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“Gin, what the hell did you send me?”
Osamu tears his gaze away from the dusty locker room floor to watch Atsumu stride in, phone clenched in hand. The door slams behind him, punctuating his entrance, and the rest of the team peer their heads around the lockers to investigate. Atsumu wags the phone and scowls at Ginjima, who wears a knowing grin as he spins his shirt around his finger.
“It says what it is, right on the form. I sent it to you too, Osamu,” he answers, glancing at Osamu, who blinks back confusedly. He doesn’t remember getting a message, but sure enough, when he fishes his phone out of his discarded khakis, a text notification from Ginjima is plastered across the screen.
It’s a link. Fully expecting some dumbass gag video, Osamu clicks the address and lowers his volume to the absolute minimum. Instead, a Google form opens in his browser, titled MIYATHON: MOMENT OF TRUTH. Now thoroughly thrown off balance, Osamu tucks his legs under him on the bench and scrolls down.
There are two questions. The first one reads: Please choose your favorite Miya twin. Both is not an option, as being able to stand both is unfeasible and may skew data. Below are two bulleted options, one being Miya Atsumu and the other Miya Osamu. Osamu scratches his chin and slowly clicks the bullet to select himself.
The second question is a blank answer line, the prompt being: Please elaborate on your decision. Responses may be published and subject to public humiliation on our Instagram, @miyathon18. Voters are encouraged to share their feelings, as submissions remain anonymous. Only the big man upstairs will know what sorts of sins you’ve committed.
Osamu clicks the answer line and types: I am Miya Osamu. Feeling that this answer is sufficient explanation, he submits the form and tunes back into the locker room conversation.
“So, you don’t have any idea who could’ve started this,” Atsumu says, staring suspiciously down at Ginjima. Ginjima shrugs, failing to contain gleeful laughter.
“Trust me,” he snickers, “I wish I had thought of this first. But I have no clue who made the form— a girl in our class sent it to me.”
Akagi pulls his practice shirt over his head and frowns in contemplation. “I wonder how many responses it’ll get. I mean, how many people know the Miyas?”
“A lot of people know of them. With volleyball and everything,” Oomimi notes. “Lots of admirers.”
“It’ll be so disappointing if this turns into a Miya propaganda event,” Suna says quietly, walking up behind Osamu and making him jump. “I was hoping everyone would recognize an opportunity to run their name through the dirt.”
Osamu turns and cranes his head to meet Suna’s lidded gaze. From this position, even when he’s slouching, Suna towers over him.
Fuck you, he mouths, and Suna’s lips upturn slightly. Ouch, he mouths back, and Osamu fights the thrill that runs through his body.
“Well, it’s stupid, whatever it is,” Atsumu announces, striding over to his locker. “I’ve got better things to focus my attention on.”
There’s truth in that statement. Osamu has seen many the adoring fan, and brief flares of gossip, shunted aside in the name of good old volleyball. It’s like Atsumu can turn off all the outside feedback whenever he steps on the court, his concentration funneling into a single, deadly point. Privately, Osamu wishes he could focus his awareness as easily, but he’s never been the same sort of confident as Atsumu.
“Okay, Atsumu,” Ginjima says easily. “You’d better start acting nicer, though, or Osamu is gonna crush you in the results.”
Osamu can see the exact moment when Atsumu’s shoulders tighten. He turns fractionally, frowning as he considers the statement. Aran, who’s changing next to him, audibly sighs and throws his hands up in the air.
“Now you’ve got him started,” he complains, and Ginjima widens his eyes in the feeblest attempt at feigned innocence.
“I’m not gonna lose to ‘Samu,” Atsumu says hotly, and then he locks eyes with Osamu. The old familiar feeling of anticipation creeps up Osamu’s spine and tightens his stomach.
“I dunno if you’ve got another choice, ‘Tsumu,” he counters, and Atsumu’s grin is full of fire.
The next day, Ginjima sprints into the locker room with phone in hand.
