Work Text:
Mental exhaustion is part of the college experience. At least, that’s what Suna tells himself when his consciousness drifts and the voice of his professor fades into the background. His eleven o’clock lecture is only halfway finished, and Suna already regrets showing up at all. He should have skipped. After turning off his stream at two in the morning, he should have known better than to think he could show up and follow along.
He’s scraping by on a half-empty stomach and six hours of sleep. His body is so fatigued that he sinks into himself in the back of the lecture hall, slouching so low in his seat as he buries his face into the sweatshirt he uses as a makeshift pillow. His brain can’t even process the material even if he wanted to. He tried—and found himself knocking his head onto his desk five minutes later.
Still, Suna can’t pinpoint the exact moment when his eyelids fall shut and he drifts off. He’s far too dazed to consider how this is a terrible idea. The last thing he needs is to get on his professor’s bad side for snoring in class. But his one saving grace is that he sits in the very last row, perched in the far right corner near the back exit. He doesn’t attract any unnecessary attention, and he’s free to continue the class at his own pace or spend the hour scrolling through Reddit. This time, his seat placement hides him from the prying eyes that follow him everywhere else.
When Suna falls asleep in the middle of his lecture, he goes unnoticed.
He doesn’t hear the professor announcing the end to the class and talking about the assignment due next week. He doesn’t hear the commotion of students packing up their belongings or climbing the stairs on his side. He doesn’t even hear the smooth voice right above him, until there’s a quick jab at his arm.
“Huh?” Suna lifts his head from the sweatshirt, blinking away the remnants of sleep. His vision is still fuzzy, his mind still reeling, and even when his eyes land on the person in front of him, it takes a second or two for recognition to flare. “Hi?”
“Class is over. You fell asleep.”
Miya Osamu usually sits two rows in front of Suna in their introductory sociology course. He’s the only person Suna recognizes by name, and that’s solely because of the first week of classes, in which their professor forced them to speak with the students in their vicinity and introduce themselves.
Awkward icebreakers have always been one of his least favorite parts about university. It’s even worse when he’s stuck with someone as quiet as he is. He remembers how Osamu had spun around in his seat, seeking out someone near him, and he remembers the resignation in Osamu’s features as he’d climbed up to Suna’s row and taken the seat beside him. Even then, Osamu hadn’t been forthcoming with information. All Suna knows about Miya Osamu is this—his name is Osamu, he studies business, and he has an identical twin brother named Atsumu.
They haven’t spoken since then, other than the occasional nod of acknowledgement. Osamu returned back to his usual seat two rows in front of Suna, and since then, Suna has been forced to stare at the back of Osamu’s head for the duration of their lectures. He doesn’t have Osamu’s number nor do they ever stop and discuss the coursework. The most interaction they’ve had is the time Suna accidentally airdropped a meme to him during class and—well, this.
Osamu looks more presentable than Suna feels. His dark hair brushes to the side out of his eyes, and his eyes move with far more awareness than any college student has the right to experience in the early hours of the morning. His red sweatshirt is well-worn, the strings around the hood uneven, and he has a single rip in the knee of his jeans. He’s shorter than Suna, but from where Suna sits, he towers over him.
“Oh,” Suna says. He blinks a few more times. When he sweeps his gaze around the room, he finds that the hall has cleared out and a new professor stands behind the desk. “When did that happen?”
Osamu tugs a pair of headphones out of his front pocket and starts winding them around his hand. “Two minutes ago,” he says.
“Oh.”
“I’m guessin’ you didn’t catch Tsuda-sensei talkin’ about the project we got due at the end of the semester.”
Suna’s stomach sinks. “What project?”
Osamu finishes wrapping the headphones. With his free hand, he reaches into his bag and whips out a piece of paper. He hands it to Suna. “Here.”
Wordlessly, Suna takes it and skims the first few lines. The more he reads, the tighter his stomach clenches. “A group project,” he says. “About family studies.”
“Yeah.” Osamu zips his bag shut. “It’s a presentation.”
Suna hits himself in the face with the paper. Out of all the times to fall asleep in class, he couldn’t have picked a worse day. He hates projects on their own, but group projects are even more irksome. Suna admits that he isn’t the most dutiful team player, and yet, he’s been paired up with some of the most unreliable students that he’s ever seen.
“Did he assign partners?” Suna asks.
“No. He said we could pick them. People did at the end of class.”
“Shit.” Suna’s face pinches, and he tries to ignore the beginnings of a headache starting to pound at his skull as he assesses his options. He can always force himself into a group, but that won’t go down well. He can always ask the professor to be allowed to present the project himself, but that means he has to do all the research on his own, too. “I’m an idiot.”
Osamu’s eyes slide to the side to where Suna’s laptop lies on the desk next to him. He almost tracks the sticker along the cover, the one someone made for Suna professionally a year back. It has his channel username written in block font surrounded by a lightning bolt, and it’s the right kind of subtle that helps him go under the radar and retain his identity at the same time. Suna’s gaze follows Osamu, and the question builds in his throat of its own accord. He almost asks.
But then Osamu’s eyes snap back towards Suna’s, and it’s like his focus never strayed. “I don’t have a partner either,” Osamu says. “We can do it together, I guess.”
“Uh.”
Osamu plucks a pen out of his other pocket and snatches the instructions from Suna. Without waiting for a response, he flips the paper onto its back and scribbles down a series of numbers. It isn’t until he returns it back to Suna that Suna realizes what Osamu’s doing.
“That’s my number,” Osamu says, capping the pen. “Text me when you’re free, and we’ll work on it.”
“Oh.” Suna stares down at the paper, willing his mind to catch up with what’s happening in real time. “Right. Uh. I’ll do that.”
He waits for relief to hit him. After all, he was worried two seconds ago that he would have to complete the project on his own. Osamu’s provided him with an easy solution, as unexpected as the offer might be. But the relief never arrives. Instead, Suna feels more dazed than he did when he first sat down in class an hour ago, and that feeling heightens when Osamu doesn’t bother saying anything else.
Osamu tucks his pen back in his pocket, nods, and leaves out the back exit. The echo of the door banging shut behind him isn’t enough to reassure Suna that their conversation truly conspired. It isn’t until the students from the upcoming class start trickling in that he comes back into himself enough to pack up his belongings and leave.
“You’re playing Animal Crossing? Again?”
The brightness from Suna’s desktop stings against the darkness of his bedroom. The low lighting hides the clutter that crowds the corners of his space, the only area in the house that his roommate, Sakusa, hasn’t infiltrated, and Suna intends to keep it that way. His phone and a juice box sit on his desk, right beside his matching fox mouse and pad. He tries not to think about the class he has tomorrow morning and instead focuses on the voice on the other end of the call.
“Yeah,” Sakusa says. “It’s been relaxing.”
“Yeah, it’s a game where you construct a tiny island for tiny animals and dabble in the stock market. It’s not meant to induce stress.”
“Play with me.”
Suna resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not like he has anything against Animal Crossing, and Sakusa knows better than anyone else that his island is as advanced and furnished as any other. But Suna wants to play something that demands his attention a little more.
He supposes he should be grateful. A little over a year ago, Suna played alone. No matter how much he complains about Sakusa, Suna’s streams have become livelier ever since he and Komori convinced Sakusa to stream his gameplay online on a public platform, too. Their progression started out slow, from the moment Suna beat Sakusa on Super Smash Brothers to all the other late gaming sessions that followed. It’s been a process—from convincing Sakusa to put himself on camera to creating the account to incorporating daily livestreams into his schedule.
Suna did not start out with the same steady buildup. His posting schedule was erratic at best. He went from posting a single video clip every couple of months to streaming for over five hours on a day-to-day basis. Sakusa being around has enforced more of a balance into Suna’s life, but it’s reached a point where Suna worries that the scales have tipped. He can see it with Sakusa, who didn’t stay up until two in the morning on a weekday before.
He can see it with himself, too, if he really thinks about it. The incident in his sociology class is proof of that. But he prefers not to dwell on it, so he never addresses it. Neither does Sakusa.
“Nah.” Suna pops a lollipop into his mouth. When his eyes flicker to the side, he can see the overflow of chats that urge him to join Sakusa. “I’ll play something else. You have fun kissing Tom Nook’s ass to play the bills.”
“That’s not how the game goes.”
“Isn’t it?” Suna’s eyebrows flick upwards, even if he knows Sakusa can’t see his face. “Whatever. You go have fun.”
“Alright.” Suna hears the sigh in Sakusa’s voice. He almost always sighs around Suna. It’s a reflex at this point. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
With that, Suna disconnects from the call. He mulls through his options while scanning the chat. He isn’t like Sakusa, who stumbles through polite replies in order to respond to everyone. If there’s a particularly funny comment, then he’ll point it out, but otherwise, Suna prefers to continue in silence.
Suna sets up Friday the 13th and gives the camera a pointed look. “This sound good?”
Without looking at the responses from the chat, Suna grabs his phone while waiting for the game to load. As soon as he presses it on, he sees a new influx of unopened messages in his inbox. Most of them are unimportant, but he hates that they clog up his phone.
He hates looking through his messages at all nowadays. With each day that passes, it’s another reminder that he has yet to contact Osamu about the project. He’s aware that the initiative is his to take, considering Osamu gave Suna his number, but he can already guess how awkward it’ll be. Every time he speaks to Osamu, their conversations are stilted and disjointed. It’ll be worse when they have to work together for weeks at a time.
Suna scrolls through his contact list until he reaches Miya. He’s being an idiot. He needs to pass this class. He can’t let the inherent discomfort stop him from reaching out. Besides, it isn’t just his grade. It’s Osamu’s, too.
Suna clicks the lollipop back and forth between his teeth. His thumbs fly over the keyboard as he types out a quick message. He hovers over the send button, only to hesitate at the last second. It takes a great deal of resolve to hit the button at last.
Suna Rintarou
Hey Osamu it’s Suna when were you thinking about meeting up for the project
To his surprise, a response arrives a few seconds later.
