reaching Suna before his friend sprinted back off.

"Aw, don't be like that Sammy~!" They were on the final stretch — a downhill section that led to a straightaway Inarizaki's sports fields were on. Suna flew down the hill, looking ever graceful. "Isn't this exhilarating?"

"It's." He gasped, trying desperately not to tumble down the hill. "It's somethin'." 

Suna waited for him for once, jogging in place at the bottom of the hill. "C'mon, let's run the rest of it together."

He slowed down his pace to run side by side with Osamu, arms occasionally brushing against each other.

"Are you gonna miss it?" Suna asked, hair tied back into a stubby ponytail but his bangs were blown every which way.

"Miss what? Runnin'?" Osamu laughed, the feeling a bit too painful in his lungs.

"You know what I mean. Volleyball."

"I don't think so. I can watch you and Aran kickin' ass. That's enough for me."

"Atsumu?" Suna grinned.

"I guess if they're playin' the Adlers I'll cheer for MSBY." Osamu scrunched his nose for show, knowing how much Suna disliked the Adlers and their hideous uniforms. "But that's it."

"Well. I'm honored to have your support." 

They reached the end of the straightaway, finding themselves beneath one of the giant cherry blossom trees flanking the soccer field. They sipped at bottles of hot water — accidentally left in the sun by their first year manager — and laid in the shadowed grass.

Suna had his upper body on the ground, legs propped upright against the tree. It's to drain the lactic acid from your muscles, he'd said a million times. Osamu had no fucking clue what lactic acid was or why it was in his muscles or why it needed to be drained. 

His hair had been released from its ponytail prison and billowed out around him. Cheeks and ears pink from the exertion.

Handsome, even a sweaty mess.

Suna rested his chin on his chest as he leaned his head upwards. "Hey."

"Hey." Osamu tilted his head, cheek settling on his shoulder as he stared down at Suna.

"Can I say something?" 

"If I said no, would that even stop ya?" Osamu smiled as Suna grinned.

"Probably not." Suna's head dropped back to the ground. He stared up at the pink blossomed tree above them. "Um… this is awkward but…"

Suna paused and the silence was deafening.

"I have a massive fucking crush on you." Suna clenched his eyes shut into a full-faced grimace, a feeble attempt to soften the expected blow of rejection.

Osamu couldn't help but laugh, head brushing painfully against the rough bark. "How long?"

"Huh?" Suna's eyes opened, eyebrows furrowing.

"How long have ya liked me?"

"I don't… see how that's relevant."

"Suna Rintarou. How long have ya liked me?"

"Brownies." Suna said. "You made me brownies."

"I've made ya like a zillion brownies."

"First time. I dunno… I think it was the start of second year?" Suna slipped his legs off the tree. “You were cooking and you smiled at me. You’d smiled at me a billion times before but it felt like the first time. Like this time you really meant it.”

“The festival. Second year.” Osamu flexed his fingers, not quite sure what to do with them. He wanted to run them through Suna’s hair, but he didn’t want to jump the gun. “At least, that’s when I realized. I’m pretty sure I liked you before then, though.”

Suna snapped up, mouth hanging open and eyes wide. "You've got to be fucking kidding me, Osamu." He groaned.

"I wish I was." Osamu couldn't help but laugh. Of course they wasted all this time.

"Let me guess." Suna was painfully close, hand brushing against Osamu's knee. "I ain't gonna confess cause I ain't wanna ruin our friendship." 

"My accent is not that bad and ya know it." Osamu placed his hand on top of Suna's. "There was a bit of oh, Suna had a girlfriend. He's straight, too."

Suna laughed, eyes curved and wrinkled at the corners. "I hate us. So much."

"So much." Osamu shivered as Suna's other hand slid along his neck — thumb brushing over the lobe of his ear and the small gauge. They'd gotten it done together after the Interhigh — Osamu getting the gauge and Suna his second hole. 

“I waited til today, cause I figured if you hated me for it, you’d never have to see me again.” Suna pulled Osamu closer, their foreheads bumping together. They grinned slightly as a brief flash of sharp pain rolled through their heads. They’re both terrible at this and that was quite alright. “I really should’ve known better.”

“I can’t imagine ever hatin’ ya.” Osamu reached to ghost his thumb over Suna’s bottom lip — the skin wind chapped. “Even if I didn’t feel the same.”

“Osamu. Samu.” Suna’s eyes drifted downwards, flush high on his cheeks — from exertion or affection, it didn’t matter. “Can we…?”

"Yes." Osamu leaned in to close the distance, finally letting his hands sink into dark brown hair. "Please."

Finally, the answer to a question lingering in the back of his mind:

Salt. Pocari sweat. Apple lip balm. 

2 tsp hot water

Osamu’s peace was interrupted by the sound of the front door chiming. It was Sunday morning and Onigiri Miya was closed for the day. Normally, the shop is empty and the front door locked.

But today was special.

“I’m afraid we’re closed.” Osamu shouted from the back room, arms covered in thick rubber gloves as he scrubbed dishes with steel wool. “Yer gonna have t’ come back tomorrow! Sorry!”

“Closed? What a shame. I was hoping to get some onigiri today.”

It’s…

Osamu shed his gloves and rushed into the restaurant. Standing in the entry was Suna Rintarou — decked in his oversized EJP jacket and clutching the handle of a wheeled suitcase.

“Rin.” He breathed, unable to stop the tears pricking at his eyes. “C’mere.”

The handle of the suitcase hit the floor with a resounding thump. Suna rushed forward, scooping Osamu into a massive hug, leaving him dangling above the floor. Professional training regimes had whipped him into a lean, mean lifting machine.