“You have got to hear this,” he says to the assembled company. “The Instagram page— it’s more than my wildest dreams could’ve asked for. Listen to this.” He clears his throat dramatically.
“This submitter’s choice is Miya Atsumu. They say: ‘I used to sit behind Atsumu in first year. Whenever he gets cold, he rubs his hands up and down his arms and in his haircut. During winter, I purposefully came to class early so I could open the window he sat next to. I almost failed my tests from never paying attention, but it was worth it.’ Heart-eye emojis and several exclamation points.”
Ginjima holds his phone up for verification, but Osamu doubts that anyone in their right mind could come up with that on their own.
“My god,” Aran says, his left eye twitching. Akagi presses a hand over his open mouth. Atsumu manages to put his shirt on backwards and inside out before getting any words out.
“That whole winter,” he murmurs, eyebrows narrowing, “I kept getting colds even though I wore my jacket to school religiously. And you’re telling me I was suffering so some freak in my class could get their rocks off to my hands?”
Ginjima cackles. “They weren’t kidding about the public humiliation, holy shit. The caption says that there’s already been thirty-five responses!”
Kita pokes his head around the row of lockers with an stone-faced expression. “Ginjima, please mind your language. Atsumu, I’m concerned to hear that someone is willing to compromise your health for personal gain. You should appeal to your teacher and resolve the issue immediately.”
“It’s hasn’t happened since first year, but thanks anyway, Kita-san,” Atsumu says, and Kita disappears behind the lockers again. Atsumu glares at the floor.
“Fucking prick. I thought I was gonna catch pneumonia that winter.”
Osamu nods. “I thought you were gonna catch pneumonia too. They really got my hopes up for nothing.”
Atsumu chucks his shorts in Osamu’s general direction, and Aran’s groan reverberates through the room.
Over the next several days, Ginjima keeps the team updated with the Instagram page’s best responses. There’s a surprisingly large amount— Osamu guesses that Inarizaki has been caught up in a frenzy of sharing personal anecdotes on the Internet.
Most of Atsumu’s support comes from admirers who can’t keep their— frankly horrifying— opinions of his physical stature to themselves. They love his hands, and his smile, and his awful hair dye job. The Inarizaki boys’ volleyball team crowd around Ginjima’s phone, hooting (Akagi) and raking their fingers down their faces (Aran). Atsumu can’t decide whether to be flattered or disgusted and often ends up being both.
Osamu’s support usually consists of the same sentiment, which is I can’t stand the other twin and at least this one has a tolerable personality. It’s entertaining to hear just how much some people despise Atsumu.
“You told somebody in gym to stop running like they’d been shot in the ankles?” Suna asks Atsumu, who struggles to muster up even a modicum of shame.
“At that point, I’d lapped him, and he kept swerving into my path,” he offers lamely. Suna cocks one unimpressed eyebrow.
Osamu notes that Atsumu does seem to be getting slightly more support than him. It’s hard to tell, with several submissions being a flaming review of his toxic tendencies, but people tend to talk more about Atsumu overall. Osamu might be a little wounded, but he has to give Atsumu credit for continuing on with his day after hearing strangers call him a thick-skulled, piss-brained asshole.
One afternoon, Ginjima sets up in his regular spot in the center of the locker room benches and opens Instagram.
“We’ve got an Osamu one today!” he proclaims, and against his better judgment, Osamu shifts slightly in his seat to listen in.
“’I usually struggle to say anything nice about the Miya twins, but as long as we’re staying anonymous, Osamu has my vote. I really like his eyes. Nice slate color. The first time I met the twins, I forgot my own name making eye contact with him. Osamu’s great with eye contact, too— he always looks at you like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re saying, which is only a little unhelpful if you’re trying to convince yourself that you’re not in love with him. He makes great food, so I guess that makes him marriage material. Personally, I enjoy when he gets pissed off, because he chews on his bottom lip when he’s angry and says foul things under his breath. I think he’s gorgeous, and I wish he’d stop trying to beat up his brother and pay more attention to me.”