Miya Osamu
when are you free
Suna Rintarou
Uh
Never
Lol
Miya Osamu
...
Suna Rintarou
Okay I’m sorry I’m kidding
I’ll find the time
Miya Osamu
are you available around 3 tomorrow
Suna Rintarou
Yeah I can do that
Where did you want to meet up
Miya Osamu
i live on campus so i can meet up anywhere
Suna Rintarou
So do I
Wait where do you live?
When Osamu drops his location, Suna can only stare. It’s not like Suna ventures out of his apartment much, but he figured he might have realized if he and Osamu lived in the same building. His observation skills must have worsened in the past year, because the address Osamu sends him is—without a doubt—the same building Suna is currently in.
Suna Rintarou
Oh aha we live in the same building
Miya Osamu
oh
Suna Rintarou
That makes things easier then
We can just meet up at your apartment then if that’s cool
Miya Osamu
what’s wrong with your apartment
Suna Rintarou
O_o
What are you hiding in your apartment osamu
A dead body?
Your kinky porn?
A sailor moon shrine?
I’m going to have to come over and inspect
Miya Osamu
…
whatever
see you tomorrow
Suna Rintarou
See you :)
Suna places his phone facedown on his desk. The lollipop clicks around his teeth again as he moves his tongue around, and Friday the 13th appears on the screen in bold font. He glances once at the chat before clicking to find a lobby and start the game, pushing any other thoughts out of his mind.
Osamu’s apartment is located on the floor below Suna’s. There’s a welcome mat in front of the door, a soaked umbrella propped up outside, and Suna steps around it before raising his knuckles to knock. A few beats pass before a pair of footsteps approach, and the door swings open to reveal Osamu waiting on the other side.
He’s dressed in another sweatshirt, but this time, it’s paired with a set of baggy sweatpants with ‘Inarizaki Volleyball Club’ written along the left leg. His hair is more disheveled than usual, a few stray strands falling across his forehead. It’s almost jarring to see Osamu outside a classroom setting. The relationship that they have is limited to occasional glances in a lecture hall. Suna isn’t quite sure how to interact with Osamu in the comfort of his own apartment.
“Hey.” Suna’s grip tightens around the strap of his backpack. “You ready?”
“Sure.” Osamu steps back to allow Suna the space he needs to enter. He waits for Suna to kick off his sneakers and put on a pair of slippers in the genkan before leading the way inside. “C’mon.”
“Right.”
Suna follows at his heels. As soon as they round the corner out of the first hallway, he’s greeted with the rest of the apartment. The layout isn’t dissimilar to the one he lives in with Sakusa. There’s a kitchen closed off from the living room with a bar, and a small table sits beside the couch, just large enough for two people. For the most part, it appears tidy, except for the stray textbook tucked along the couch cushions or syllabus left on the counter.
The kitchen itself looks like the space that is the most lived-in. The refrigerator is full of colorful magnets that hold up recipes printed from the Internet and photographs of Osamu, Osamu’s twin brother, and another stranger. A collection of dishware rests along the drying rack, waiting to be attended to, and the dish towels are all mismatched and vibrant with multiple cartoon characters stitched into the fabric.
“Nice place,” Suna comments as his head rotates around. “You live alone?”
“No.” Osamu points out the first room to the left as they walk down the hallway past the kitchen. “I’ve got a roommate. Ginjima. He’s not here right now, though.”
Suna supposes that the stranger in the pictures must be Ginjima. He can’t help taking one curious glance into the bedroom as they pass, but there isn’t much to see. A university-issued bed with the sheets all tucked in at the corners, a Mikasa volleyball arranged in the far corner, a desktop with post-it notes collecting dust along the monitor. Suna continues on and follows Osamu into the bedroom at the end of the hall.
Much like Ginjima’s room, Osamu’s doesn’t stand out. The color palette is full of neutral tones—of dark blues and grays—and it’s a far cry from the disorder of Suna’s room. It’s evident from a quick glance around that Osamu prioritizes his studies. A pile of textbooks sits on his desk, surrounded by half-filled notebooks and scrawled sheets of paper, and he keeps a separate pile of books on the floor for reading on his own time. There is one newspaper clipping posted above the bed, titled The Miya Twins Head to Nationals, and again, Suna’s attention is drawn to the print along Osamu’s sweatpants.
“You play volleyball?” Suna asks, dropping his backpack onto Osamu’s bed.
“I used to,” Osamu says. He sinks onto the mattress and retrieves his laptop from where it’s hidden between the covers. “Not anymore.”
“But your sweatpants—”
“I stole them from my brother.” Osamu opens his computer and gives Suna a pointed look. Whatever Osamu’s intentions are, it reminds Suna that the two of them don’t have the most forthcoming relationship where he can ask questions and expect answers in return. They’re project partners—nothing more—and that means that Osamu’s expectations for Suna are that he shows up, prepares his part of the presentation, then they part ways. “You gonna sit?”
Suna unzips his backpack, the sound tearing through the quiet. “Yeah.”
Suna debates whether he should sit against the headboard beside Osamu, but he doesn’t want to make Osamu uncomfortable by invading his personal space. Instead, he plays it safe, and he plops down near the end of the bed, slouching over as he opens his own laptop.
“Okay,” Osamu says. “I’ve sent you a link to our joint slides through yer university email. Lemme know if you got it.”
Suna opens up his email and finds that the most recent message comes from Osamu. “Got it.”
“Didja have any ideas on what you wanted to do?”
Suna’s mouth twists. He figured that showing up at Osamu’s was enough initiative on his part. “No.”
“Okay. Well. I had some ideas. You can look at them on the first slide. See if there’s somethin’ there that interests you.”
Suna draws up the first slide and discovers that Osamu undersold himself when he mentioned that he had ‘some ideas.’ There is a whole list of potential topics that indicate that Osamu has put much more thought into this project than Suna has—and that Suna has a lot to make up for if he wants to pull his own weight. He scans through them all, noting the interesting ones in a mental checklist, but in the end, one idea stands out the most.
“‘How Sibling Relationships Alter Through the Distance And Separation of University,’” Suna reads out. His eyes flick over to Osamu, and he jolts when he realizes that Osamu is already looking at him. “I thought your brother goes to this university.”
“He does,” Osamu says, somewhat defensively. “I just thought it was interestin’.”
Suna’s gaze drops to the print of Osamu’s sweatpants again before rising up to the newspaper article above Osamu’s head. Osamu follows his line of vision with a scowl.
“It’s interestin’,” Osamu insists. “Alright?”
If this were anyone else, Suna knows that he would be a prick. He’d push and tease and pester, more out of reflex than anything else. It wouldn’t matter if he knew them or not. The urge would hit him regardless, and the taunts would fly off his tongue before he could withhold them. But this time, Suna’s lips press into a tight line, and he says nothing.
“Okay,” Suna says, typing out the title on the first slide. “Sounds good. I’ve got a younger sister, so this is pretty interesting, I guess.”
“You don’t sound that interested.”
“It’s still a school project. Don’t expect me to be bouncing off the walls.”
Osamu scoffs. “Whatever.” He hunches against the pillow and drags the laptop closer. “We need to start researchin’.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
If Suna’s being honest, he’s glad he’s here. This element of the project could have easily been done on their own, but sitting in front of Osamu forces him to focus instead of fucking around on social media, as he’s prone to do. Whenever the temptation hits, all he has to do is look up and catch Osamu staring intently at his screen to remind himself that he has an obligation to fulfill.
The best part of it is that Osamu thrives in silence as much as Suna does. Other than the clacking of their keyboards, the apartment fills with absolute quiet that puts Suna at ease. He never feels the urge to break it, and neither does Osamu. It’s much easier being around Osamu than he had feared.
Suna isn’t sure what to make of this yet.
“Why—exactly—are we playing Golf online, might I ask?”
“Because it’s relaxing,” Sakusa says on the other line. When Sakusa had first suggested a more relaxed stream for this evening, Suna had been skeptical. He now knows that he had a good reason to be, considering that Sakusa has roped him into playing virtual golf for their viewers. “I’m enjoying myself right now.”
“Uh.” Suna watches as Sakusa takes his first shot on-screen, sending his own ball flying a few meters ahead. “I mean, real golf is relaxing, too. We don’t have to play it as a video game.”
“When’s the last time we left campus?”
“Fair enough.” Suna takes his first shot with his club. The only problem is that he misjudges the controls, and instead of matching his power with Sakusa’s, his golf ball soars off the map. “I hate this already.”
“You only hate it because you’re bad at it.”
“No, I hate it because golf is stupid.”
Sakusa sends his ball hurtling forwards with perfect accuracy. Suna grits his teeth. It’s rare that he’s much worse than Sakusa at a video game, and even if this is virtual golf, Suna hates that the disparity is so noticeable. He hates losing—especially to Sakusa. Sakusa isn’t a sore winner—unlike Suna—but he’ll convey his victory without ever having to say it out loud.
Suna decides to cheat the system a little. He enters in Sakusa’s channel name and pulls up his stream, putting it in a smaller window where he can glance over without getting caught. He only needs to sense how much power should be used, then he can shut Sakusa’s stream off.
Suna takes his shot again. This time, it’s better for the sole reason that it stays in-bounds, and Suna’s shoulders sag with relief. His eyes flick over to Sakusa’s stream while Sakusa readies to take another shot when his attention catches on a name in Sakusa’s chat.
settermiya omiiiiiii sunarin is cheating
Suna scoffs and clicks off of Sakusa’s stream before he can be accused of a crime he clearly committed. He almost can’t fathom the absurdity of the entire situation. He’s been called out by Miya Atsumu, the twin brother to his temporary project partner and classmate, Miya Osamu, without ever having met Atsumu in the first place.
“Suna.” Sakusa’s voice crackles over the call. “Are you going to take your shot?”
“Yeah,” Suna says quickly. He doesn’t even think too hard before hitting the ball with his club, and he reaches where Sakusa is in a few powered shots. “See. I’m not bad at this.”
“I don’t know,” Sakusa says. “My chat says you were cheating.”
