Archive of Our Own ^omega

They collect their keys on a foggy Tuesday morning.

The time is 8 in the morning, because their landlady is a middle-aged woman with three children, each of whom have places to be. The place is in the suburbs, just a couple of stops beyond town.

The cardboard boxes—well, damn, maybe they should’ve hired a mover for this.

“This,” Suna pants as he reaches the next floor landing, “is either the best or worst decision I’ve ever made.”

“What?” Right behind him, his soon-to-be roommate asks. “Living on the fourth floor?”

“Yeah, shit, I forgot that I kind of hate climbing stairs.”

“Well, get used to it, ‘cause we’re gonna be climbing these stairs pretty often.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Suna rolls his eyes and dumps the cardboard box in front of the front door. “I mean, we could take the lift up to the seventh floor and walk three flights down. What kind of stupid building only has a lift that stops every seven floors?”

A snort. “A really cheap one.”

“Dammit.” Suna digs his hand into his jacket pocket and fishes out a set of new keys dangling on a cheap plastic ring, labelled Suna Rintarou and Miya Osamu. “You talked me into this.”

“And you agreed.” Osamu steps right up, grabs the keys in his hand, and slots the largest key in with a slight grin on his face. “C’mon, we’ve got more boxes to bring in.”

—————//—————

They are sixteen when they first meet.

It’s nothing eventful. Suna Rintarou switches schools in his second year of high school, when his mother moves across prefectures to be closer to her own mother and decides to bring her children along with her. At the age of sixteen, Suna has already moved twice and knows how to get around a new place; orientating himself and his sister around the new neighbourhood isn’t hard at their age.

Suna joins the class which, according to his orientation buddy, famously has “the quieter Miya”. Whatever that means, he doesn’t know, because nobody tells him who or what the Miyas are, how many of them there are, and why they’re known at all. It doesn’t help that he gets introduced half an hour into the school day and misses roll call, and he doesn’t hear the name “Miya” being used at all for the next two hours.

“Who the hell’s a Miya?” he ends up asking the boy sitting behind him, who strangely enough has permission from the school board to dye his hair a silvery grey. The boy only smiles and shrugs his shoulders in response.

“You don’t have to know,” he says, eyes betraying a hint of amusement, “but since ya missed roll call, just call me Osamu.”

——————————

Suna gets to know on Tuesday morning, anyway.

“So you’re a Miya after all. Mi-ya O-sa-mu.” He drags his syllables as he walks up to the offending party and leans against the vending machine, right as Osamu looks up at him from where he’s crouched, one hand stretching for his drink, the other holding his wallet. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” Osamu sighs as he pockets his wallet and proceeds to fish the drink out of the machine’s mouth. “What about it?”

“Because you introduced yourself to me as Osamu.” Suna crosses his arms. “The last time I introduced myself using my first name, I was six.”

Osamu straightens up, melon milk in hand. “And I’ve been introducing myself as Osamu since I knew how,” he says nonchalantly, “that happens when someone else shares the same surname as you.”

The quieter Miya implies that there’s a louder Miya, one whom Suna hasn’t yet met. “You have siblings in this school too, don’t you?”

“Just a twin.” Osamu pulls the tab from his can and takes a gulp. “Same face, worse hair, can’t miss him. You haven’t seen him yet?”

“I’ve only been here for a day and a half.”

“Well, stick around and you’ll see him soon.” Osamu takes one step back. “You came to get a drink too, didn’t ya?”

Suna hums in acquiescence as he leans to take a look at the vending machine display. Yes, he did want to grab a drink between classes, but the Miya standing before him with very obviously dyed hair intrigues him just a tad more.

“So, Miya,” he says as he slots a coin in, “I looked you up on the internet this morning.”

“Uh…huh.”

“And I can’t find anything much.” His finger hovers over the melon milk button. “What makes you and your brother so famous?”

“Famous?” Osamu observes him with mild amusement. “We ain’t celebrities. We play competitive volleyball and make a lotta noise in school, that’s all. And we look the same; is that something?”

“Mm.” Suna turns to contemplate Osamu. He can see the sportsman in him now that Osamu’s standing up straight — broad shoulders, tall height (though not nearly as tall as Suna is), sturdy frame. Multiply it by two and it could be somewhat impressive. “It’s something, alright.”

“Uh huh.”

“It's kinda funny, actually,” Suna remarks, “I used to play in early middle school.”

“Volleyball?” Osamu regards him as he continues to sip his drink. “Ya kinda have the height. What made you stop?”

“I changed schools. I dunno.” Suna shrugs. “It’s hard to keep a hobby when you relocate a bit too much.”

“Ah.” Osamu pauses, then, and Suna wonders if he’s going to start asking questions in turn. It’s an easy opening, really, and he has the answer at the tip of his tongue — his dad works overseas, and his mom had no particular attachment to the places they’d lived at before and had always wanted to move away from Tokyo. He and his sister never really had a problem with moving, so they never raised it. His sister is four years younger—

Instead, Osamu leans forward and presses the vending machine for him, and a can of melon milk tumbles to a stop at the flap of its mouth.

“There ya go.”

Suna stares wordlessly as the machine dispenses his change with a jingle.

“What?” Osamu shrugs and glances at the can. “Looked like you wanted melon milk.”

Suna collects his change and coughs as he looks down at the coins in his hand, the corners of his lips slowly curling upwards. “I guess I did.”

“I mean, you were taking forever…” Osamu pauses as he turns to glance at Suna, back half-bent to reach for the drink can. “…what?”

Suna doesn’t respond immediately, because somehow, he’s started laughing. He’s laughing because there’s five minutes more to the end of recess and they’re standing outside the cafeteria sharing about their families, and this boy’s top priority is getting the drink out of the vending machine and into Suna’s hands.

“What?” Osamu repeats, straightening up and tossing the can to Suna, who catches it precisely in his palm. “Something funny?”

“Nothing at all,“ Suna clears his throat and pulls the tab on his drink. “You’re a funny guy, Miya, you know that?”

“Osamu,” his classmate corrects.

“Osamu, then.” Suna clinks his can against Osamu’s. “Cheers.”

Osamu grins as he raises his drink. “One last question, then,” he says, “and we gotta head back.”

“Okay.” Suna grins back. “What makes you the quieter Miya?”

—————//—————

It turns out that Osamu isn’t actually too quiet. What makes him the “quieter” one is his brother Atsumu, who is loud in more ways than his yellow-blonde hair. Suna finds out within his first week when Atsumu pops up in their classroom during lunch, water bottle in one hand and bento box in another, demanding to know why Osamu didn’t add extra eggs to his lunch.

It’s the quieter Miya that Suna agrees to room with at the close of their last year of university, when they find jobs in the same town and think, why not?

——————————

“So how does it feel,” Suna says aloud as he drags a second box into the living room, “to be moving away from your brother for the first time?”

Six years on and Suna hasn’t shaken off the habit of asking Osamu questions, but Osamu has never refused him an answer. “Kinda nice, actually. Feels like a big step forward.”

Suna hums. “You’ll miss him?”

Osamu’s expression is somewhat fond as he pats the kitchen counter. “‘Course I will.”

“Aww, sap.”

“Nah, there are some perks.” Osamu chuckles. “Tomorrow I’ll wake up and not have a pillow thrown in my face.”

Suna smirks. “Who says that’s not gonna happen?”

“Please.” Osamu pats the box nearest to him. “You’re not gonna have the energy to do that after all the unpacking.”

“Oh?” Suna glances at him in mock surprise. “Thought you were gonna do all the heavy-lifting, since you’re so experienced at it.”