He’s gently set back on the ground, and Suna’s hands find his shoulders — thumbs roaming along the bone of his jaw. “Hey, Samu.” He pressed their foreheads together.

“Rin. Darlin’.” Osamu allowed his eyes to drift to Suna’s lips — a perfectly concocted distraction for his boyfriend. Suna fell for the trap, eyes fluttering closed in anticipation. He flicked Suna’s forehead, startling him. “Aho! I toldja I’d pick ya up from the station! Whaddya doin’ here?”

Suna pouted, though Osamu knows it’s just a front for a shark toothed grin. “You’d think somebody would be happy to see his boyfriend took an earlier train just to see him sooner.”

“‘Course I’m glad to see ya.” Osamu shifted forward to press his lips against Suna’s cheek. Narrow green eyes grew wide for half a second before Suna lunged — mouths gliding together in a long practiced motion. Suna’s superior height always gave him the advantage, but Osamu didn’t mind. 

He’d let himself get swept into Suna’s tide any day of the week.

They parted, lips wet and shiny and still entirely too distracting. It’d been the longest stretch without seeing each other — two months since Suna’s last break. V.League’s playoffs had been rough and training grueling. It’d been worth it in the end, but the journey was exhausting.

Osamu smiled. “Yer just comin’ at a bad time. My surprise ain’t ready yet.”

Suna perked up, finally noticing the sweet smell wafting throughout the restaurant. “What is it?”

“Anniversary gift.” Osamu grabbed his boyfriend’s arm and dragged him towards the kitchen and through the curtained doorway. One of his ovens was slightly ajar — the source of the scent. “Since yer early, I guess ya get to help.”

“Oh?” 

“You’ll see.” Osamu checked the timer of his phone before wrenching the door completely open. With a pair of mitts, he carefully removed the cake pan and set it on the stainless steel counter.

“A cake?” Suna leaned over his shoulder down at the golden-brown surface.

“Cheesecake. Move over here.” Osamu gestured next to him and Suna obliged. “See these four strips of parchment paper? I need ya to grab two. I’ll grab the other two. Then, we lift.” Suna nodded, and they carefully pulled the cake from the pan.

“Cheesecake.” Suna’s eyes drifted closed in pleasure at the scent. Ever the sweet tooth. “Why cheesecake of all things?”

Osamu hummed as he stirred together a mixture of apricot jam and hot water. “It just reminds me of ya.” He slapped Suna’s hand away as he tried to poke the fluffy surface. 

“Care to explain?” Suna watched as he brushed the apricot sauce onto the cheesecake, set the sauce bowl into the sink, and slid the cheesecake into the blast chiller.

“Cream cheese and jam bagels. Cake flour explosions. Lemon-lime gatorade arguments. Apricot onigiri.”

“Those onigiri were terrible, I’ll have you know.” Suna leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

“And yet ya ate every single grain.”

“Well, yeah. Can’t let Kita’s Proper Hyogo Rice go to waste.”

“Man, he should hire ya for some advertisements.” Osamu grinned, positioning himself next to Suna. “Yer the perfect spokesman.”

Suna laughed. “Now why on earth would Kita Shinsuke need me to model when he looks like… well... that.” He gestured at the calendar hanging on the opposite wall in the kitchen. Several of the Kita family farm’s employees insisted on a photoshoot with the borderline divine farmer to make some extra money. Osamu received a free calendar, a gift for being a significant business partner but he bought at least four more. Suna definitely had one in his apartment as well.

“Also, for the record.” Osamu bumped his elbow into Suna’s arm. “Kosaku loved the apricot onigiri. It was meant for him, after all.”

“Babe, I’ve seen that man mix peanut butter and mayo and slather that shit on white bread.” Suna stuck his tongue out in a faux gag. “I wouldn’t trust his taste as far as I could throw him.” He raised a single eyebrow and tilted his mouth in thought. “Well, at least he’s happy, I guess.”

They chat easily — time slipping away as they laugh, touch, grin, caress, and kiss — until the alarm on Osamu’s phone blared. He pulled the cheesecake from the blast chiller before grabbing a pastry knife, running it under hot water, wiping it off, and cutting clean slices in the cake.

“Time for the moment of truth.” Osamu said, presenting his boyfriend with a cake covered plate and a tiny fork.

Suna smacked his lips as he slid a chunk of cake into his mouth, sighing contentedly. “Man, dating a chef was my best decision yet. This shit is so good I could fucking kiss you.”

Osamu shrugged. “Do it then.” Suna’s eyes furrow before raising his index finger. Wait, it said. He quickly scarfed down the rest of his slice before pouncing — pressing Osamu against the kitchen island. Lips cold and sweet from the cake, swiftly warming up as they languidly glided against Osamu’s. 

Suna’s hands ran along his flanks before coasting over the ties of his apron and sliding ever so dangerously towards the waistband of his jeans. “Rintarou.” He warned as kisses are peppered along his jugular. Fingers slid beneath denim and the elastic of his underwear. “Not in my damn restaurant.”

“You’re no fun.” Suna laughed into his collarbone. He paused suddenly, meeting Osamu’s eye. “Wait, it’s our fourth anniversary, right? Isn’t it tradition to get your partner something flower related?”

“That’s only if we’re married, aho.” Osamu pressed a cheeky kiss to Suna’s forehead as he glowered.

“Good thing for that, cause I didn’t remember to bring a gift anyway.”

Osamu fished into one of the pockets of his apron. He hummed, trying to maintain a poker face as best as he possibly could. He brandished a velvet object and opened the lid as a tear trailed down Suna’s cheek, green eyes wide.

“Perhaps in four years, you’ll remember.”