There’s a moment of silence in the locker room as everyone lets the words sink in. Ginjima peers at his phone, confirming the contents of the submission, and Osamu feels his face go from average tan to scarlet within a few seconds.
Kita passes through the benches, holding a spray bottle and a sponge. “That’s nice of someone to say about you, Osamu,” he says, and then continues in the direction of the bathrooms.
Atsumu stomps over and wrenches the phone out of Ginjima’s hand. “How come he gets the sweet ones, and I have to listen to randos talk about how much they want to lick the sweat off my abs?”
Osamu pulls his phone out and searches up the Instagram page. Sure enough, the most recent post glares back at him with a wall full of text. Osamu rereads the last sentence in a daze.
I think he’s gorgeous.
There are several comments on the post. Osamu recognizes some of the girls in his class, offering commentary like awwwww and omg this is so cute! and wait i think i know who this is!! Osamu fights the urge to reply with PLEASE TELL ME.
“Yo, Osamu,” Ginjima says, “I wouldn’t be shocked if you ended up with a girlfriend at the end of this.”
Osamu blanches. A girlfriend? Osamu doesn’t think about girls that much. So little, in fact, that he’s got a name for it. He shoots a look at Atsumu, who passes Ginjima’s phone back and shuffles over to Osamu’s bench, knocking knees with him comfortingly.
“Don’t worry about it, ‘Samu,” he says. “You don’t have to respond. I mean, if they really wanted you to do something about it, they’d tell you straight to your face, right?”
Osamu nods, briefly imagining a horror scenario featuring a faceless girl cornering him in the courtyard. Shivering, he tries in vain to think of whose face it could be. Which girl does he talk to, enough to warrant that kind of response?
Briefly, his traitorous brain supplements a new body in. The faceless girl grows and thickens out, hair darkening and parting in the middle to frame green-yellow eyes and a soft, grinning mouth.
Hey, Osamu, the new body says quietly. I think you’re gorgeous.
Osamu slowly sinks his head in between his legs. “Oh my god,” he utters weakly, and Atsumu cackles and smacks his back.
A finger brushes his shoulder in class, and Osamu jumps, twisting in his seat to see Kojima Hanami smiling back at him.
“Hi, Miya-san,” she says, and Osamu inclines his head awkwardly. “I just wanted to say that I thought yesterday’s post on Miyathon was so sweet! I hope that person tells you their feelings soon, whoever they are.”
Osamu wants to spontaneously combust on the spot, but he has to take the opportunity when he sees it.
“Hey, Kojima-san. You wouldn’t… happen to have any idea of who wrote that, would you?”
Kojima leans over her seat, pleased to engage. “Ugh, I wish I knew! Some of the girls in class have been able to match submissions to people— remember the one the other day, about Atsumu bending over the girl to read his test results? That was definitely Kiko, since she’s in his class and pretty short— but a lot of people are smart enough to not reveal much about themselves.”
Osamu sighs, running his hands through his hair. He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed that he’s no closer to figuring out who the mystery submission is from, or relieved it isn’t a girl in his class that he’s never conversed with in his life. Kojima pats his shoulder in solidarity.
“Well,” she says, “it might not be totally hopeless. It’s got to be someone that you’re close with, right? Since they’ve eaten your food and talk with you enough to pick up on your habits.”
Osamu blinks. She’s right— why didn’t he think of that before? There’s not a lot of people who’ve eaten Osamu’s cooking; probably somewhere around twenty or thirty if he’s being generous.
“Thanks, Kojima-san,” he says gratefully, and she beams back at him. Then her gaze shifts somewhere over Osamu’s shoulder, and she waves shyly.
“Hello, Suna-san,” she blushes, and Osamu turns back in his seat to face Suna, who’s perched himself on Osamu’s desk.
“Hey, Kojima-san,” he replies evenly, and Kojima giggles.