“I lift rice, not furniture.” Osamu moves towards the third box lying at their doorstep. “And you’re going to have to set your monitor screens up by yourself when they arrive.”

“Noooo.”

“I’ll be at work.”

“Fine.” Suna sighs exaggeratedly as Osamu moves past him and deposits the box on the kitchen counter. “But you have to set up your cooking stuff on your own ‘cause I might fuck up with the equipment.”

“Ya won’t.” Osamu glances at the stovetop. “It’s induction, anyway, there’s nothing to set up there.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“It’ll mean something when I force you to cook.” Osamu laughs as Suna makes a face. “I won’t cook for you all the time, y’know.”

“I thought we had a deal,” Suna exclaims, “you cook, I clean, it’s perfect!”

“You cook once a week, I empty the trash on weekends.” Osamu extends a hand to him with a cheeky grin on his face. “For starters. Deal?”

Suna rolls his eyes, but smiles a little anyway as he reaches out to shake his hand. “Fine, but don’t expect anything fantastic.”

“Suna, I’ll eat anything.” Which is true – Suna knows that for a fact. “It’ll be alright.”

Suna hums as he nods and takes a long look around the apartment. They’ve seen it before, right before they decided to rent it together, but things are slightly different now. The previous tenants had a ginger cat and a giant lamp on their table in the living room, and the carpet they had was striped blue. Now, the floor is empty, and the lamp, coffee table and cat are gone. All that remains is a used television set and an obnoxiously purple two-seater sofa with scratched legs—a hand-me-down from the landlord as recognition of the sad status of their bank accounts.

“Good god.” Suna scoffs as he reaches out and pokes the sofa seat. “It’s ugly.”

“Well, it came with the apartment, so it’s free, I’m not complainin’—”

“It’s fucking purple—”

“—And very free,” Osamu insists once more, plopping down on the seat to the left. “Oh, it’s comfy too.”

Suna wrinkles his nose. “We should clean this before we start sitting on it. Or better yet, replace it.”

“We’re not, because we gotta pay our bills first.”

“Right, bills,” Suna groans as he takes his seat next to him. “Oh my god, Osamu, fucking bills and utilities and salary and rent. What are we, adults?”

“Yeah.” Osamu’s grinning at him again. “We’re adults now.”

It dawns on Suna, then, that although he’s moved a total of four times in his life, this is the only time that he’s made the move all by himself. And for Osamu, it’s his very first.

He wonders if they’ll be staying together for long.

“This is it, huh,” he mutters, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah. We paid the money and all, so it’s too late to turn back.”

“No shit,” Suna scoffs, and Osamu laughs aloud. “Guess it’s just you and me for now.”

“Yeah.” Osamu shifts in his seat, and Suna glances up to see Osamu looking at him with the same grin on his face. “Let’s do this.”

Suna laughs.

“Cheers to us.”

——————————

True to their agreement, Suna cooks every Friday. It’s not a difficult task because sometimes part of the job includes heating up leftovers from the week trailing before it, but sometimes it involves actual cooking, and for that purpose Suna currently has his laptop out on the coffee table and a screenful of recipes and cooking-101s! staring back at him.

Not that Suna, or Osamu for that matter, ever follow recipes to a tee. Osamu’s official policy for home-cooking is go by the feel, like what his grandma taught him, and that means measuring ingredients by the spoonful, or rather, a handful or a sprinkle or a pinch or Osamu’s favourite unit of calculation, whatever feels good.

Whatever that means. Suna lets out a little sigh and closes his laptop shut.

In truth, simple has always worked best when cooking with, or for, Osamu. It’s work-life separation, Osamu explained to him one time. I work with food all the time, so when I’m at home, I just want something easy, comforting and good.

Suna leans back against the sofa and sinks in, cushion resting neatly at his lower back. The sun’s setting rays filter through their living room window and hit the sofa’s armrest, which sears a brilliant purple. Suna scoffs. Same old couch, same old ugly colour. 354 days on and they still haven’t gotten a replacement.

One year in this house and it feels as though nothing has changed.

In some way, Suna feels comforted. Sitting in the living room, he can point out exactly what has in fact changed: their coffee table, thrifted from a neighbour who was moving out; their dining table that’s an inch too short for them but is solid wood and cost ten thousand yen off a second-hand sale; the stove, which Osamu finally replaced one month ago. The rug beneath his feet is another of their purchases, cheap and no-brand and polyester in the way Suna’s mom can’t stand, but soft and sturdy enough for him and Osamu to happily accept.

Suna absentmindedly brushes the edge of his house slippers across its surface as he stares at a particularly bright spot on the couch. It’s blindingly awful, and yet neither of them are willing to part with the money to replace it, even though they’ve traded out many other things. Maybe it’s emotional attachment. Or maybe they’re just lazy.

He types out a quick message. [my turn to cook. You want leftovers or something new?]

Between the two of them, Suna’s probably the lazier one. Osamu likes to joke that his flexible working arrangement makes it easier for Suna to slack off, which Suna protests, but is entirely true, which is why Suna’s able to spend his Friday evening in sweats and on his sofa, sporadically watching TV and playing mobile games, while Osamu has to battle with the crowds to take the subway home.

He’s about to type a follow-up message to ask for Osamu’s ETA when he receives a response.

[can’t tonight. ‘Tsumu set me up]

Suna scoffs.

[lol what? Like a prank?]

It takes a minute for Osamu to reply.

[you know]

[like a date]

.

[oh, okay—]

Suna almost drops his phone mid-sentence.

“Date?” he hisses. “You blew me off for a date?”

Technically, Osamu hasn’t blown him off or anything; the only plans they had were to eat dinner at home and possibly have a drink. Nothing changes in Suna’s schedule, absolutely nothing.

Some part of him feels sidelined all the same.

Suna sighs and slumps against the sofa, screwing his eyes shut. There’s a heaviness in his chest and a rush of irritation running up his spine, burning up the back of his neck. He’s not falling sick; he can’t be, he’s done nothing all day.

“Date,” he repeats, incredulity laced in his tone as he blinks his eyes open and stares at his phone screen. Hastily, he types, [pics or it didn’t happen], before tossing the phone to the other end of the sofa, covering his face with his hands, and contemplating the absolute rubbish quality of his messages this evening.

Maybe he’s just hungry.

He sits up, exhales sharply, and promptly strides to the kitchen, leaving his phone behind.

Osamu can do whatever he wants; he’s a twenty-something year old grown man. As can Suna, who is also a grown adult with the house to himself. A house which he shares with one of his closest friends. Who is on a date. With someone else.

Which is fine, Suna reminds himself sharply as he seizes the fridge door handle and yanks it open with more force than intended. The milk bottle wobbles but doesn’t drop, and on the shelf above it, their half-emptied tray of eggs rattle a little. It’s cool. It’s great.

Irritably, he grabs an egg, half a spring onion, and the tupperware on the shelf below containing Thursday night’s leftovers, before shutting the fridge door closed.

So be it. Suna’s eating the rest of the mapo tofu without Osamu.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he grabs the frying pan and slides it onto the induction stove. “I should’ve known.”

But he wouldn’t have known, really. They never do quite talk about the people they’ve dated since they moved in together. Sure, Suna has had someone over at some point in time, he thinks, and Osamu must have had someone over before, too, but they’ve never really discussed any of it. Neither of them have been in any stable long-term relationships to speak of either, as far as he’s aware. In fact, Suna doesn’t know if Osamu’s been dating around at all; for all he knows, Suna has a higher count.