Of course he noticed. “Oi. Settermiya.” Suna makes direct eye contact with his camera. “Your brother is hotter than you.”
“What?” Sakusa makes a strangled noise deep in his throat. “What’s that for?”
Without answering Sakusa, Suna sticks up his middle finger. “That’s for calling me out in Omi’s chat, you dickhead.”
“Suna?”
Suna puts this information aside in his brain for later reference. He’s never met Atsumu, but apparently, Atsumu is familiar with Sakusa. He doesn’t know if this is the first time Atsumu has watched Sakusa’s streams or if it’s simply the first time Suna has noticed. Regardless, it’s enough to pique Suna’s intrigue. He’ll ask Sakusa about Atsumu later. For now, he’ll let it slide.
“Take your shot,” Suna orders. “Go.”
Sakusa hesitates like he might question Suna further, but in the end, he decides not to. It’s for the best, considering they’re live on camera in front of thousands of viewers. Most aspects of their personal lives never make it to their channels, and Suna prefers to keep it that way.
Suna’s eyes slide over to his chat, and he finds a message that’s meant for his eyes only.
settermiya you’re actually an a-hole i hope u and samu fail your project
Suna cackles in response.
Osamu seems to have a select few expressions that he rotates between. For the most part, his usual stare is flat and level, his features clear, with indifference swimming in his vision. It’s rare that his face shifts, especially around Suna, but ever since Suna arrived at his apartment this afternoon to continue working on their project, Osamu has had this pinched expression that hasn’t left him once. Even while he works, his eyebrows scrunch and his lips purse, his gaze flickering over to Suna every few minutes like he’s trying to be subtle about the fact that he keeps scrutinizing Suna.
Suna isn’t sure what warranted this thorough examination. The weight of Osamu’s stare pierces through him intermittently, averting Suna’s focus from the slide he’s working on whenever he senses it again. It’s not like their interactions over text have been anything less than polite and curt. Most of their responses are one-worded in order to get the message across, a simple confirmation of their next meeting time. Usually, when Suna burrows beneath someone’s skin, he expects this kind of heat aimed at him. But with Osamu, his mind fails to come up with any justifications for this reaction.
When it happens again, Suna pushes his laptop away and rolls over from where he’s draped across the covers of Osamu’s bed. “Okay. What is up with you?”
Osamu sits in an identical position to the last time Suna was here: propped up against the headboard, his laptop resting against his thighs, his knees raised a bit. At the question, he tears his gaze away from his laptop screen, and the scrunch between his eyebrows tightens. “Wadaya mean by that?”
“I mean,” Suna says, “you keep staring at me weird. Did I do something wrong?”
It becomes evident that Osamu didn’t expect to be caught. His cheeks redden. “I ain’t starin’ at you,” he says indignantly. “What on earth are you talkin’ about?”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Yes, you are. Is it the template that you don’t like?”
“What—the template—”
“Is it the colors? I thought the blue looked nice.” Suna registers in the back of his mind that he’s venturing into familiar territory—when he figures out exactly how to hit all of someone’s pressure points to get them to snap. He never imagined he could get across to Osamu—as stoic as Osamu appears whenever he shows up to their lectures—but a thrill chases down his spine nonetheless.
“The blue does look nice.” Osamu frowns. “You didn’t do anythin’ wrong. I guess.”
This time, it’s Suna’s turn for his nose to scrunch. “You guess?”
“I dunno.” Osamu turns his head away, not meeting Suna’s eye. “You said somethin’.”
Suna runs through the conversation he and Osamu had at the door in his head, but he knows that he had been nothing but pleasant. Besides, Osamu has been studying him ever since he showed up. “You’re going to have to spell it out for me. I’m not a genius like you.”
“I ain’t a genius.” Osamu thinks on it for a second before sighing and looking back at his computer screen. It’s like he can only work up the courage to explain himself if he pretends Suna isn’t there. “You—you said somethin’—or, well, Tsumu said you said somethin’ on yer stream the other day—”
“Oh.”
Suna pushes himself upright using his palms. He’d forgotten about the throwaway comment he’d made a few nights ago. If he’s being honest, he’d said it mostly to provoke Atsumu. He hadn’t imagined that it would make it back to Osamu.
And—it’s highly unlikely that Atsumu would reveal what Suna had gloated of his own accord. It’s not the kind of remark that boosts Atsumu’s confidence. It doesn’t make sense for Atsumu to divulge that information on his own. Unless he didn’t.
“When I said you were hotter than him,” Suna says, forcing his voice to remain even. The nerves bubble through him at being caught by surprise, and it shows in how he calculates each word before speaking. “You mean that?”
“Yeah.” Osamu presses a key on his keyboard. “Why wouldja say that? You’ve never even seen Atsumu.”
“I saw a picture of him on your fridge.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.” Suna’s head dips. “I didn’t think you watched my streams, otherwise I wouldn’t have said it.”
Osamu’s head snaps up so quickly that even Suna is startled by the speed. “I wasn’t watchin’,” he says. “I said Tsumu told me.”
“I know what you said. I also have a feeling that you’re lying.” There’s a pause as this new revelation is absorbed. Suna needs a second to process it. He’d had his suspicions when Osamu snuck a peek at the sticker of his channel logo, but he never pictured getting actual concrete confirmation. “It’s okay, you know. I don’t mind.”
Osamu sighs. “You’re annoying.”
“What?” Suna pouts, even if the jab barely meets its mark. “That’s mean. You barely know me.”
Osamu doesn’t answer. He returns back to tweaking the presentation, almost like it’s his out from this conversation. But Suna doesn’t feel satisfied.
A couple of beats pass. “I’m sorry,” Suna says. “I really was just trying to piss off your brother. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
The typing stops. Osamu doesn’t lift his head to look at him like Suna hoped, but he answers, “You didn’t.”
Suna doesn’t know what to make of that. A stretch of time fills the space between them before he works up the courage to break it again. He falls back on his side, propping his head up in his palm as Suna murmurs, “So. You’re hot. Got anyone special in your life?”
There are a few clicking sounds as Osamu skips between slides. Even if his response isn’t instantaneous, the way his lips curl speaks volumes. “No.”
“Really? No one?”
“No. I don’t got that kinda time.”
“Yeah. Neither do I.” Suna barely has the time to remind himself to eat proper meals or maintain a regular sleeping schedule. Any sort of romantic interaction he’s had since the start of university has been limited to casual hook ups or one-night-stands. He doesn’t have the emotional commitment to get involved with someone at the moment. “What do you spend all your time doing then?”
“Studyin’,” Osamu says. He squints while staring at the screen. “Doin’ coursework.”
“So you quit volleyball, and all you do now is work. Right?”
Osamu tears his gaze away from the screen long enough to glare at Suna. It’s another gesture that’s layered with more intensity than Suna is used to from Osamu. “All you do is stream,” Osamu says.
“Yeah.” Suna flops onto his back, the rough weight jostling the mattress more than he’d expected. “I guess I’m not much better than you.”
Suna turns his head sideways. He assesses Osamu with more calculation than he has since they first introduced themselves to each other. He hadn’t been lying when he’d claimed Osamu was hotter than Atsumu, though he hadn’t thought much of it beforehand. He supposes there is a charm in Atsumu’s boldness, but the understated manner in which Osamu carries himself attracts Suna’s interest more.
“So,” Suna says, drawing Osamu’s attention back to him. “You don’t have time. I don’t have time.” He pauses, a teasing smile dancing across his lips. “I think you’re hot. You might be indifferent towards me, but if you’re looking for something fun and casual, I’m available.”
At that, the clacking of the keyboard ceases. Suna forces himself to keep his eyes affixed to Osamu’s, even as Osamu lifts his head, an incredulous look crossing his face. His lips part, and he gapes, almost like he can’t help it.
Suna considers himself shameless when it comes to his abilities to provoke others, hitting all of the pressure points without any sorts of regrets. It’s part of what makes others deem him a ‘menace,’ considering how he spares no one in his attacks. But something about how Osamu stares him down—his eyebrow twitching like he can’t believe the words that come out of Suna’s mouth—makes him want to backtrack.
“What,” Osamu says slowly, recovering, “do you mean by that?”
“Well.” For once in his life, Suna fumbles for his next words. “Uh. I don’t necessarily mean sex. Not that I wouldn’t be open to that. But if you feel like kissing someone or something—”
“Kissin’ someone,” Osamu repeats. “Kissin’ you.”
“Only if you want,” Suna says. “Like, if we get five slides done, we get to make out for ten minutes or something.”
“Are you bein’ serious?”
“Um.” This is an easy out if he decides to take it. He can lie and claim that he’d been running with a poorly-made joke. But Osamu’s withering look coaxes the truth out of Suna. “Yeah. I mean, yeah. Why not?”
Osamu quirks an eyebrow. “Are you that bored of doin’ this project that you need to be bribed?”
“What? No.”
“Mm.” Osamu purses his lips. The stare Osamu gives him is no less intense than how he’d looked at Suna when he’d first arrived. “I see.”
“You see—what?”
Osamu drops his gaze back to his computer screen, as if the conversation never occurred, and the swell of embarrassment nearly chokes Suna whole. He doesn’t get embarrassed. Not really. He doesn’t care enough to let the opinions of others sway his own emotions, but the dismissiveness stings his insides. It would be fine if Osamu had said no. Suna would’ve moved on. It’s the fact that Osamu doesn’t address him at all that hurts.
Suna reaches for his laptop, fully intending to shove this entire interaction to the back of his mind where he won’t fixate on it any longer, but Osamu’s voice stops him short.
“You said five slides for ten minutes,” Osamu says. “Right?”
Suna stills. “Uh. Yes?”
“Okay.” Osamu pushes his laptop off his thighs. “I finished the fifth slide.”
“Oh—” The rest of Suna’s sentence gets stuck in his throat as Osamu reaches for him. It’s evident almost immediately that Osamu’s hesitant, his throat jumping as his hand grips the covers right beside Suna’s legs.