Girls at school have a thing for Suna. The volleyball team seems to attract a lot of fans overall, but Aran and Suna (and unfortunately Atsumu) have always garnered excess amounts of adoration. Suna’s tall and good-looking with an accent, none of which he’s responsible for, but people always seem to appreciate the uncontrollable aspects. Osamu wishes he was above that appeal, but if he wasn’t a six-foot athlete, he’d probably giggle right along with Kojima.
“You wanna go eat, or is playing Sherlock too much fun?”
Osamu rolls his eyes and swats at Suna. Rin, his useless brain cries. Do you think I’m gorgeous? I think you’re gorgeous. Gorgeous, gorgeous Suna, with a nice laugh and nice eyes, I’ll cook for you every day if you let me…
Osamu smacks his cheeks with both hands. Unphased, Suna leaves his things on Osamu’s desk and stands.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says over his shoulder. “If your mental breakdown could be finished within five minutes, that’d be perfect.”
Several seconds pass before Osamu’s hand darts out and swipes Suna’s phone from his desk. He knows the passcode— Suna doesn’t bother to hide it when he types it in. You’re not gonna find anything in there I don’t want you to find, he likes to say. Hands shaking, Osamu opens Instagram and searches @miyathon18, clicking the link in the bio.
This user has already submitted a response! The page reads cheerily, with a submit another response button positioned below. Osamu closes out of Instagram, puts the phone down, and slowly bangs his head into the desk.
“Are you okay, Miya-san?” Kojima nervously asks behind him. Osamu raises one hand, making a loose thumbs up sign, and Kojima pats it as she heads for the door.
“Somebody euthanize me,” Osamu whispers, just as Atsumu skids into the room.
“Someone said I look like Scarlett Johansson! ‘Samu, do I look like that white lady?”
How likely is it that Suna wrote that submission?
Osamu can’t stop thinking— in class, at practice, when he’s trying to sleep, every second of every day, both waking hours and not. He’s had several nightmares that could not be forced out of him with a rusted crowbar.
“’Tsumu,” he asks one day after dinner, when he’s feeling particularly desperate. “How would you ask someone if they liked you without them realizing what you’re asking?”
Atsumu hands a soaking plate over to Osamu and submerges his forearms in the sink again, eyebrows narrowing.
“I’d ask them if they like you,” he says, “and if they say you’re too laid-back then they probably like me. You got a crush or something?”
“Or something,” Osamu mutters. He reaches up, slotting the plate in the cabinet, and takes a glass from Atsumu. “I wish that form hadn’t been made. It’s ruining my life.”
“Did somebody say something about you?” Atsumu shakes his hands, spraying water all over the kitchen. “If you wanna fight someone, tell me. We have a better chance of winning if we take him on together.”
Osamu winces. “No. It’s stupid, is all. I’m just thinking about dumb shit I should’ve left behind in first year.”
Atsumu doesn’t press any further, but he bumps his elbow against Osamu’s in silent support. They wash and dry the rest of the dishes, watching the sun sizzle and drop below the horizon. Osamu tries (and fails) to stop thinking.
It’s almost a week later when Ginjima reclaims his space in the locker room.
“Okay,” he starts, “I know I said I’d cool it with reading the responses, but you guys gotta hear this one. This person says: ‘Miya Atsumu is utterly irredeemable. He has the worst dye job I’ve ever seen in my life, and I suspect his shampoo may double as motor oil. He never shuts up, and his accent is unbelievably thick and haunts my nightmares. He sweats way too much and constantly pulls up his shirt to wipe his face, so we all have to look at his abs. He has an ugly personality, a foul mouth that his volleyball ability cannot make up for, and I wish he’d never come to Tokyo.’ And this person voted for Atsumu, so I’m not entirely sure they know what the rules are.”
Atsumu scoffs. “I do not sweat too much! Who does this dickwipe think they are?”
“I’m still hung up on the fact that Miyathon made it all the way to Tokyo,” Aran says. “I guess the volleyball world got hold of it.”