He pauses as the cooking oil hits the pan. Wait—no—he can count the number of people he’s slept or gone out with in the past year with the lesser of his fingers on one hand. Osamu—ah, shit—he has no clue. Maybe he just hasn’t been observant, or whatever.

Egg, the heat rising from the pan helpfully reminds him, and Suna cracks it in with one hand, the way Osamu taught him when they first moved in together.

Five of the things Suna knows about cooking come from his mom; but the rest come from one Miya Osamu. Suna considers this as he watches his runny egg slide across the heated pan, leaving a tiny sizzle in its wake, all while tiny questions burn at the back of his mind.

Why is he so worked up? Why is he so damn worked up? Suna shifts the frying pan slightly and grabs a spatula in the corner, scraping part of the semi-formed omelette off the side and scrambling the rest of it in the process. Osamu would’ve probably added diced tomatoes at this stage, but Suna hasn’t done any grocery shopping, so the contents of the pan remains a spectrum of yellow and white. Instead, Suna drizzles a bit of soy sauce on the side and stirs it around, wondering if that step managed to incorporate any flavour into the dish.

Probably. Not. Osamu always adds a splash more—ah, who gives a flying fuck.

“Date,” he mutters under his breath once more as he tilts his spatula, as though repeating the fact will help him recall if Osamu had said anything to him about it yesterday, or the past week (unsurprisingly, it does not). If he’s being perfectly honest, it simply hadn’t occurred to him that Osamu would be going on dates while he continues to live out this one half of a domestic life here in this house, like he’s Osamu’s keeper or something, eugh. He’s one step from being gross and protective like Atsumu and that’s not a good thing, this is not normal at all—

Huh.

Suna switches off the heat right as he drops chopped spring onions and a dash of sesame oil on top of the egg. His arms are on autopilot but his brain is on overdrive.

…Huh.

The rice cooker to his left sings him a little tune just as he starts to plate his egg into a small bowl, and that’s it. All he has to do is to microwave the remaining mapo tofu and he’s done. It’s a decent dinner for one.

“Don’t think about it,” Suna hisses to himself as he activates the microwave, buttons pressed with more force than he would usually render. “Don’t–”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots his phone screen light up.

“Fuck.” Suna curses. “I don’t need this.”

He strides towards the living room anyway.

Grabbing his phone, Suna unlocks it and glances at the two newest messages in his notifications. The first is the blurriest photo he’s ever seen in his life; there are some ceiling lights, wavy and indistinct, and he can spot a table, maybe a bar counter or something. He can make out a small plate or two on the table and a pair of chopsticks, and maybe a person in the background–he can’t tell, oh god, Osamu’s horrible at taking photos, he needs to teach him someday.

Then, he glances at the second message.

[I can’t take any better pics…don’t wait up I’ll be back late]

Be back late? What does that even mean? Suna frowns as he tosses the phone against the sofa and crosses his arms, whatever amusement derived from Osamu’s photo now faded. There’s an unease bubbling in his chest that spreads up the back of his neck and prickles across his shoulders as he wonders, who’s he on a date with? Where did they go? How late is late?

Why not me?

Suna blinks, startled.

Oh. No.

The unease turns into something warm like embarrassment, and Suna feels his neck and ears flush quickly with heat. No, he tells himself as he stands up and strides to the kitchen, this is not what you think it is, you’re just being clingy. They’ve been friends for seven years and roommates for one, there’s nothing between them, nothing at all.

For good measure, Suna grabs an empty bowl and starts scooping rice into it aggressively. God, no. He shouldn’t be thinking about this at all. Osamu has every right to date someone else because he’s not dating Suna, surely, and Suna has never asked, obviously, because he wouldn’t know how to fucking do that; for fuck’s sake, he doesn’t even know if Osamu would be interested in him—

—though, if he asked himself, really, would he be okay if there were a third person in the house? If Osamu said they should part ways and Suna should move out to make way for a new—

Suna’s bowl lands on the tabletop with a clatter as his eyes start to widen with horror.

The answer comes to him too easily, and too fast. No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t because he’d rather Osamu spend time with him instead of some other person; because he’d rather hang out with Osamu than get a date himself; because he likes what they have in this tiny little apartment; because they’ve lived in the same house together for a year now and some part of Suna has always hoped that the arrangement would never change—

He drops into his seat. His phone screen’s dark. The microwave’s beeping. Everything is right and wrong at the same time because oh fuck, he likes him, and now he has to sit in their apartment for hours until he comes back home and all he can do is sit helplessly and wonder, why did it take him seven goddamn years to figure it out?

—————//—————

“So, about us.”

The conversation really starts to solidify midway through their last semester of college.

Suna pauses his game and glances up at Osamu. “What about us?”

Osamu spins his laptop towards him. “I found a place,” he declares with a proud look on his face.

“Oh?” Suna stretches towards him to peer at his screen. “That’s a good location.”

“And it comes partially furnished: washing machine, kitchen, old TV and a couch, and hey—” Osamu scrolls down a little more and points at the bottom. “—says it’ll be a 5-8 minute walk from the train station.”

Suna huffs. “That means it’ll be 8-10 at least.”

“Yeah, fair enough.” Osamu clicks on the photo gallery. “Also, the lift doesn’t stop on the floor this unit’s on, but it’s only a few storeys up; think it’s climbable.”

Suna hums. “That’s good enough, I guess,” he mutters as he checks the location separately on his phone. “It won’t be too far away from your workplace or mine.”

“Please. You’ll work from home half the time.”

“It’s still important.” Suna glances at the rent figure. “You think we can make it work?”

“I mean, if we split it between the two of us, then yeah,” Osamu replies as he casually taps the calculator to his right. “As long as we don’t get fired from our jobs.”

“Which I doubt will happen.” Suna peers at the calculator screen, then at the listing, and then at Osamu.

“You sure about this?” He says after a while. “Rooming together?”

Osamu nods. “You’re not a freeloader or a weirdo, and you clean up after yourself, so that’s already better than ‘Tsumu.”

There’s a well-aimed kick which brushes past Suna’s ankle from opposite them in the booth. “I heard that.”

“This ain’t about you, ‘Tsumu.”

“You know it damn well was—”

“I mean,” Suna says, a little louder, and the twins’ argument fades as they turn to look at him, “you’ll be okay with this arrangement? It won’t be weird or anything, right?”

Osamu laughs, a quiet one. “It’ll be fine,” he says, smiling slightly, and Suna relaxes a little. “Why wouldn’t it be? I think it’ll be fun. I trust ya.”

“Oh. Cool.” Suna taps the laptop screen as a tiny warmth settles in his chest. “Let’s contact the landlady then.”

“Alright. I’ll call her.”

“Mmmhm. Send me her contact number too if you can—”

“Okay. Do you really not know what you guys sound like right now?” Atsumu interrupts loudly, waving his pencil at them. “The two of you—this—whatever the hell you’re doing?”

“You mean finding affordable accommodation?” Suna raises a brow at him. “Because God forbid I stay at my mom’s place which is two full hours away from the city I’ll be working in.”

Osamu shrugs. “Yanno, ‘Tsumu, if you wanna come live with us, you can just say so.”

“Oh. My god.” Atsumu groans and cranes his neck to look at the booth behind them. “Gin, move over. I’m gettin’ outta this space.”

“Atsumu, we’re full capacity here, don’t—”

“Nope, non-negotiable,” Atsumu hisses, gathering his materials in his arms and scooting outwards. “The longer I stay here with these two bozos the stupider I get.”

“Wow,” Suna comments as Atsumu painstakingly climbs over to the other booth, to Ginjima’s chagrin. “Your brother’s really weird about you moving out.”