Even so, Osamu hovers over Suna, his arms boxing Suna in on either side, and strands of his dark hair fall across his forehead as he stares down at him. His eyes are as calculating as before, but Suna knows he’s searching for something different now. At this proximity, their faces are separated by mere centimeters, their breaths intermingling, and Osamu is close enough that Suna can smell his cologne, sharp and crisp.
Suna’s heart pounds. It’s disorienting because he didn’t anticipate his body’s pull towards Osamu within a few seconds. More than that, he didn’t expect Osamu to take him by surprise as much as he has. He thought he had Osamu nailed down: a dutiful and strict student that stuck to the rules as much as possible. That’s certainly the impression Osamu presents to the world.
Now, Suna thinks there might be more to it. He’s not sure if he’d believed Osamu would take him up on his offer or if he had merely hoped. He can’t help it. The more he studies the finer features of Osamu’s face, the more Suna appreciates that Osamu is—handsome, to say the least.
And Suna is bored—of this project, of his demanding schedule, of classes, of everything else that wants his immediate attention. He wants to forget that he has other obligations for the time being.
“Oh,” Suna repeats. His left hand rests against the nape of Osamu’s neck, brushing against the shaved hair. Suna grins up at Osamu, but even he knows that it’s different from his usual devious smiles. “If you wanted to kiss me so bad, Osamu, you could have asked before. I don’t care about this assignment that much.”
Osamu frowns. “You should.”
But before Suna can formulate a response, Osamu lowers his head, and his mouth presses against Suna’s, warm and gentle and hesitant. His tentativeness is etched into his movement, his lips brushing in light touches in case Suna wants to pull away.
Except that Suna doesn’t. Every feather-light sensation sends his heart racing a fraction more, until the sound of it pounding drowns out all other noise, and his fingers tighten their grip in Osamu’s hair.
Suna is the one that deepens the kisses further, his tongue coaxing Osamu’s mouth apart. His other hand curls into the front of Osamu’s shirt, tugging him downwards. Each time they meet again lights every nerve along Suna’s skin aflame.
Suna doesn’t know whether they’ve passed the ten minute mark or not, but he can’t bring himself to care. The longer he kisses Osamu, the more he wants to keep going. He has no intentions of stopping as long as Osamu continues, and all sense of urgency regarding the project fades into the background until Osamu breaks apart from him again, his pupils blown out, his lips swollen.
“It’s—it’s definitely been more than ten minutes,” Osamu says.
A whine builds up in the back of Suna’s throat, but he stops it before it can leave his mouth. “Ten more minutes.” He pouts. “Please.”
Osamu doesn’t need much convincing. He bends down to meet Suna again, and Suna smiles against his lips as his palms draw Osamu’s face close to his.
It isn’t a common occurrence for Suna to return from one of his evening lectures to find Sakusa eating at the dinner table. Usually, Sakusa will make something quick and easy before taking it to his room. The living room is barely used, save for the occasional instances in which Komori drops in for a visit. Their challenging routines leave little room to sit and chat; most of their meals are done while multitasking on coursework or managing their channels. But this night, Sakusa sits alone at the table, taking mouthfuls of fried rice as he scrolls through his phone.
At the sound of Suna’s footsteps, he sets his phone down and looks up. “Hey,” he greets.
“Hey.” Suna regards him warily, letting his backpack fall to the floor. He stops in the genkan to kick off his sneakers and put on the slippers that have a permanent space by the front door. “Is there some kind of special occasion that I missed?”
Sakusa frowns. “No.” He gestures at his plate. “You want some? I made extra.”
The mixture of onions, eggs, and ham waft towards him as Suna wanders into the apartment. The smell is enough to make his mouth water, and his stomach twists at the reminder that all he had to eat today was a quick bowl of cereal for breakfast. Still, as tempting as the offer is, he hasn’t been home all day. There is a pile of coursework waiting for him, and he still has to plan what he intends to stream later tonight.
“It’s fine,” Suna says. “I’ll grab some leftovers from the fridge and eat in my room.”
Sakusa’s frown deepens. He points at the spot at the table opposite him. “Sit. Eat. You can spare a few minutes, at least.”
It’s ironic—and a little hypocritical—coming from Sakusa. Suna almost wants to protest on principle, but then his stomach growls. “Fine,” Suna says, ignoring the look of satisfaction Sakusa wears. “I’ll have some.”
“I’ll grab it for you.” Sakusa stands up and dusts off his pants. Again, he points for Suna to take a seat. He waits until Suna drops to the floor before heading into the kitchen. “What do you want to drink?”
“Melon soda. Please.”
Sakusa returns with a fresh plate, a spoon, and a bottle of melon soda. He arranges it all in front of Suna without having to be asked, and Suna resists the urge to snap at him. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like the fact that Sakusa’s taking care of him as if Suna is the one that’s gone over the edge. Suna hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary for himself. He doesn’t know what has warranted this close monitoring.
“There you go,” Sakusa says, taking his seat across from Suna. His plate is still half-full, and he resumes eating as if he was never interrupted to begin with.
Suna watches him for a few seconds, almost expecting Sakusa to say something. His actions speak louder than words, and Suna knows that the reprimand is on the tip of Sakusa’s tongue. He waits, but it never comes. When Sakusa glances over at him, he pointedly looks at Suna’s plate.
“Come on,” Sakusa urges. “Eat.”
Suna picks up his spoon and takes his first mouthful of fried rice. All at once, he remembers just how hungry he is, and the spoonfuls that follow occur at a quicker pace than the first, one after the other. It doesn’t matter that the rice is still hot or that he’s eating fast enough to upset his stomach.
Sakusa watches him. “Long day?”
Suna heaves a long sigh, his shoulders sagging. “I hate this geoscience course with a passion. It’s too late in the evening, and it lasts too long.”
“I told you not to take it.”
“Shut up.”
“You should’ve listened to me.”
“No, thanks.”
Sakusa leans back a little. He reaches out to unscrew the cap on his water. “You’ve been going to your classes more recently.”
“You know”—Suna lets out a huff of air when his tongue feels like it’s burning—“usually you yell at me for skipping them. Somehow, it sounds like you’re mad that I’m actually attending.”
“That’s not it,” Sakusa says. He tips the water bottle back and takes a few long swigs before setting it back down. “You know that’s not. It just looks like you have a lot more on your plate than usual.”
Suna tenses. His shoulders rise even as he hunches over the table in the terrible posture Sakusa berates him for constantly, and he pauses eating long enough to snap, “That’s rich coming from you.”
Sakusa’s features contort into a scowl. It’s the closest to being annoyed that he’s been with Suna for a while. It happened quite often when they first met and Sakusa adjusted his uptight personality in order to relax around someone as careless as Suna, but the exposure has numbed Sakusa to most reflexive irritation he experiences around Suna. Most—but not all. Suna’s hit a nerve. It’s possible that Sakusa’s had a similar long day, otherwise he might not make it so clear.
A few seconds tick past, and Suna wonders what Sakusa might mention first—the nonexistent sleeping schedule, the bags under Suna’s eyes, the late-night streams that transform into early morning streams. There’s a multitude of red flags Sakusa could address, but Sakusa is about as terrible at asking about someone’s personal feelings as Suna is about avoiding someone’s personal feelings. In the end, Sakusa remains silent.
Suna expects the slight change in topic, but he doesn’t know what to make of the disappointment that churns in his gut.
“You’ve been working on a project these last two weeks,” Sakusa says. “Right?”
“Yeah.” Suna takes another mouthful, slower this time. “It’s for my sociology class.”
“So that’s where you’ve been.”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s easier to focus if we’re in the same place.” Suna doesn’t mention that he doesn’t get to reap the rewards of his hard work if he doesn’t head over to Osamu’s apartment in the time that they carve out to work on it. “So it’s fine.”
Sakusa purses his lips. “You know,” he says. “You can take a break from streaming whenever you want to. You can skip a day every now and then. Your audience will understand.”
Suna doesn’t doubt that. After all, they endure his tendency to troll during matches and his inclination to stay quiet whenever he concentrates. He’s certain that his viewers have low expectations for him. It’s more that Suna doesn’t want to take a break. He doesn’t want to skip a day. Even if his audience understands, Suna can’t come to terms with the concept of taking it easy.
“I’ll take a break,” Suna says, reaching for his drink, “when you do.”
Sakusa heaves a sigh, like the answer is exactly what he’d expected. “Suna.”
“Yes?”
In the end, Sakusa can’t bring himself to say it. Suna lets himself imagine what that might be like, emotionally-constipated Sakusa telling him, Be careful. It almost makes him laugh. He supposes it doesn’t matter much whether the words leave Sakusa’s mouth or not, though. The intention is there, and Suna is keenly aware of it as Sakusa’s eyes pin him in place, willing him to stay seated until his plate is empty and his belly is full.
Osamu is a lot less lenient about their kissing interludes than Suna had hoped. He sticks to the five slides rule that Suna had suggested as if his word is law, and no amount of wheedling him down convinces Osamu to bypass their work for the afternoon to unwind. Suna supposes Osamu is right in forcing them to be productive beforehand. After all, they need to complete this project. But until Osamu announces that the presentation looks satisfactory for the time being, Suna turns into a tightly-wound spring, tensing until the point of snapping.
Yet, when those announcements do arrive and Osamu offers Suna a gentle smile, as if he’s granting permission, Suna savors them for all they’re worth.
He sits in Osamu’s lap now, his knees braced on either side of Osamu’s hips. Osamu’s back rests against the headboard, his spine rigid while he sits upright, but he supports Suna’s weight like it’s nothing, one hand pressed against the small of Suna’s back to keep him from flying backwards.
Suna has always been taller than Osamu, but there’s something oddly thrilling about balancing on Osamu’s thighs, peering down while Osamu tilts his head back, his lips quirked in a faint smile that warms Suna’s insides. His hair appears more unruly than usual, likely due to the fact that Suna can’t stop himself from running his fingers through it, and his eyes dance with desire every time Suna breaks off to look at him.