“You make any enemies at All-Japan Youth Training Camp, Atsumu?” Suna asks. “Well, not enemies, I guess. Dude seemed pretty interested in your sweaty abs and thick… accent.”
“Shut up, Sunarin,” Atsumu replies quickly, and shuffles over to Ginjima with one hand outstretched. “Give me that phone. As a Miya twin, I have a right to know who said that about me.”
The rest of the conversation is lost on Osamu, who returns to his own locker. He shrugs his shirt off, chucks it in the locker, and then freezes.
The first day of volleyball tryouts for Inarizaki boys’ team, Osamu throws Atsumu into a wall of lockers. After four minutes of intense slap boxing, the two sprint into the gymnasium, Atsumu sporting a bruise on his cheek and Osamu’s left knee bleeding. They wave at Aran, who sees them and promptly buries his face in his hands.
Following a suspicious once-over by the captain, the first years step forward and introduce themselves. Ginjima goes first, his voice cracking as he shouts his name. Following him is Yuuto, who gives a friendly wave. Atsumu proudly states his name and glares at the upperclassmen, who stare back, unimpressed. Osamu tries for a weak smile and fervently wishes, not for the first time, that he did not inherit the same face as his twin. Following him are a few more boys, and then…
“Hello. Sorry for getting here a bit late.”
In unison, the rest of the boys turn to the left and peer over. The lack of a Kansai-ben is interesting, and everyone trying out has heard mention of the scouted first-year. Atsumu steps out of line just to get a good look, and Osamu yanks him back before the line of heads parts and he can see.
The new boy is tall, at least as tall as the twins, but his posture slouches slightly. His expression is unperturbed, and his facial features are delicate— thin brows, pointy nose, hooded eyes with thick lashes, all framed by soft brown bangs. He turns slightly to look back at the gawking first years, and his vision skates over Atsumu and focuses on Osamu.
His eyes are some indeterminable color— caught between gray, lime, and amber. Osamu feels his stomach swoop as the boy gazes back at him. He’s never seen somebody so unreal.
“What’s your name?” the captain asks, and the boy blinks in surprise.
“Sunarin,” he says, and Osamu watches his lips form the word in slow-motion.
“That’s not a name,” Atsumu interjects, and the boy finally looks away from Osamu, laughing embarrassedly.
“You’re right, it’s not. Don’t know why I said that. My name is Suna Rintarou, and I recently moved here from Aichi Prefecture. Please take care of me.” He bows, and the captain nods before continuing on.
Osamu spends a lot of that afternoon discreetly watching Suna Rintarou and decides that he’s an interesting guy. Interesting eyes, interesting voice… interesting.
Osamu stares at his locker, deaf to the world.
The first time I met the twins, I forgot my own name making eye contact with him.
“Sunarin,” he mouths, acutely aware that the recipient of that nickname is standing six feet away from him.
Something ugly, like hope, reaches out of his gut and rattles around in his chest.
Osamu only has one person who he can comfortably speak with and expect solid advice from.
“Aran,” he says after practice has ended and the other boys have cleared out, “can I talk to you for a bit?”
Aran looks up from his locker in surprise. “Sure, Osamu,” he says, and he lets Osamu sit down next to him, trying to start a sentence numerous times with no success.
“I have this friend that I like,” Osamu finally says, and Aran’s eyes widen. “And I sort of think that they might like me back. But I don’t know if I should take the chance and ask them… that’s all, I guess.”
Aran nods slowly. “Do you want advice, or do you just need someone to talk to?”
“Advice,” Osamu confirms, and Aran frowns, staring at the tiled ground in concentration.
“I guess it all boils down to how you think you’ll feel in the future,” he says. “Is the act of not telling… this person going to be more or less painful than getting it off your chest?”
Osamu sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe a few weeks ago, I would’ve said that staying quiet didn’t bother me, but these days I almost believe I’ve got a chance. That makes everything worse— knowing you might have a shot.”