“I know, right.” Osamu shakes his head as he shifts to sit opposite Suna, his knee knocking momentarily against his. “He’s gonna miss me when I go.”

When, not if. Suna thinks there are still some details that need to be ironed out, and they’re definitely going to have to check the place out, but the thought of moving out and achieving a new level of independence is uplifting.

Getting to share that experience with a friend—that’s part of it too, right?

“Okay, so we needa set house rules. How late do you stay up again?”

—————//—————

The corridor leading to their apartment is relatively undisturbed past 10pm—one of the perks of living in the semi-suburbs. Past 11pm, the stragglers and salarymen return, and Suna can hear the loud, exhausted shutting of doors through the crevices of the apartment. Past midnight, he hears the occasional mewl of the neighbourhood cat, shift of furniture, and squeak of a mattress.

Osamu comes home at 12.03am in the morning. Suna knows this because he’s in the living room, waiting, when he makes it to the front door.

To be perfectly honest, Suna doesn’t know why he’s bothered to wait up all this while, but as soon as he hears the telltale clink of keys and squeak of the door, he sits up immediately, phone falling into his lap, gaze fixated on the front entrance, the back of his neck tingling with a strange sense of anticipation.

Osamu quietly enters through the doorway, removes his mask, and takes off his shoes, one-by-one, before straightening up and squarely meeting Suna’s gaze in the darkness of their living room.

“What the fuck.”

“Welcome home,” Suna says.

“Why didn’t you leave any lights on? Jesus—” Osamu leans and flicks the nearest switch, and Suna winces as their kitchen lights start to flicker on. “What were ya doing? Trying to scare me?”

Waiting up for you, duh.

Suna scoffs and shakes his head. “Nah, I dunno, scrolling Instagram,” he mutters as he picks his phone back up and shifts his thumb around for good measure. “Stalking your brother.”

“Eugh. Gross.” Osamu makes a face as he tosses his mask into the dustbin and reaches for the sink. “It’s late; go to sleep.”

“In a bit.” Suna watches as Osamu starts to lather soap between his palms. “Oh, by the way, I finished the leftover mapo tofu, but there’s extra rice in the fridge now. I cooked too much today.” You know. ‘Cause of the whole bailing-on-me-for-dinner thing.

“Okay.” If Osamu senses something off about Suna, he doesn’t show it. “Was it as good?”

“Yeah. Better than it was yesterday, even.”

“Uh huh.” The sound of running water cuts through their conversation. “Might’ve been better than the sushi I ate today.”

“Oh, where did you go?”

“We went, uh, someplace downtown.” Osamu splashes water on his face, all whilst Suna thinks we, we, we. “Tuna was decent but the shrimp, not as good…”

“Yeah?” Suna shrugs as nonchalantly as possible as he crosses his legs on the couch. “Had a fun date?”

Osamu pauses as the water stops running.

“It wasn’t really a date.”

“You called it a date—”

“‘Tsumu called it a date, and I went with it.” Osamu frowns slightly at him. “What’s up?”

Suna folds his arms defensively. “Nothing.”

“Suna. Rin.”

“What?” Suna tilts his head slightly as Osamu shakes his head and proceeds to wipe his hands dry. “I’m just curious.”

“You’ve never been curious before.”

“I never really kept track.” And that’s the truth. He’d never applied his mind to it. “C’mon, I’ve been alone at home all day, I need some juice in my life.”

“You get plenty of juicy stuff by scrolling on your phone—”

“Osamu, c’mon.” Suna knows he’s pleading a little, and he kind of hates himself for it, but he really needs to know. “Tell me?”

Osamu shrugs and runs a hand through his hair as he leans against the counter. “There’s nothing much to it.”

“Okay,” Suna presses slowly, “what did you like about the food?”

“Mm, they used fresh ingredients.”

“And what did you hate about it?”

“The rice wasn’t the right texture.” Osamu makes a face. “You ever had hard rice in your sushi?”

“At a conveyor belt place last month, yeah.” Suna taps his phone against his knee idly. “Did you have fun?”

Osamu lets his hand fall to his side, then, as he blinks at Suna. “I guess so,” he says, “I dunno, it was just a thing that happened.”

“A thing?” Suna drops his phone back down on his thigh. “Like, a one-time thing?”

“It was just one dinner. And a bit,” Osamu says after a pause. “And now I’m home, so.”

“Uh huh.” Suna’s gaze flicks towards their wall clock and back. “It’s past midnight. You texted me at seven.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So it took you five hours to have dinner. Oh, and a bit.”

“Yeah, obviously we didn’t eat for five hours straight, it wasn’t a free flow no-limits buffet—”

Suna’s nonchalance slips for a fraction of a second as his mouth cracks into a scowl. “What, did you have sex or—”

“What?” Osamu straightens up abruptly. “Do I look like the kinda person who has sex on the first date?”

Suna clicks his tongue. “Ah, so it was a date.”

“What does it matter?” Osamu stares at him strangely, gaze narrowing. “Sunarin. You’re being weird. Where’s all this coming from?”

“Nowhere!” Suna leans back against the sofa and curls his legs into himself, his hands instinctively reaching for his phone to keep himself busy. “I was just curious, y’know. I wasn’t gonna judge.”

Osamu observes him quietly for a few moments, all while Suna determinedly looks down at his phone screen. Then, he sighs.

“For the record, no. And I could’ve told you earlier, it was kinda last minute and I just, uh.” Osamu pauses. “Nevermind.”

Suna swallows. “It’s okay.”

“Again, it was a one-time thing. I don’t know if I’m gonna see him again.”

Suna’s head jerks up instantly.

“Him?” He blurts, eyes widening as he realises what he’s saying.

“Yeah, him.” Osamu runs a hand through his hair, tousling it. “What’re you gettin’ at?”

Shit. Suna coughs in panic. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I…” Didn’t know? How could he say that? Aren’t they friends? Roommates? They never talked about it properly, but shouldn’t he at least know for sure?

“Okay.” Osamu lets out a frustrated sigh, and Suna winces. “Look, it’s been a long day.”

“I know.” Suna raises his hand awkwardly. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah.” Osamu pauses, as though to add something, but just as Suna looks back up, Osamu turns away. “Goodnight, Suna.”

“Uh huh. Goodnight.”

Something gnaws uncomfortably at the back of Suna’s mind as he watches Osamu shuffle into his room and out of sight. As his door clicks shut, Suna lies horizontally on the sofa and shuts his eyes in defeat. There’s a dull ache in his chest that he can’t get rid of.

Love hurts? How stupid. Suna lets out a wry laugh and folds in on himself.

He doesn’t know if it’s love or infatuation or something else, but whatever it is, it sure hurts like hell.

——————————

The good thing about being roommates with Osamu is that Suna sees him every day.

The bad thing about being roommates with Osamu is that Suna has to see him. Every. Day.

Ever since their midnight encounter, Suna hasn’t tried to be in the same room as him for more than ten minutes, which is hard, since they share almost every space in their apartment together. He’s tried to apologise, but Suna has never been good at apologies, and Osamu has never been particularly good at accepting them.

One weekend passes, and Suna realises this simply isn’t going to work.

So he does the next best thing: on Monday, he wakes up at 7 in the morning, runs out of the house, and buys coffee.

Raijin’s cold brew is arguably the best in the prefecture—or maybe Suna’s just biased, because he used to make it as an employee. But with it being a twenty-minute commute away, it’s always his go-to for when he needs a boost, or when he needs an outlet, or just a place to…mope.