Suna likes this. He likes it a lot. He thought he had Osamu backed into a corner, pinpointing the kind of person he was, but Osamu has managed to surprise him without realizing it. The reminder sends a thrill through him, more palpable each time they meet up and stop working long enough to let their lips interlock again.
Suna surges forward to seal Osamu’s lips with another kiss, his tongue running along Osamu’s bottom lip.
“Suna,” Osamu says. “Suna.”
“What?” Suna’s hands sweep along the hem of Osamu’s T-shirt, brushing against the skin that reveals itself whenever he slips beneath the piece of clothing. He stops when he realizes Osamu isn’t kissing him back, and he leans back a few centimeters. He doesn’t go far, but the distance that separates them aches. “What’s wrong?”
Osamu’s eyes had been alight with longing before, but they narrow almost imperceptibly. Suna doubts he would notice if he wasn’t so close. “You yawned. Again.”
“What? No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did,” Osamu insists. The hand that sits against Suna’s back flattens against his shirt, keeping Suna steady. His gaze flickers over Suna’s features, and without meaning to, Suna stiffens. He knows how he must look: shadows beneath his eyes, a little red from exhaustion. “How much sleep didja get last night?”
“Does it matter?” Suna tugs at Osamu’s shirt. He doesn’t want to discuss this now. He hears enough about his deterioration from Sakusa, who speaks in pointed glances and disapproving looks. He doesn’t need anyone else criticizing him for his current state, too. Especially not Osamu. “Come on. A little more.”
Osamu doesn’t budge. His stare hardens. “How much?”
Suna gulps. “Uh. I don’t know. Four hours, maybe.”
“Four hours?” Osamu sputters. “Four hours? Why didja come here? We coulda rescheduled. You coulda taken a nap.”
“I don’t need a nap. It’s fine. I’m not tired.”
“Suna, you yawned while kissin’ me twice. You’re either bored or exhausted.”
“I said I don’t need a nap. I’m not tired.”
Osamu sighs, and it’s so reminiscent of the one Sakusa made a few days ago that Suna scowls on reflex. To his disappointment, Osamu doesn’t seem to accept his insistence. He urges Suna backwards until Suna collapses onto the covers again, and he straightens his legs out before scrambling off the bed.
“Osamu—”
“I’m makin’ you a tea,” Osamu says. “Then you’re gonna go home and sleep. We can work on the project another time.”
Suna doesn’t know what to make of the twist in his gut. Osamu doesn’t look his way before leaving his bedroom and disappearing into the kitchen, which makes it all worse. Shame builds up inside him without warning, a foreign sensation. He doesn’t know what to do with himself while he waits for Osamu’s return. Osamu has made it clear that Suna should go home immediately.
It takes him a minute to decide that he should at least tidy up after himself. He stands up and smooths out the sheets, brushing away the wrinkles that appear as a result of him lounging around while he finds the best position to work. He tucks his laptop into his backpack and zips it up, the sound piercing through the stillness. The whistle of the teapot rings from the kitchen, but Suna ignores it in favor of retrieving Osamu’s laptop and setting it down on his pillow.
It’s still open to their presentation, having been shoved aside in the heat of the moment as Suna took its place in Osamu’s lap. At the very least, Suna can admit that they did make a decent amount of progress. They only require a few more slides, and after that, the presentation requires a bit of revision to ensure that there aren’t any typos. Then it’ll all be over until the class in which they’re called to explain their research in front of the class. After that, there’s—nothing.
It’s not like he and Osamu are friends. They’re project partners. Classmates. Strangers. The kissing is a byproduct, but that will disappear, too, once the semester ends and they have no reason to be around each other anymore.
Suna moves to shut Osamu’s laptop, but he pauses when his eyes catch on another tab Osamu’s left open. He pushes aside the guilt that cuts through his hesitation and clicks on it.
The air freezes in Suna’s lungs when his channel name pops up. It’s not like he hadn’t suspected that Osamu watched his streams. In fact, he’d called Osamu out on his lie without remorse. But the fact that there’s a tab on Osamu’s laptop opened to the stream Suna recorded last night doesn’t match in Suna’s brain. It takes him a few seconds to process it, which isn’t long enough when Osamu’s footsteps approach through the hall.
Suna switches back to the tab that holds their presentation, closes the laptop, and spins around right as Osamu enters. He holds a plain mug in his right hand, the steam billowing outside, and he pushes it toward Suna.
“Here,” Osamu says.
“Thanks.” The ceramic is warm to the touch as Suna’s fingers grip the handle, and he cradles it gently in his hands as he raises it to his mouth and takes a quick sip. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Osamu stays quiet—long enough that Suna shoots him a look. Osamu inhales through his nostrils. “You’ll go to sleep, right? You won’t just go upstairs and fuck around instead of gettin’ some rest?”
“No promises,” Suna says. “I’m really good at fucking around.”
“Suna.” The severity in the sound of his name is enough to whittle Suna down. That—along with the knowledge that Osamu has been watching over Suna more than he’d realized. “Please.”
“Yeah,” Suna says, his voice softer. “I’ll get some rest.”
His promise doesn’t last.
Suna hasn’t familiarized himself with taking breaks or giving himself a breather in quite some time. His body doesn’t react well to it, his hands twitching for something to do, his mind whirring for something to occupy it. In the end, he reaches his limit when he suggests that he and Sakusa play Geoguessr with alcohol as punishment. It isn’t the smartest of ideas, nor is it well-timed. But Sakusa doesn’t require much convincing, and Suna is too far gone to backtrack.
Geoguessr is a game that incorporates Google Maps, dropping the players off in random locations around the world with full camera views of the streets, and it’s up to those involved to guess what country they’re in before their opponents. It’s a game of knowledge, the kind that he and Sakusa excel at, and his brain churns with the need to focus on something that isn’t related to his studies or—Osamu, and the sharp look that trailed after Suna when Osamu had watched him depart the other day.
Suna needs a distraction, and the kind of competition that this game provides is enough to tear his attention away from meaningless thoughts. It’s overkill, really, to add the element of drinking into the equation, but it adds a layer of excitement that leaves their audiences more chatty than usual. It’s good content at least, and that’s what he and Sakusa aim to provide.
“Okay,” Suna says. The game is loaded on his end, the title screen flashing across his computer. “You ready?”
Suna’s eyes slide over to his chat on the other monitor, and there is a stream of comments complaining that he isn’t loud enough. It must be a problem with his volume. Vaguely, Suna hears Sakusa’s mumbling on the line, but his focus is directed at adjusting his microphone settings. He waits until he sees the first few comments that confirm that the volume has improved before returning his attention to the lobby.
“You want me to drop the link in the chat?” Suna asks.
“Uh, yes,” Sakusa says. Suna opens up their private chat and drops the link to the lobby he created. As the link appears on-screen, several audience members fill the rest of the empty slots to play along with them. “Okay. Ready.”
“Starting.”
As soon as the first match begins, Suna hones his concentration. He has one goal in mind tonight, and that is to get Sakusa as wasted as possible. He’ll walk away from the stream tipsy at least, but Suna wants to get as much out of this opportunity as possible. He can do that so long as he yanks a few victories right off the bat. It shouldn’t be hard. He’s invested hours into this game. The only problem is that Sakusa has, too.
Even so, they both win once within the first few rounds. Suna fills his shot glass with vodka that he hasn’t cracked open in a few weeks, and he pours himself a full shot, taking his punishment with dignity and grace as he swallows it down.
In Senegal, Suna takes the win.
“Shit,” Sakusa says, slight irritation coming across. It strikes a smile on Suna’s face. “How did you know?”
“You have to look up,” Suna explains. “The street view messed up when they stitched Senegal together. There’s a rift in the sky. It was pretty lucky.”
“Oh.” There’s a brief pause as Sakusa takes his shot. “Fuck. Okay. Let’s go again.”
Sakusa beats him to South Korea, more out of quick reflexes than skill. His cackle turns deafening while Suna takes another shot, and if Suna were more grounded, he’d realize that Sakusa has never laughed this hard on stream before. If it weren’t at Suna’s expense, Suna might laugh, too.
“I knew it was South Korea, too,” Suna mutters. “I just wasn’t quick enough.”
“I’m hearing excuses, Sunarin.”
“Shut up.”
The game drops them in Malta, and it’s a race to see who can find the island first. In the end, Sakusa’s uncontrollable shout precedes the end of the match, the graphics announcing his victory, and Suna resists the urge to scowl as he pours another shot for himself. The bottle is emptier than he’d like.
“Hah!” Sakusa says. “I won.”
Suna resists the urge to drop his head onto the desk. “This is unfair,” Suna complains. He disregards the fact that this was his idea to start with. “You can hold your liquor much better than I can. This is, like, my sixth shot.”
There’s a pregnant pause. Then—“Suna, you are doing half-shots, right?”
Suna holds the glass between his fingertips, the question not fully registering. He watches the alcohol slosh inside, and he waits a few long seconds before responding. “What?”
“Suna.” Suna hears Sakusa smack his palms against his desk. “We’re doing half-shots. We agreed.”
“When did we agree on that?” Suna demands. Frustration colors his words, tightening around his gut. He wants to be angry about this—angry that Sakusa hadn’t made the rules explicit. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how absurd it would be for Sakusa to take full-shots. “I don’t remember that.”
“I said we should do half-shots when you told me what you wanted to do,” Sakusa says. “Then I reminded you before we started. Fuck’s sake, Suna. You’re going to be hungover tomorrow. Don’t take this shot.”
Suna’s gaze drops back to the glass pinched in his grasp. He has the sudden urge to look over at the chat, even though he knows it’s hidden from view to avoid cheating, simply because he’s curious what their response is. He imagines it’s divided with half ordering him to put it down, insistent that he’s had more than enough, and half coercing him to down it for the hell of it.
Suna can’t bring himself to set it aside. He’s come this far. He tips back the glass and sputters at the taste, muttering under his breath.
“You’re an idiot,” Sakusa says. Suna can imagine how he must look, all disapproving and annoyed. “An actual idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The insult barely stings. “What else is new?”