Aran pats his shoulder. “I can’t tell you what to do, man. It’s your call. But I think if you were content with letting it remain unspoken, you wouldn’t have asked me for advice.” He smiles, and Osamu smiles tiredly back. “No matter what, I’ve got your back, okay? I said when you came out to me that I was always gonna be in your corner. That hasn’t changed.”
Osamu grins, and thumps Aran’s back in a brief hug. “’Course, man. Thanks.”
He’s on his way out of the locker room when Aran calls.
“Not that it’s any of my business, but I’ve noticed that one of our teammates keeps redirecting girls to Atsumu when you’re doing drills in the gymnasium. Kind of seems like he doesn’t want them flirting with you. But it’s none of my business. See ya.”
Osamu walks neatly into the wall.
“What if it’s Kageyama Tobio? The first year from Miyagi?”
“Why would I know, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says tiredly. He’s sitting up against the gym wall, watching Atsumu send serves soaring into the air over and over again.
For the past week, Atsumu has been ruminating over the Tokyo Miyathon mystery nonstop. Hordes of fangirls may not deter him, but once his volleyball skills come into question, Atsumu’s interest can’t be sated. Osamu wishes very badly that Tokyo Boy would reveal himself and end Atsumu’s distraught. He also wishes that his own secret admirer would reveal themself and end his distraught.
“Why are you guys still here?” Suna asks right on cue, walking in the door. Osamu tries to melt into the gym floor as Atsumu lines up to serve again.
“I was going over drills, and ‘Samu is being unhelpful,” Atsumu says. Suna walks over to Osamu, pushing his legs slowly apart with his feet so he can stand in-between them.
“Or you’re holding Osamu hostage so you can spew theories at him until his ears bleed.” Suna pushes at Osamu’s calf with one muddy sneaker, grinning. “Poor Osamu,” he whispers, and Osamu’s face bypasses red to go purple.
“Alright, play favorites, jackass.” Atsumu jogs over to the wall and leans down to check his phone. “Shit, it’s six. I’m gonna go change, ‘Samu. Be back in a few minutes.”
Osamu wants to call out to his twin with something along the lines of don’t leave, HELP ME, but Atsumu has already disappeared into the locker room. Traitor. Suna is still toying with his calves, whistling under his breath.
“I bet Atsumu will spend every extra minute of Nationals going around and asking people if they’ve heard of Miyathon,” he says absentmindedly. “’Hey, first year I think I’ve met before. Do my sweaty abs keep you up at night?’”
“Do you like Atsumu?” Osamu asks, and then waits for the ground to open under him and drag him straight to the core of the earth. Suna pauses, his toe poised on Osamu’s shin, and raises his eyebrows.
“Is that what you managed to pick up from this conversation? No, Osamu. Not every person who knows Atsumu lusts after him, unless the rules have changed in the last few years.”
Osamu, becoming the stupidest train in existence, barrels on. “Is it because he’s too in-your-face? Or do you dislike his face?”
Suna laughs bemusedly. “What is with this questioning? Are you his wingman or something?”
“This isn’t about him!”
“As far as I know, it is about him.” Suna crouches down, a rare expression of concern crossing his face. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been kind of distant at practice, and now you’re freaking out on me. …Osamu.”
Osamu wants to cry, and possibly throw something. He wanted to be in control of the situation, and now he’s spewing word vomit without getting anywhere close to the point.
“I saw that you sent in a response to the Miyathon thing a few weeks ago,” he mutters miserably. Suna goes very still.
“If it makes you feel better, my vote was for you,” he says carefully. Osamu looks at him, trying to gauge any sign of embarrassment or shyness, but Suna matches his gaze easily.
“I… I had this idea,” Osamu whispers, “that one of the reviews— the ones that Ginjima read out loud— was from you. And I thought you might say something. I kind of hoped you’d say something.”
“What do you think I said?”
Osamu doesn’t want to imagine the small sliver of hope that’s reflected in Suna’s eyes. He really, really doesn’t want to get this wrong.
“Suna… do you think I’m gorgeous?”