“Get a small apartment, they said. It’s a perfect arrangement for two young guys, they said. You don’t need all that extra space; just save the damn money, they said—”

“Who ever said any of that? That decision was all you.” The barista sighs as he approaches the table with two drinks in hand. “Come on, you look ridiculous talking to yourself like that. Move over.”

Suna remembers the many shifts he shared with Komori Motoya in the course of the two years he worked at Raijin Cafe. Komori’s energy is and has always been the highest in the mornings, which is why he still takes mostly day shifts.

That, and he kind of co-runs the cafe with his older sister.

“One iced Americano. I took the liberty of adding a bit of sugar for you, since you’re disgusting and like to drink it pure and I simply cannot allow you to do that to my coffee.” Komori slams the cup onto the table and plops himself down opposite Suna. “There you go.”

Suna reaches for his cup and takes a long sip. “I needed this,” he mutters as he cradles the sides of his cup with his hands and pulls it closer to himself.

Komori’s observing him carefully. “Everything okay there?”

“Yeah, the coffee’s as per usual—”

“No, I mean you.” Komori takes a sip of his own drink, a vanilla latte that Suna knows has extra whipped cream on the top. “You barge in here first thing in the morning as my first customer of the day—which, by the way, has never happened before—and panic all over my table. Something’s up.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Is it really?”

Suna huffs.There’s no good way to explain it. “I, uh, was being nosy, and I got into a bit of an argument.” He doesn’t have to mention names for Komori to know who.

“Oh.” Komori nods his head in understanding. “Have you apologised?”

“You know I tried.”

“And here we are.” Komori gestures at him. “Did you, y’know, express yourself clearly like I always say you should?”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not a child—”

“Then you have to face this in a more mature way.” Komori sighs and gulps down more of his drink. “What’s really the matter?”

What’s really the matter is that Suna might have, you know, casually fallen in love with his roommate without realising it?

Suna considers this: it was never just him and Osamu. They’ve always had other people in their lives. This date is just one of many—oh, that makes it worse, doesn’t it.

“Is there a good way to come out to my roommate?” he mutters.

“What, you mean Osamu?” Komori looks like he’s about to laugh, and Suna almost wants to punch him for it. “I’m pretty sure he already knows.”

“Okay, no, how do I suss out whether he…” Suna trails off as he tries to figure out how to place his words, all while Komori’s eyes widen with understanding and some sort of manic glee. “No. No.”

“Yes,” Komori whispers loudly, “I knew it.”

“You knew nothing,” Suna hisses back. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot!” Komori’s laughing now. “Honestly, when you first told me you were gonna share an apartment, I assumed that you guys got together or something without telling me, I mean, come on!”

“Well, thanks.” Suna makes a face. “Clearly we didn’t, because Osamu went on a date with someone last week and it wasn’t me—”

“Oh, is that what this is all about?”

“No. Maybe.” Suna’s fingers curl around his cup slowly as he looks down. The condensation feels cool against his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat rising up his neck and to his face. “I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Komori’s laughter fades. “You’re being serious.”

Suna swallows, head bowed, and does not say a word.

The two of them sit in silence for a moment. Slowly, Komori stretches his hand out and pats Suna’s arm.

“Fuck,” Suna mutters, “I think I need to move out.”

Komori stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “What?” He slaps Suna’s arm in protest. “That’s not the answer.”

“Why not? I mean, things are just gonna get awkward—”

“No, you need to talk to him. Communicate about this first.” He swipes Suna’s coffee cup away from him, to Suna’s dismay. “And you need to stop taking so much caffeine because that’ll only make you even more paranoid about it.”

“Just—gimme that—” Suna wrestles the cup back from Komori, who sighs and relents, but continues to stare at him expectantly anyway. “Fine, fine, I won’t move out, alright?”

“Talk. It. Out.” Komori taps the table. “I swear, things are going to be fine.”

“If you say so.” Suna doubts it’s going to be so easy, given that he doesn’t know what he really expects out of the process, but he knows that Komori’s right, and if he decides to give this up, he may lose something good forever. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re most welcome.” Komori smiles serenely. “So, do you want your croissants here or to-go?”

——————————

Osamu does not mention his date for the next three days.

Suna doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad sign, but at least the awkwardness from Friday has largely dissipated. Largely, that is. Suna finds it hard to ask Osamu about his plans over these days, and Osamu doesn’t quite share. It’s not as easy to have dinner conversations like they used to, and he despises it.

Talk, his ass. Even though the Miya twins gained a reputation in school for being sharp and aggressive, deep down, Suna knows that Osamu is as big of an avoidant as he is. Not to mention that in between work and chores and short exchanges, there isn’t any time to really talk at all throughout the week, and by the next Friday morning, Osamu leaves through the door at eight in the morning before Suna can get up and say goodbye.

Suna doesn’t know how else to put it—he’s scared. He’s wondering if Osamu has time tonight or over the weekend to talk about it, but if he doesn’t, and they keep avoiding it, then what?

At five in the afternoon, he decides that it’s useless to try and make his brain work any longer and walks ten minutes to the nearest park, where he promptly sits himself down on a bench and makes a phone call.

Miya Atsumu answers within three rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey, uh—”

Atsumu cuts him off. “What happened?”

“What?”

“Ya never call unless it’s something scandalous or urgent. So what happened?”

“Nothing happened, I just,” Suna exhales through his nose. “I need to talk to you.”

“Ah.” There’s a pause. “It’s about ‘Samu.”

“...How do you know that?”

“Because,” Atsumu says nonchalantly, “if you really needed help with something else, literally anything else, you woulda asked him first.”

Oh. Suna decides not to argue with the logic of it.

“So,” he starts.

“So,” Atsumu echoes. “What’s up?”

Suna pauses. There’s no easy way to go about this, he supposes.

“Look…how d’you feel about moving to Kyoto?”

“...Say what now?”

“No, listen.” He takes a deep breath. “I need to know if you wanna live with your brother again.”

“What?” There’s a clatter in the background, maybe the sound of a glass slamming onto a table. “Sunarin, what the fuck?”

“It’s nothing, it’s just a question!”

“What did you do to my brother?” Atsumu demands. “‘Cause I swear if anything happened—”

“Jesus, Atsumu.” Suna sighs. “Calm down, nothing happened to Osamu. It’s a me problem, I’m just asking hypothetically, you know, if I want to move out—”

“Uh huh.” Atsumu can read Suna the exact way Suna can read him. “So, why do you wanna move out?”

Suna leans back against the bench. “It’s just something personal,” he says as casually as he can. “Thought I should give your brother some space.”

“...And what does he have to say about that?”

Huh. Funny question, actually. “Yeah, so,” Suna hesitates. “I didn’t actually, uh, ask him.”

For a second, Atsumu is completely silent, and Suna wonders if he should just give up and start walking home.

Then, there’s a crackle in his ear, and Atsumu speaks.

“Did you guys hook up?”

“What?” Suna sits up abruptly. “No? No. Why would you ask that?”

“It’s just a question! I mean, something important like this and you’re not talking to ‘Samu about it? It’s gotta be major. I just thought—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Suna snaps, “The whole world and their mother thinks we’re fucking or something, I get it, it’s not happening, I’m figuring it out, it’s…” he trails off, eyes widening as he realises what he’s said. “I…sorry.”

“O-kay.” Atsumu clears his throat. “It’s okay, look. First of all, I’m not gonna move back in with ‘Samu just ‘cause you said so; second, I live in fuckin’ Osaka now. Third, this isn’t about me or ‘Samu; it’s about you and your damn avoidance issues.”

“You—” Suna lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not avoiding anything.”

“No, idiot,” Atsumu retorts immediately, “you’re trying to avoid my brother and it’s not healthy! Just talk to him!”