“I think that’s it for me tonight.”
Although Suna’s first instinct is to protest, his mouth moves before his brain works of its own stupidity. It’s eleven in the evening, and while he usually has another few hours left in him at this point, his stomach is starting to clench, the physical reminder that he’s not up to par. “Yeah. I want to sleep this off.”
“You should.” The annoyance gives way to concern, and it’s enough to appease Suna. Sakusa isn’t great with his emotions—though neither is Suna—but he manages to get across his feelings without being overbearing. It’s one of his greatest features.
“Mmm,” Suna hums. “I left my laundry downstairs in the machine, though.” It’s tempting to imagine leaving it there overnight, especially when it’s already so late, but he knows that if he does, he’ll head downstairs tomorrow morning to find his laundry thrown all over the room by someone else in the building. Usually, that someone is Suna.
“You should get that first. Then drink some water. And eat something.”
“Yeah,” Suna mumbles. “That sounds good.”
“Mmhmm.” Sakusa’s voice sounds far away, like his attention has been diverted. “You go do that, Suna.”
“Yeah. Will do. I’m leaving the call.”
“Bye,” Sakusa says.
“Bye.”
It disconnects, and Suna makes quick work of saying goodbye to the chat before turning off his stream. The longer he stares at the screen, the more his eyes start to burn. He can’t tell if his vision is getting fuzzier because of exhaustion or his alcohol-muddled brain.
Suna lets out a groan before pushing himself to his feet. He twists the cap on his bottle of vodka and picks up his dirty glass, bringing it with him to the kitchen. The sink is empty, just like Sakusa prefers it. Suna does his best to be a hospitable roommate, and that means cleaning up after himself immediately whenever he uses the dishes. He follows the implicit rules that are set up for their living space to a T, but this time, he’s sure Sakusa will forgive him for leaving his glass overnight.
He ambles along slower than usual. It takes him a few seconds to pick up an empty laundry basket and shut the door to the apartment behind him. The hall is vacant when he steps outside, and it comes as a relief, especially when he hobbles down the stairs like a newborn baby learning how to walk. It’s made more complicated with the basket held in front of him, but he manages to make it down to the ground floor in one piece.
His limbs weigh down with exhaustion he hadn’t noticed before now, and his feet drag against the floor as he stumbles into the laundry room. It’s empty, and Suna lets out a huff as he drops the basket to the floor with a clatter. The single lamp that hangs from the ceiling burns into his vision, searing until his brain hurts, and Suna has just enough strength to kick the basket over to the dryer he used.
Inside, the clothes remain in a heap. He pulls open the door and crouches down, though his balance wavers. He’s forced to use one hand to hold himself upright while the other draws out each article of clothing and drops it into the basket. It’s tedious work, and he wishes he could move faster. But his position somehow manages to make him feel even more light-headed, and he can barely think, much less consider how to make this easier for himself.
His stomach twists again, and Suna has the distant thought that he might feel better if he threw up. He shoves the image to the back of his mind before he follows through with it, and he fishes the last of his clothes out of the machine before dropping back on his ass onto the cold tiled floor.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Suna takes it out of his pants to find a message from Sakusa.
Sakusa Kiyoomi
Did you get lost??
Suna Rintarou
Dun worry bout it
Sakusa Kiyoomi
Huh
“Mm,” Suna hums. His body becomes leaden as he sinks down, resting his back against the ground. The chill that emanates from the tiles clears his head enough that the pounding ceases. It’s not enough to ward off the discomfort in his stomach, but it makes it more manageable. The brightness from the light makes it difficult to stare up at the ceiling, but it eases when his eyelids flutter shut.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there like that, sprawled on the floor, his limbs in disarray. All he knows is that being horizontal is preferable to being vertical and that anything that wards off the throbbing in his temples is welcome. Even though his stomach continues to clench at random, he’s no longer bombarded with the threat of vomiting at any given moment.
When Suna works up the courage to pry his eyes apart, his vision is so fuzzy that he can barely see straight. The lamp cuts through any details that he should make out, but it glows around the silhouette of someone’s profile hovering above him. He still isn’t lucid enough to recognize them on his own. In the end, he doesn’t have to.
The voice breaks through the otherwise quiet of the laundry room, only broken apart by the rhythmic hum of the machines behind him. “Suna.”
Suna shuts his eyes again, partly because the light is making his headache worse, partly because he doesn’t want to see Osamu’s face as he looks down at Suna’s pitiful state. “Hey, Osamu,” he says with a gummy smile. “Fancy seeing you here. You want to do some late-night laundry, too?”
“Can you even stand up?”
“‘M not sure,” Suna says. “I haven’t tried to in a while.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“That might be a possibility.”
Osamu sighs, and Suna feels the exhalation across his face. There’s a rustle behind him as Osamu lifts Suna’s laundry basket and sets it down on the machine that he’d been using. A few seconds later, there’s a gentle tap at his cheek. “Open yer eyes.”
“No,” Suna says, turning his head away. He doesn’t even mean to do it. His mouth moves before his brain catches up with him. He can’t help it. He knows he’s coming across as a brat right now, and that’s the last thing he wants. He can’t even blame it all on the alcohol. “Don’t want to.”
“Suna.”
“Osamu.”
“You can’t stay here all night,” Osamu reasons.
Suna knows this. He is the one that captures the embarrassing pictures of his acquaintances and friends whenever they drink past their limits and wind up in unfortunate circumstances. He can’t imagine being on the other side of it, blasted all over when one of the building residents inevitably finds him tomorrow morning. He has to move eventually. But the urge to stay still and lie down has yet to leave him.
“It’s too far,” Suna says. “Too high up.”
“Then I’ll take you to my apartment.”
Suna cracks open an eye at that, and he ignores how the light stings in favor of assessing the sincerity behind Osamu’s offer. Osamu still stands above him, his stare flat as always, but something flickers beyond his eyes. Suna might mistake it for concern, if it were anyone else but Osamu.
“Yeah?” Suna holds up his arms. “Would you carry me, too?”
Osamu straightens. “If I had to.”
“Wow.” There is no mockery behind the statement—nothing that gives Osamu away. It’s enough to encourage Suna to push himself up in slow movements until he’s in a sitting position, his arms braced at his sides. “I think I can stand on my own, but it’s cute that you’d offer.”
“Uh-huh.” Osamu doesn’t look impressed. Suna’s teasing doesn’t hit the mark. “You gonna stand up?”
“I’m getting to that.” Suna casts a look over his shoulder at his laundry basket. “I need to grab—”
“I’ll come back for that,” Osamu says. His hand falls on Suna’s shoulder, and although Suna sees it coming from a mile off, he still jumps beneath the touch. “Oh. Sorry.” He lifts it again, but it hangs in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “I’ll help you up the stairs.”
“Wait.”
Suna pulls his phone out of his pocket again. There aren’t any new messages from Sakusa, though Suna is certain he’s on the verge of sending several in succession. The amount of time Suna has been gone has surpassed how long it should have taken him to collect his laundry and return to his room.
If Suna lets Osamu take him to his apartment, Sakusa will wreck himself with worry. He might not show it, but Suna will know through the series of texts that appear on his lockscreen and the frown he’ll wear when Suna shows up tomorrow morning. The least Suna can do is let him know where he’s headed.
“I got to tell Sakusa.” Suna clicks his phone on, but the screen refuses to light up. “Uh.”
“I think,” Osamu says, “yer phone is dead.”
“I got that. Thanks.” Suna tries another series of fruitless attempts to turn his phone on to no avail. Grumbling, he shoves it back in his pocket. “I have to tell him. I don’t have his number memorized, though.”
Osamu whips out his own phone from his pocket. “Here.”
“I said I don’t have his number—”
“You can text Atsumu,” Osamu says, still holding it out towards Suna. “He’ll tell Sakusa-kun.”
“What?” Suna’s fingers clasp around the metal of Osamu’s phone. “When is Atsumu going to see him?”
“Soon.” It’s a vague answer, one that Suna might push more on if he were a little less tired and a lot more sober. But as of this moment, he doesn’t have the mental capacity to dwell on Sakusa and Miya Atsumu’s developing relationship that is more than a friendship—no matter what Sakusa claims.
“Sakusa won’t believe it if I just send a text,” Suna says, because he knows how Sakusa gets. He’s lived with the guy for months. Sakusa might be under the impression that he knows Suna better, but Suna pays as much attention to Sakusa’s habits and quirks and likes as Sakusa does. It’s natural that the knowledge builds up after living together for so long, and so, Suna understands that Sakusa won’t be satisfied with a simple text message from Osamu’s phone that states that Suna is fine. He’ll want more evidence than that. “I need to take a picture.”
Osamu’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Of what?”
“Of me.” Suna clicks on the camera and flips it toward him. He doesn’t care much for selfies of himself, but he doesn’t have the same kind of reservations tonight as he does on an ordinary day. His gaze flicks up towards Osamu. “Are you going to get in it?”
“Huh?” Osamu falls back a step. “Do I got to?”
“Yeah,” Suna says. “Just to make sure Sakusa knows that you’re looking out for me.” That gummy smile of his returns. “You are looking out for me, aren’t you?”
“Ugh.” Osamu circles around him until he stands over Suna’s shoulder. “I hate this. I don’t like takin’ pictures of myself.”
“Why not?” Suna stretches his arms out, the phone balanced in his hands. “You look good.”
Suna feels rather than sees Osamu’s eyes slide towards him. It lasts a split second before Osamu crouches down to Suna’s level, his palms clasped on his knees, inclined toward the camera.
Suna frowns. “You’re not close enough.”
“Huh? How close do I got to be?”
Before Osamu can continue, Suna slings his left arm around Osamu’s neck and drags him in close. Their heads knock together, and the impact shoots straight through Suna’s skull. He grits his teeth momentarily before pushing through it. His arm feels warm around Osamu’s neck, and his palm burns from where it holds onto Osamu’s shirt. As close as they are, Suna senses every shift in Osamu’s shoulders, every movement of his arms. Even though he’s pulled close, he doesn’t fight against the force of Suna’s grip.