Suna exhales after a long moment. “I can’t believe I thought you’d be as stupid as Atsumu.”
“Was it you?”
Suna turns his head towards the door, watching the sun swell orange in the sky. “Yeah,” he says, and Osamu can see his pale skin flush. “I stayed up way too late that night, and I kept thinking about how all those people were writing reviews about you when they hardly knew you. It pissed me off, honestly.” He rubs the back of his head. “I’ve never done anything like that in my life— when Ginjima read it out loud to you I actually thought I might drop dead. Kita definitely knows it was me. He looked so unimpressed, I thought the gods were going to come down and smite me on the spot.”
Rocking back on his heels, Suna makes to stand up, but Osamu lurches forward and grabs his wrist. They stare at each other, equally surprised, and then Osamu laughs, impossibly light. It all seems so funny now— Miyathon, the sleepless nights, two years of guessing at something that was probably certain from the beginning.
“Oh man,” he wheezes. “I was so scared it was a girl in our class. For the past week, I’ve been having this reoccurring nightmare where a faceless girl approaches me, and I have to reject her and tell her I’m obsessed with Suna Rintarou. And then she says we have so much in common! And then she tries to make out with me, but she has no mouth.” Osamu shakes Suna’s arm, giggling uncontrollably. “I haven’t made real eye contact with a girl in at least five days. Atsumu asked me yesterday if I’d decided to switch teams again.”
Suna drops slowly to his knees, leaning as Osamu pulls him in. His eyes are wide, and in the sunset the yellows of his irises turn amber. A slow, incredulous smile works its way over his face, and he turns his wrist to rub his thumb against Osamu’s palm, like he’s checking to see if he’s real.
“Miya Osamu, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you giggle in your life,” he observes, and then they’re laughing. Osamu slides down the wall, and Suna keels sideways so that they’re both lying on the floor, shaking and close to tears.
“Hey, Suna.”
Suna shifts closer, eyes bright. “Rin. Can you call me Rin?”
Osamu feels his mouth curve up dopily. “Rin. Rin, I really like you.”
“I really like you too, Osamu. Can you stop beating up Atsumu and pay more attention to me?”
Osamu closes his eyes as Suna’s smile melts into his own. “You’ll have to hold me to it.”
Approximately one month after its start, the creator of Miyathon shuts the form down, thanking participants for their efforts and leaving the Instagram up with the best of the collection. One hundred and thirty-two responses were submitted— a respectable amount. No definitive count is ever released that confirms which Miya twin is the general favorite, but those concerned remain relatively unbothered.
Years later, Miya Osamu receives a call in the middle of the night.
“’Tsumu, I’m going to cancel your phone plan and book a train to Osaka for the express purpose of throttling you,” he seethes into his phone, sitting up in bed.
“Fuck that, ‘Samu. You need to hear this. Remember Miyathon?”
“Vividly. Any reason why I need to remember it at 2 AM?”
“The person from Tokyo who said I had a bad accent and dye job? That was Sakusa Kiyoomi! Can you believe it? Omi-kun! And he said he got the form from his cousin Motoya!”
Despite his exhaustion, Osamu laughs. “That is pretty funny, actually. Hey, remember how Rin said the dude must have been into you? I guess we all misjudged that. Tell him I said nice going, though.”
There is a loaded silence on the other end of the call. Atsumu coughs once.
“Can we go to bed already, Miya? I want to sleep, and you are physically incapable of speaking at a quiet volume.” The voice, low and dry, rings clearly through the receiver.
Osamu pulls the phone back from his ear and stares at the screen, the caller ID blinking innocently back up at him.
“One day, you’ll realize that I’m never wrong, Osamu,” Rin murmurs, rolling over in bed and plucking the phone neatly from Osamu’s hand. “Goodnight, Atsumu, Sakusa-san. I would suggest putting your phone on silent.”
He hangs up and places his hands on Osamu’s shoulders, forcing him back down into a lying position.
“Rin, I’m gonna kill him.”
“In the morning, please."