“It’s not that easy! I can’t just talk to him.”

“Why not?” Atsumu demands. “Scared that you’re gonna get your heart broken?”

“No, I—”

Suna almost drops his phone.

“What,” he says slowly, “did you say?”

“Sunarin, please. You think you’re so hard to read but I can tell exactly what’s on your mind. I know what this is about.”

He scoffs, but it comes out uncertain. “No, you don’t.”

“Shut up and listen, okay! Look, I know more than you think. You needa get your shit together; you can’t just move across the country and think everything’s gonna be okay.”

Suna frowns; what could Atsumu possibly know? “Okay, okay.” He rubs his face in frustration. “I won’t just disappear.”

“I’m telling ya,” Atsumu rambles, “don’t push him away like you did the first time, or else you’re gonna miss the window to act and then it’s gonna happen all over again and I can’t handle that shit—”

—Huh.

Something in Suna’s mind clicks. “Wait, what first time?”

Suddenly, Atsumu falls silent.

“Atsumu.” Suna stands up from the bench. “What. First. Time?”

“Oh. No, no, pretend I didn’t say that—”

“No,” Suna presses, voice low, “what did he say to you? What are you talking about?”

What feels like an eternity passes. And then, Atsumu’s voice drops to a whisper.

“New Year’s Eve, two years ago.”

—————//—————

Parties aren’t for everyone, Suna admits, especially not parties involving the entire student population of Kyoto University. Whoever had the bright idea to host a countdown should probably have thought of a bigger venue, or maybe have the students be split up by faculty.

Then again, if he had to spend all his time with his coursemates, he might miss out on the real life of the party.

“Hey, Suna!” From the corner of his line of sight, Atsumu appears with an unlit sparkler in hand, grinning. “Stop standing around, it’s gonna be the new year soon!”

“Okay, and what am I supposed to do?” Suna waves his hands in the air, the remainder of his fourth drink sloshing in his cup. “Prepare to cheer for the next fifteen minutes?”

Atsumu scowls at him, but behind him, Osamu starts to laugh. “Boo. You’re mean when you’re drunk.”

“I’m obviously not,” Suna scoffs, but Atsumu waves at him dismissively. “You seem excited.”

“Yeah, wear this—” Osamu fishes something out of his pocket and dumps a set of novelty Happy New Year glasses on Atsumu’s head as his brother squawks in protest. “There, perfect.”

“You wear this shit!” Atsumu tosses the glasses off his head. “I need to look good, alright?”

“Oh?” Suna asks innocently. “Is there someone you wanna impress?”

“No!”

Osamu grins. “Yes.”

“For the love of—” Atsumu groans and turns away. “You guys are insufferable. Go have your own stupid fun, I’ll see ya later.”

“Ya see, I thought at first that he might’ve been trying to impress Kita-san or Aran-kun today,” Osamu explains as they watch Atsumu move through the crowd, “but he’s got absolutely zero chance. I think I might’ve seen them holding hands once or twice before.”

“Our senpai? No way.” Suna takes a sip out of his cup. “Okay, now that you’ve said it out loud, it makes sense.”

“They’re really close.”

“Have been since high school, right?” Suna nods at a couple of people who pass them by in the hallway and wave at him. “Wow, everyone and their mother’s here today.”

“I mean, it is a countdown.” Osamu points towards the door to the balcony and tilts his head. “Want a breather?”

Suna glances around the room they’ve just walked into, then back at Osamu, who watches him expectantly.

“Sure,” he says, tossing his cup into the nearest dustbin, “lead the way.”

Osamu looks satisfied with his answer as he turns around, tapping Suna’s wrist as he starts to weave through the crowd towards the exit. Suna trails behind him, all while watching the crowd and listening to the pockets of conversation he manages to catch. A flash of familiar blonde peeks out in the near distance, and Suna peers in that direction with mild interest before he’s pulled by Osamu through the open doorway and hit in the face by a blast of fresh, frigid air.

“Wow, it’s quiet outside,” Suna remarks as he sticks his hands into his pockets. He’s glad he kept his jacket on: the weather in December isn’t the warmest. “I see why people chose to stay indoors.”

“Their loss,” Osamu says as he slides the door shut and gestures at the sky above-head. “It’s a nice night.”

And so it is. Most of the campus lights are off or dimmed, revealing a blanket of stars scattered across the night sky, bright and beautiful all at once. The noise of the crowd is muffled behind them, while the sounds of the sleeping city swirl around them in the cold, peaceful night.

Suna lets out a sigh that fogs up as he leans his weight against the railing. He supposes most people would be out at the temples and shrines, waiting to ring the bells and make their first wishes of the new year. Years ago, he used to accompany his mother to the largest shrine in their neighbourhood to do the same, watching from the sidelines while she wished for good health and safety for the entire family.

Tonight, Suna is in jeans instead of a homemade kimono, standing at a balcony instead of the stairs to a shrine, staring at the sky instead of at his mother with her head bowed.

A large star twinkles in the distance. Five minutes to midnight.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “if it isn’t Kita-san or Aran-san, who’s Atsumu trying to impress?”

“Honestly?” Osamu squints as he turns and stares at the crowd through the glass panes. “Could be anyone here, but maybe Sakusa from his economics class. Won’t shut up about him.”

Now that’s someone he’s definitely heard of. “Komori’s cousin?”

“Yeah, but they’re definitely not alike.” Osamu snorts. “Funny thing, family.”

“You’re one to talk.” Suna nudges his arm with his elbow. “So? Anyone you’re trying to impress tonight?”

Osamu scoffs, then, and turns to him. “Please. I’m not like ‘Tsumu.”

“Sure you’re not.” Suna rolls his eyes. “Then what did you come to this party for?”

“I dunno, to have fun? What did you come for?”

“I don’t know; you guys asked me to come, didn’t you?”

“Well,” Osamu says, amused, “I only came because ‘Tsumu wanted to come.”

“So all this while we could’ve been playing Mario Kart at your place if not for him?” Suna sighs in exasperation and shakes his head. “Oh, Atsumu, Atsumu.”

“Some people make stupid decisions in the name of love.” Osamu makes a face. “Wow, maybe not love.”

“Hormones,” Suna corrects, and Osamu lets out a laugh. “Honestly? Good for him. Hope he gets some, or whatever.”

“Shut up,” Osamu says, but he’s laughing, cheeks dusted pink, as he swats Suna’s shoulder. “Shit, we live together; I don’t think I wanna deal with this kind of stuff.”

“You can consider moving out next year,” Suna muses. “Then both of you can get your own space.”

“Huh.” Osamu tilts his head in thought and glances back at Suna. “That is a thought.”

“Yeah, when we graduate—” Suna grabs Osamu’s sleeve as he develops a sudden thought. “Wait. Hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

“If we get jobs in the same area, what say—” he tugs a little. “—we co-rent? Let’s all move out. But you move in with me.”

Osamu’s eyes widen a little as he meets Suna’s gaze. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“Not really.” There’s a buzz laying dormant at the back of his mind and at the tips of his fingers, but his thoughts are as clear as day. “Think about it. Half the rent, half the expenses, half the chores, full benefits.” He releases Osamu’s sleeve. “It’ll be our final semester soon. Just think about it?”

Osamu goes quiet for a few seconds, and Suna waits.

“‘Course,” he says at last, blinking slowly. “I mean, yeah, let’s figure it out.”

“It’s just a thought,” Suna says quickly as he glances at Osamu. “You don’t have to agree like, now—”

“Nah.” Osamu lifts his head to meet his gaze and smiles a little, and Suna holds his breath. “I like the idea.”