“Okay,” Suna says. As he stares out at the phone screen, he catches sight of Osamu’s sharp stare, and it almost makes him laugh. He still looks serious, like he’s taking a professional photograph and not some dimly lit selfie for Suna’s roommate. In the end, Suna’s loopy smile is a result of Osamu’s expression, and Suna thinks that his tongue pokes out between his teeth when he snaps the picture. “There.”
Suna returns the phone back to Osamu. “Thank you,” Suna says. “Can you send that to Atsumu?”
“Yeah.” With his phone in hand, Osamu stands upright. He taps the screen a couple of times before tucking it back into his pocket. “I got it.”
“Thanks.”
“Can we go now?”
Suna gives him a slow nod. There’s nothing else keeping him here. Besides, he wants to spend time with Osamu. The realization strikes him in the heart, the sharp point splitting apart all of the uncertainties and hesitations. He wants to spend time with Osamu whether they’re kissing or working or sitting still. He wants to witness the flat looks and coax out the flustered moments and listen to the bursts of laughter.
It doesn’t mean anything. Not necessarily. He just wants to be around someone steady and constant in all the ways he is not. When he thinks about what that means, he pictures Osamu.
“Yeah,” Suna says. “We can go.”
“Okay.” Osamu grips Suna beneath the elbows and helps him to his feet. Even when Suna is upright again, his touch never leaves. “Gotcha.”
His head hurts a little from standing up so suddenly, but he no longer feels like he’s at risk of crashing headfirst onto the floor at any given moment. Right as Suna debates whether he’s feeling better, Osamu lifts his arm up over his own shoulders until Suna is leaning onto him.
“Uh,” Suna says right as their sides press up against each other.
“This is fine,” Osamu says. Suna can’t tell who he’s trying to convince. “It’s fine.”
It is—not quite fine. The trek up the stairs is more complicated than either of them anticipate. The short width prevents them from fitting side by side comfortably, and Suna keeps reaching for the railing whenever his balance wavers. Even though his arm is slung over Osamu’s shoulders and Osamu’s arm secures itself around Suna’s waist, he still doesn’t trust himself to climb the staircase with ease. It takes double the time it should, cut off by breaks when Suna needs a second to reorient himself, but when they catch sight of the front door to Osamu’s apartment, relief washes over him.
“My laundry—”
“I’ll go back down for it,” Osamu says. He guides Suna to the front door and fishes for the keys in his pocket. When he finds them, he turns it into the lock until the door gives way. “Gin?”
“Yo,” a voice calls from within the apartment.
“Keep an eye on this idiot,” Osamu says. His hand gently shoves Suna into the apartment, and Suna almost stumbles over the genkan as he kicks his shoes off. “He’s drunk off his ass.”
“Okay.” Suna pokes his head further into the apartment. A sandy head of hair sits in front of the television, sprawled across the couch, but he rotates at the sound of footsteps. “Hey, Suna.”
“Hey, Gin,” Suna says. He’s met Ginjima a couple of times now, usually whenever either of them are on their way in or out of the apartment, their conversations brief but polite. Their schedules prevent them from sitting down together and chatting longer. It makes sense for Osamu to live with someone like Gin—as genuine as he is, a bit passionate, a bit rash. Overall, Gin is a stand-up guy, as kind as they get. “How are you?”
“Good.” Gin surveys Suna from where he sits, and Suna wonders what Gin notices first—the hand Suna keeps against the wall to balance himself or the slur to his words. The front door shuts a second later as Osamu descends to the ground floor again to retrieve Suna’s laundry. “You look like a mess.”
Suna snorts. “I’ve had better days.”
“I’m sure.” Gin jerks his chin. “You can come sit down on the couch if you want.”
Suna makes a noncommittal sound.
“Or you can go lie down,” Gin says, turning back around as the commercials end and his show resumes. “I’m sure Osamu won’t mind if you use his bed.”
That option sounds more appealing than sharing the couch with Gin and watching TV with the volume turned far too loud. Osamu’s bed is comfortable. Cozy. It’ll be a suitable place to wait while he waits for the tide to subside.
“Right,” Suna says. He shuffles towards Osamu’s bedroom, his feet leading the way without much thought. “I’ll go lie down.”
“You should drink some water,” Gin advises.
Suna grunts, but bypasses the kitchen in favor of Osamu’s bedroom.
The room is tidy and well-kept as usual, the sheets drawn up and tucked in, and Suna doesn’t bother turning on the lights before flopping down onto the mattress. He has enough sense to wriggle up towards the cushions and drop his head onto one of them before his eyes shut.
The passage of time becomes fuzzy, the darkness of the room cool and calming. All Suna can hear is the faint hum of voices from the television, but beyond that, everything else fades. He can almost pretend that he’s not in Osamu’s apartment—that he’s back home in his own bed, draped across the sheets.
The facade cracks when the mattress dips with a new weight.
“Suna.” The sound of his name comes out like a soft rasp.
For a brief moment, Suna contemplates not answering. He can pretend he’s fast asleep, and Osamu wouldn’t bother him. But—Suna decides that he doesn’t mind being bothered. “Mm.”
“I got yer laundry,” Osamu says. There’s a ghost of a touch, so light that Suna almost misses it, and then his hair is brushed aside out of his face. “Didja drink somethin’?”
“Yes,” Suna lies.
“Suna.”
“No.” Suna cracks open an eye to find a glass of water already waiting for him. Osamu keeps it outstretched while Suna pushes himself up and takes it from him. “Thanks.”
Osamu’s expression doesn’t waver. “You’re welcome.”
The water rushes down to his stomach, spurring on another involuntary clench, but Suna doesn’t think he has the same instinct to throw it all up anymore. He’s past that. His body is at the point of wanting to unwind—to not move and remain utterly still. He still drains the glass regardless, and he sets it down on Osamu’s side table when he’s finished.
“Thank you,” Suna says again.
“You don’t hafta—”
“Not for the water,” Suna cuts him off.
The words stick in his throat, creating a lump that’s hard to break past. It’s rare that Suna ever puts himself in a position of vulnerability in which he is completely honest. He never has to lie, but he covers himself in snark that shields him off well enough. He can’t determine whether it’s the alcohol loosening his tongue or if it’s the sequence of events that brought him here.
Each action of Osamu’s has been etched in care and concern—the kind Suna doesn’t think he deserves, especially when he lets himself sink this deep. From guiding him upstairs to returning for his laundry to encouraging Suna to drink water, Osamu has been patient with him even when he doesn’t have to be. It almost makes Suna want to cry for unknown reasons.
“Just—thank you,” Suna says. He eases himself back down slowly to ensure that the rush of blood upwards isn’t disarming. “You could’ve left me on the floor downstairs.”
The lighting might be too dim to make anything out, but Osamu’s features contort as he gives Suna a weird look. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. It’s not your responsibility to look after me. We’re just—” Suna breaks off. He doesn’t know how to end that sentence, and it trails off instead. He can’t cover it up either, judging by how Osamu’s expression pinches. He heard every word.
“Just…?” Osamu prompts.
Suna’s lips press together.
Osamu’s nostrils flare. He looks off at some nondescript point in the wall. “You’re an idiot, Suna.”
“Huh?” Suna almost sits up again, but Osamu shoots him a hard look that forces him to remain frozen. “What does that mean?”
Instead of answering the question, Osamu says, “Six shots. Really?”
It takes a moment for Suna to get it, but when realization dawns on him, his mind feels clearer than it has since he downed that first shot of alcohol. “You were watching?”
“Mhm,” Osamu hums. He unfurls his fingers and drops his hand to the right of Suna’s hip. “Why would Sakusa-kun agree to do full-shots? Idiot.”
“Well!” Indignation flares up inside him. “I don’t know. I didn’t think much about it.” He stops when he notices that Osamu’s shoulders tremble. He doesn’t realize that Osamu’s trying to hold back his laughter until a snort leaves his lips. “Hey! Stop laughing at me.”
“You’re an idiot,” Osamu repeats. His frame angles more towards Suna, his torso twisted. His left hand rises, almost like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and Osamu lets it fall again, his mouth twisting.
It’s like Osamu is purposely holding himself back. Suna wishes he wouldn’t.
Suna draws in an intake of breath. “Osamu.”
“Yeah?”
His fingers grip the hem of Osamu’s shirt, giving it a firm tug. He doesn’t know what he means to say. When his mouth parts, he doesn’t expect the words, “Kiss me,” to fall from his lips.
Osamu clearly doesn’t expect it either. His eyes widen, almost invisible against the nonexistent light, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. The few seconds of silence that pass are enough to make regret climb up his throat at the same time that his stomach lurches. Suddenly, Suna wants to vomit for an entirely different reason.
But he won’t. Not when Osamu’s gaze pins him in place, searching and assessing beyond what Suna’s words provide. “We didn’t complete five slides,” Osamu croaks.
It’s so absurd that a laugh bursts from Suna without meaning to. “Yeah. And?”
Osamu turns his head away. “I don’t—I’m not—you said you didn’t have time. Time to be in a relationship or anythin’.” His hands tighten into fists where they grab hold of the sheets. “I’m not the kinda person that does things halfway. If you want me to kiss you, Suna, you better mean it.”
That’s what it is, Suna decides. When Suna had misconstrued Osamu for being a stickler for the rules and single-minded, he had been fine with seeing Osamu as a one-dimensional figure. It’s the spaces of quiet over the semester that have broken apart this vision of Osamu in Suna’s mind—from the long afternoons lounging in Osamu’s bedroom to the late-night sessions at the library to the lapses of kisses in between. Somewhere along the way, that seriousness Osamu carries with him has cracked.
Perhaps it hasn’t cracked. Maybe Suna sees past that now, because he’s grown to understand that the severity isn’t to be taken as a negative aspect to Osamu’s character. Rather, it shows his determination and dedication. These are all facets Suna admires. Osamu is someone that is all-in or nothing. It’s the reason he quit volleyball upon reaching university. He couldn’t promise his entire being to the sport.