There’s something about Osamu smiling at him tonight that makes Suna wonder if the alcohol’s starting to affect him a little. Or maybe it’s the quiet, or the darkness and the skies and the atmosphere, or all of it combined, that makes him think, why did he even come to this party if all he wanted was to hang out with a few specific people, including—

Suddenly, there’s a chorus of shouts and cheers from inside the venue, and the both of them jump a little. “Holy shit.”

“The fuck?” Osamu glances at his watch. “Oh, right. New Year’s countdown.”

“Oh.” Suna peers at his phone screen. “Forty seconds left.”

“Well, this is it then.” Osamu’s voice is soft and warm amidst the cold of the night. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.” Suna scoffs. “Thirty more seconds; we’re early.”

“So are they.” Osamu points at a couple in the distance, and Suna takes a glance. “They’re supposed to kiss on the dot.”

“What?” Suna swivels to face him. “You believe in that?”

Osamu leans towards him. “You know it’s good luck to kiss at New Year’s, right?”

Suna laughs as he lets him shift into his space. “We don’t know if that’s true.”

Osamu shrugs in response. “But people do it anyway,” he murmurs. “So why not?”

The words why not swims hazily in the back of Suna’s mind as he hears the crowd indoors start to count down from ten. Nine! Eight! “Sure,” he finds himself saying, his fingers reaching to find Osamu’s sleeve again. “For good luck, why not.”

“Why not,” Osamu agrees, his hand shifting to grab onto Suna’s forearm as Suna leans into the warmth he brings. “This alright?”

“Yeah,” Suna breathes, lids instinctively lowering as Osamu starts to narrow the gap between them. Some part of his mind reminds him that this is what couples do, and they’re not a couple, but it’s New Year’s and it’s for good luck, and if it’s not supposed to happen, then why does everything that’s happening feel…natural?

At that moment, the clock strikes midnight, and the people in the next room cheer—

—and Osamu kisses him.

The kiss starts short and chaste, uncertain, like all first kisses do. Osamu’s lips are slightly chapped from the winter air, but they’re still soft, and Suna lets his eyelids fall completely closed as he takes in the warmth of it all, Osamu’s lips on his with just a hint of wetness beneath it that invites him closer, closer and closer. The grip on Osamu’s sleeve tightens and Suna tugs slightly, tilting his head just a little to get a better angle, shifting in to match the few centimetres of height between them.

Then, Osamu parts his lips slightly, and Suna relaxes completely and leans right in.

Kissing Osamu is easy, he thinks. Kissing Osamu is comfortable; he wonders if it’s strange to think this way, but in the moment, he brushes it aside. He tastes like soda water with a hint of whisky, just as Suna expects. His mouth is warm and it’s nice, it really is, it’s tempting—

Suna gasps, then, eyelids fluttering open, and they break apart.

“Oh,” Osamu mumbles, his voice low and slightly hoarser than it was when they began, hand still lingering on Suna’s arm as he pulls back.

“Yeah,” Suna murmurs back, cheeks flushed, mouth numb, “you’re a good kisser.”

“Ha.” Osamu wipes his mouth against the back of his sleeve, the one Suna isn’t still holding onto. Suna can still feel his warmth lingering against his skin. “So I’ve been told.”

“Well,” Suna says, breathless, “Happy New Year, and thanks for the good luck.”

Osamu’s fingers trail away from his arm slowly, his fingertips brushing against Suna’s wrist as they fall to his side in a way Suan can’t quite decipher. And then, he lets out a small laugh.

“Happy New Year,” he says softly, “and best of luck.”

—————//—————

Suna is jittery on the way home, and it isn’t from the coffee.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he climbs the stairs to his apartment in rapid succession. “I’m stupid, I’m so stupid, I’m—”

He’s stupid, there’s no denying it. Seven years for him to figure this whole thing out, and still he’s two years late. Forget the math, forget the past, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do now.

If Suna had a coin for each time he’s had a life-changing realisation about himself in the past two weeks, he would have two coins, which isn’t much by any means, but way too much for his liking. It shakes him, makes him nervous, and Suna Rintarou is not a nervous person, has never been; everything makes sense right now but nothing does.

He’s sweating a little and slightly out of breath by the time he gets to the fourth floor landing and has their apartment door in his sights.

Is it too late? Am I chasing something that’s not there? As he reaches for the door, Suna exhales sharply and steels himself for disappointment. He doesn’t even know if Osamu will be home, actually, he forgot to text him; oh shit, what if he’s not there, or if he refuses to talk to me, or whatever—

Suna bursts through the front door, and there he is, Miya Osamu in the flesh, on the couch with his phone in one hand and remote control in the other, staring right at him.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly, “Happy Friday.”

“Hey.” Osamu blinks, twice, before he switches the television off and deposits both items on the coffee table. “Thanks for the croissant this morning. Was wondering where you were.”

He wills himself to calm down. “Oh, I took a walk to the park.”

“The park?” Osamu raises a brow at him, but his expression is more amused than skeptical. “You ended work early, then?”

“Yeah, couldn’t think, had to clear my mind.” Suna decides to spare him the details for now. “Uh, you’re back early.”

“I just got back awhile ago,” Osamu explains, gesturing at the half-empty glass of water on the dining table and the jacket draped over the chair to the left. “You okay?”

Suna waves his hand carelessly as he removes his shoes and steps into the living room. “I’m fine, you?”

“Uh huh.” Osamu seems to be observing him carefully. “Hey, Suna, listen. About tonight, are you—”

“Oh. You have plans, right?” Suna starts, desperately ignoring the panic rising in his chest. “You didn’t text me, so I didn’t cook anything, I assumed—”

“Suna, wait—”

“Should I go? Do you need space—”

“Rin.”

At the sound of his name, Suna falls silent.

“…What?”

Osamu speaks slowly, deliberately. “I don’t have any plans for tonight.”

“Oh.” Suna stills. “Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah, so I wanted to ask.” Osamu exhales. “Are you gonna be at home for the rest of the night?”

Suna nods slowly. “I had a late lunch, though, so I’m not going to be having dinner.”

“Me too,” Osamu says, swallowing and bringing his interlaced fingers to his lap, and Suna realises that he seems kind of nervous. “But I was planning on making something in the kitchen, you wanna join me?”

Suna stares at Osamu, eyes wide.

He knows what this is. It’s an invitation to speak. He’s letting him in, in the gentlest, most familiar way possible.

Suna doesn’t know if he’s ready, or if he’ll ever be ready.

Don’t run away.

“Sure,” he replies at last. “What are we making?”

Osamu stands up, the corners of his lips tilting upwards by a fraction as his eyes start to light up.

“Tiramisu.”

——————————

Suna’s halfway through brewing the requisite pot of espresso when he realises that even though they’ve cooked for each other fairly often, they haven’t cooked together for a long, long time.

He glances at Osamu, who’s at the other end of the kitchen counter whipping the mascarpone into the cream mixture by hand. They never bought an electric mixer—the noise would be too loud for the apartment’s thin walls to handle, and it was never a priority, not ahead of the microwave, stove, and oven, amongst other necessities they needed to take care of when they first moved in.

Despite that, the mixture seems to be coming along just fine—from afar, Suna can see the soft peaks of the cream start to stiffen into medium peaks. Osamu’s arms know no limit when it comes to food preparation, motivated by excellence and their utter lack of funds. He turns back to his lukewarm pot of coffee, which he stirs occasionally to let out the remaining heat and keep it consistent.

“Wanna switch?” he offers to Osamu, who glances up from his bowl. “I can give it a try.”