Osamu can’t promise his entire being to Suna if Suna isn’t willing to promise him the same thing.
“I can—” Suna swallows. “I can make time. I can find it.” When Osamu doesn’t answer—doesn’t turn his head back towards Suna—Suna continues rambling. “I know you don’t do things in halves. I know that, and I still want you to kiss me. I mean it.”
“Why?” Osamu asks.
It should be a simple question. Why? But it leaves Suna reeling. “Because,” he says slowly, giving himself the chance to come up with a suitable answer, “you make me want to take things easy.”
Osamu finally twists back around, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
“I don’t know,” Suna says. “Before, I didn’t really have a reason to stop and slow down or take breaks. I only think about streaming most of the time and what I’ll stream that day. I talk to, like, two people outside of classes. One of them is my roommate, so that barely counts.”
“Suna.” Osamu’s finger taps the back of Suna’s hand.
“But, uh, now I think about you a lot.” It’s Suna’s turn to face the opposite direction. He doesn’t have enough courage to look Osamu in the eye while placing all of his cards out on the table. “I think about when we’re going to meet up next and whether we’ll wind up kissing again and how I can convince you to stick around after this semester.”
“Stick around?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out like a soft admission.
“You want me to stick around?”
Suna hums, as much affirmation as he can offer. He waits for Osamu to speak up, but all he hears is the shift of the sheets as Osamu moves. It isn’t until he feels a presence above him that he realizes Osamu’s arms hold him in on either side. It still takes him a few seconds to move his head back—to meet Osamu head-on. He’s unsure what he’ll find there, hidden within the depths of Osamu’s eyes.
“Suna,” Osamu says.
“Yeah?”
“Look at me.”
“Um.”
“Suna.” Osamu’s breath fans Suna’s neck. “Just for a second.”
Suna steels himself, turning his head and staring up. Osamu hovers over him, his shoulders tightening as he keeps himself level. The amount of scrutiny hasn’t changed, but the harshness to his gaze has softened a fraction. His right hand rests against the column of Suna’s neck, his finger pressing against Suna’s pulse. It’s a far more intimate position than it has any right to be, and it makes his heart race even faster.
“You want me to kiss you?” Osamu asks.
“Yeah,” Suna says.
His eyes fall towards Suna’s mouth. “I wanna kiss you, too.”
Before Suna can blurt out, “Please do,” Osamu leans in, dipping his face close enough that his huff of breath is a precursor before his mouth finds Suna’s. It’s not the first kiss or the second. There isn’t anything to distinguish it from all the others. But something about it registers as extraordinary in Suna’s mind as he parts his lips, his tongue pressing against Osamu’s.
It might be the fact that it’s so ordinary that makes it stand out. The others had some amount of restraint to them, Suna holding himself back because it didn’t mean anything, but this is special for its normalcy. It isn’t a noncommittal arrangement in which feelings are excluded from the equation. It’s the beginning of what could turn into more.
As Suna drags Osamu closer with his hand gripping the front of Osamu’s shirt, kissing Osamu with all of the passion he’s held back on over the past couple of weeks, he wonders whether he’ll be able to stop kissing Osamu at all now that they no longer have a time limit. It’s something they’ll have to figure out.
The incessant chime of his alarm grates against his ears at the first hints of sunlight pouring through his bedroom window. If Suna were alone, he might continuously ignore it until it becomes imperative that he gets out of bed. As it is, Osamu will kill him if he lets the noise go on any longer. With that in mind, Suna’s hand reaches out from beneath the covers and fumbles for his phone where it sits on top of his side table.
Though his vision is still fuzzy, Suna squints at the screen. He rarely sets alarms. He operates on his own internal clock, and he tends to show up to classes and meetings if he’s lucky enough to wake up on his own. Whatever it is must be important if he deemed it necessary to set an alarm for it. When his brain clears enough to read the words on the screen, Suna nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Shit!” Suna cries out. He topples out of bed, nearly dragging the covers with him, and he hears Osamu make a disgruntled noise. “Fuck.”
“What?” Osamu’s voice is groggy, and it sends a shiver down Suna’s spine even despite the panic that’s overtaken his senses. “What’s wrong, Rin?”
“I forgot—” Suna snatches the sweatpants that rest in a crumpled mess on the floor. He drops his pajama bottoms in one fluid motion and replaces it with the sweats. He doesn’t have time to be flustered over stripping in front of Osamu. They’re long past that, anyway, having dated for a little over a week now. “I forgot I told Akagi-san I’d play Among Us with him and his friends in, like, five minutes. Shit. I’m so late.”
“Oh.” Osamu lifts his head from the pillow. His dark hair is rumpled, the result of Suna stroking it as they slept, and his eyes are still red around the edges from the abrupt wake-up call. He peers out at Suna through squinted eyes as Suna rushes to switch shirts. “You don’t take long to get ready, though.”
“I’ve got to set up the stream and everything,” Suna says. He nearly breaks his nail in his rush to tear open his dresser drawer. He barely even glances at the clean shirt he takes out before replacing it with his old one. “I have to brush my teeth, and, fuck—”
“It’s okay, Rin.” Osamu’s voice drops into velvety, soothing tones as he recognizes the beginning signs that Suna is starting to lose it. It’s the kind of voice Suna is used to hearing by now. He doesn’t mind it, especially when it means that Osamu is looking so intently to find out how Suna works. “You’ll make it in time.”
“Just—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Osamu says, untangling himself from the covers. He’s dressed in a pair of checkered boxers and a plain gray T-shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care as he hobbles over to Suna’s desk. “I’ll set it up for you.”
“Oh.” For a brief moment, the panic subsides. “Really?”
“Yeah. You showed me how to do it the other day.” Osamu plops down in Suna’s office chair and bends down to turn on the computer. “I’ll figure it out. Go brush yer teeth.”
“Oh. Okay.” Suna lingers for a moment in the doorway, watching as Osamu waits for the screen to come to life, but in the end, the sense of urgency resurfaces and he storms to the bathroom.
It’s not like brushing his teeth or washing his face take long amounts of time. But he hasn’t given himself the chance to do it easily. When he checks his phone again, he’s five minutes late to the prearranged time Akagi set. He runs a hand through his hair and combs his bangs to the sides of his face before ducking into his bedroom again.
The sight that greets him stops him in his tracks entirely. Osamu sits in the same exact position as before, swinging his legs in Suna’s sturdy chair right in front of the camera. He has Suna’s headset arranged around his ears, and the microphone is raised to his mouth as he speaks. Every few seconds, his focus glides over to the monitor to the right where a steady flow of comments from the chat come in. It’s then that Suna notices that the camera is on.
“No, no, Sunarin is fine,” Osamu is saying, addressing the chat as the first few viewers pop into the stream. “He’s just gettin’ ready. He’ll be here in a sec. You won’t hafta deal with me for long.”
There’s a pause. Suna almost speaks up, but then, Osamu’s face lights up when he skims one of the more recent comments.
“Who am I?” Osamu says. “Uh, I’m—I’m Sunarin’s friend. I’m just—fillin’ in for him, I guess. He’ll be here soon.” A voice must come through the headphones, because Osamu twists back towards the monitor in front of him. “Hi, Akagi-san. Yes. You can start. Sunarin will be here soon.”
Akagi must say something over the line, because Osamu merely chuckles before falling silent again. He shifts back and forth in the chair, his gaze flickering towards the chat.
“I don’t know how to play this game,” Osamu admits to the audience. “I don’t got a damn clue. You’re goin’ to be treated to some shitty gameplay if Sunarin doesn’t show up in the next minute or so. I’m sorry about that in advance. Can’t be helped. He should be—” Osamu spins around, and he spots Suna leaning against the doorframe, watching him. “Oh. You’re done.”
“Yeah.” A playful smile tugs at Suna’s lips. He strides forward, but before Osamu can offer him the chair or the headset back, Suna’s palms caress either side of his face, his thumbs stroking in gentle circles before he presses a kiss to the crown of Osamu’s head. “Sunarin’s here.”
“Hey.” Osamu’s shoulders sag. “Sorry. I figured I should just start—”
“You did great,” Suna assures him, his arms winding around Osamu’s neck. “No complaints here.”
“They’re just about to start,” Osamu says. “Akagi-san said he’s ready.”
“You play,” Suna says quickly. Osamu lifts his head to look at Suna properly from where Suna stands behind him. “You play one round. I want to see how well you do.”
Osamu sighs, and the puff of air brushes against Suna’s face. “So you can make fun of me?”
“No,” Suna says. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Mm.” Osamu returns his gaze to the screen. “Yer viewers are gonna get bored. I’m shit at video games.”
“I don’t care. I’ll be entertained.”
“‘Course you will. Cuz you’ll be laughin’ at me.”
“Osamu.” Suna almost sings his name. His eyes flick over to the chat, where several viewers give him and Osamu enthusiastic greetings. Many of the responses are positive, encouraging Osamu to play the first round if he wants to. “Please. For me?”
Osamu sighs again, and Suna feels it in how his body relaxes beneath him. “I’ll do it,” Osamu says. “Only cuz you asked.”
Suna beams, and he meets the camera straight on, tightening his grip around Osamu. “Hi, everyone,” Suna says, addressing the chat. “This is Osamu. My boyfriend.” Osamu makes a content noise at the mention of the label. “This is his first livestream, so you have to be nice to him.”
“They don’t hafta be nice to me,” Osamu mutters.
“You have to be nice to him,” Suna repeats.
Suna doesn’t even have to look at Osamu to know that he’s rolling his eyes. Suna doesn’t care. Osamu is off limits.
Suna watches as Osamu loads into the lobby with all of the other players. Right before the countdown starts, Osamu casts a look over his shoulder, seeking reassurance. Suna gives him a gentle nod, and Osamu visibly relaxes. With that, Osamu returns his attention to the game.
Suna stands back, takes a seat, and for once in his life, he gets to enjoy the livestream as an audience member.