Osamu ponders this over. “It’s almost ready,” he suggests, “so why don’t you fold the mixtures together when I’m done? Then I’ll get the rum.”

“Hell yeah, rum.” Suna pumps a fist in the air weakly, and Osamu lets out a small chuckle, which he finds strangely comforting. “Just let me know.”

“Actually, lemme come over to the table.” Osamu shifts over and sits down opposite him, placing one bowl in front of him as he continues to whip the cream mixture in the other. “Next step, you gotta combine these two bowls. Put the cream into the whipped yolks and get it consistent.”

Suna hums in acknowledgment and Osamu nods, satisfied, as he comes to a halt and passes the bowl to him.

“I’ll get the fingers and add the rum.”

“‘Kay,” Suna mumbles as he examines the mixture in his arms. It’s soft but firm, which is impressive, considering that it started out as whip cream, granular sugar, and cream cheese. Slowly, he picks the spatula Osamu left him and whips it a few more times before he decides to mix it in.

Tonight’s activity has been nothing short of peaceful. It’s as though last Friday never happened—except it definitely did, and there’s a real conversation to be had about it. As Suna completes combining the mixtures, he wonders how this should work: should he have the first word?

By this time, Osamu’s brought out the fingers, baking tray, and bowl of espresso mixture. He leans over, examines the combined cream mixture, takes the spatula out of Suna’s hand and stirs it a few times. Then, he gently pushes the bowl to the side.

“Let’s go,” he declares, dipping the first finger in and laying it on the tray.

Suna feels like he’s five and in a kindergarten arts-and-craft class all over again. Each finger soaks in the espresso for a quick second before it’s snatched out and laid on the tray, and then, when they finish the base, Osamu lets Suna spread a thick layer of cream over it before he inspects for gaps and fills them in.

It’s silly. It’s simple. It’s absolutely satisfying, it makes him wonder why they haven’t done this together more often.

“The last time we did this,” he says quietly, “was when we baked that apple pie for Gin’s Christmas gathering. You remember that?”

Osamu lifts a finger from the coffee and looks up at him. “‘Course I do,” he replies. “We made a fantastic pie which was so good that ‘Tsumu cried.”

“Okay, I’m pretty sure he didn’t cry because of our pie instead of him drinking too much wine.”

“Eh. Same thing.” Osamu shrugs, placing the finger next to the last, and Suna can’t help but smile at that. “The apples we used were really good.”

From Kita’s farm, Suna recalls.

“Why haven’t we done more of these things together?” he asks, dipping yet another finger into the espresso. “They’re kinda fun. I like them.”

“Well,” Osamu says, “we usually only make desserts for special occasions.”

“Hm?” Suna meets his gaze. “Then what’s the special occasion today?”

“Ah.” Osamu’s cheeks seem to go pink. “Well, there isn’t any. I just wanted to make a dessert with you.”

“Oh,” Suna murmurs, ears burning. “Oh.”

Osamu nods slowly. “This was my Friday night plan, so. Y’know.”

It’s a date? Suna’s breath hitches. Oh, fuck. It’s a date it’s a date it’s a—

“Rin, look.” Osamu shifts his chair closer towards him, knees knocking against his. “I think I gotta tell you something.”

Suna swallows hard. “Yeah?” he says, his voice coming out hoarser than intended as his heart hammers against his chest. Shit, he’s not prepared. He needs to say something, too, and he needs to say it first. “What is it?”

“It’s, uh.” Osamu hesitates as he wrings his hands. “About last Friday, about us—”

“I like you, you know,” Suna blurts, then, eyes wide. “Osamu. I really like you.”

Osamu stares at him as he starts to lower his hands to the table. “…What?”

“I mean it.” Suna’s heart continues to pound rapidly, but he presses on. “I’m sorry I was a bit of a jerk last Friday. I was being stupid and you have every right to be mad. I just thought you should know. And I don’t know if you feel the same way, I just—”

“Oh, Rin—”

“—just, you know,” Suna finishes, voice fading to a whisper as he looks away, “if you’re gonna date any guy out there, why not date me?”

For a moment, Osamu is quiet, and Suna wonders if he’s misjudged and is about to find himself homeless.

Then, Osamu reaches forward, gently grasping his hands with his, and starts to laugh.

“What?” Suna clasps his hands, bewildered. “What the fuck, Osamu?”

“No, it’s just,” Osamu bows his head, shaking with laughter, “what made you think I’d ever say no?”

“I…what?”

Osamu’s smiling at him, now, the remnants of his laughter folded into the creases near his eyes and cheeks. “To going out with you, Rin. I would never have said no to you.”

“Well, how would I have known?” Suna ducks his head in embarrassment the moment the words leave his mouth, because seven years, seven damn years. “No, don’t answer that. I know I fucked up that New Year’s.”

“You didn’t. I did.” Osamu leans across the table, lowering his elbows as he extends his arms and wraps his hands around Suna’s, thumbs smoothing the back of his hands down to his wrists. “I shoulda said something the moment I realised I was kinda in love with you.”

Suna grips tighter, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, causing them to sting. “You’re in love with me?” He croaks.

“I don’t know. Maybe I am,” Osamu admits. “But is it really that weird?”

No, it isn’t, not really, not with the amount of time they’ve spent together, the amount of time they’ve lived together, the amount of things unsaid. Suna laughs, and chokes, overwhelmed. “It’s not, I just thought—”

“Okay, okay. One step at a time.” Osamu stands up from his seat and moves over to stand behind Suna, his arms enveloping him into a hug, and Suna leans into his touch. “Is this okay?”

“Is this okay?” Suna pulls him closer. “Of course it’s okay.”

Osamu hums in his ear, nose brushing against his neck, the warmth of his breath soothing Suna all at once. “For the record,” he murmurs, “I only agreed to go on dates ‘Tsumu chose for me, so that I could get over you. But it looks like I never did.”

“You’re an idiot.” Suna whispers, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I was never over you. Never even knew that I was into you.”

But he was, he thinks. He kinda always had been.

They stay like this for a while, Osamu standing behind Suna, his arms wrapped around him, with Suna holding on, taking in his warmth like he’s never done before. Eventually, though, Suna remembers that there’s still a dessert to be made, and it’s still sitting on their dining room table, two thirds into the final layer of sponge fingers.

“Okay.” Suna’s laugh is wet. “What now?”

“Well, we wash our hands, finish the layers, dust the chocolate on the top, leave it in the fridge and let it rest. Then we eat it.”

“Of course.” So many things happening at once, and this man’s priority is getting the dessert done. Suna can’t help but smile. “Then sit down and let’s finish this.”

“Yeah.” Osamu lets go to sink into the seat next to him, and Suna reluctantly obliges. “While we’re waiting later, we can lie on the couch or something. Talk about it.”

“Or watch a movie and make out,” Suna mutters, and Osamu laughs. “Or all of the above.”

“All of the above,” Osamu agrees. “We can do anything.”

Suna knows that the boundaries of their affection aren’t limitless like anything may suggest, but the universe is wide and gentle and good to him, and as they stand in front of the kitchen sink and wash their hands, Suna wonders how long this kind of contentment can last.

Things will change over time, he knows, for better or worse. The universe is as cruel as it is kind, and the fates are relentless and unyielding to external pressure.

But some part of him is hopeful; hopeful that they’re doing the right thing, that even though they reversed and jumbled the stages of friendship and kissing and dating and living together, they’re still good; hopeful that the universe views them kindly—

He reaches out for Osamu’s hand, squeezes it, and lets himself smile.

—Hopeful that between the two of them, nothing will ever truly change.