Archive of Our Own ^beta

Suna Rintarou is used to watching things unfold from a distance. That’s what he’s good at—staying just far enough from the noise to see it clearly. He notices how people talk, the rhythm of laughter in crowded cafeterias, the way stories always repeat themselves if you hang around long enough.

That afternoon, the three of them occupy their usual corner table in the student lounge. Osamu’s half-buried in his economics notes. Atsumu’s eating like the fries personally offended him. Suna scrolls through his phone, not really looking at anything, waiting for someone to break the silence. It doesn’t take long.

“Don’t freak out,” Atsumu says, voice bright with the kind of confidence that only heralds stupidity. Which is, in Miya language, code for ‘I’m about to ruin your day.’

Suna doesn’t look up. “You joined another pyramid scheme?”

Osamu sighs. “If it’s crypto again, I’m leavin’.”

“I’m serious,” Atsumu insists. “I think I like someone.”

Osamu groans like a man in pain. “That’s the third time this month.”

Suna raises an eyebrow. “New record. You’re evolving.”

Atsumu flips them both off, because maturity has never been his strong suit. “I’m serious this time.”

Suna hums, still scrolling. “You said that about the barista from last week.”

“That was lust!” Atsumu defends.

“Tragic how you know the difference now,” Suna says.

Osamu chuckles lowly—the sound of someone who’s seen this movie a hundred times.

Atsumu huffs. “Ya two are heartless. This one’s different.”

“It’s always different,” Suna replies.

He expects the name to be forgettable like another classmate, maybe a barista, maybe someone Atsumu made eye contact with for three seconds and called destiny. But when Atsumu grins and says, “Sakusa Kiyoomi,” something in Suna goes very still.

He’s heard of Sakusa, of course. Everyone has. Architecture major. Meticulous. The kind of person who disinfects the library desks before setting his laptop down. Suna doesn’t know him personally, but he’s seen him around campus—posture straight, expression unreadable, aura so composed it feels almost rehearsed.

He doesn’t seem like Atsumu’s type, which is to say: he looks like someone who uses logic.

“You? And Sakusa? Bold of you to assume he’d survive five minutes in your vicinity.”

Osamu snorts into his drink. “He’s the germaphobe one, right? Ain’t that the guy who carries sanitizer like a weapon?”

“Exactly,” Suna says. “You’d explode on contact.”

Atsumu slams his palm on the table. “Ya two are such haters!”

“We’re realists,” Suna replies. “There’s a difference.”

Osamu smirks, enjoying himself now. “How’re ya even plannin’ to talk to him? Wipe ya mouth before speakin’?”

“Or bring a vaccination card as a love letter,” Suna adds.

“Fuck both of ya!” Atsumu barks, cheeks flushed but he’s smiling too, because this is how it always goes. He says something stupid, and they make it worse. “He’s refined. Mature. The kinda guy who’s got his life together.”

“Yeah,” Suna says dryly. “Totally your opposite.”

Osamu snorts, still reading. “He’s right.”

Atsumu points at both of them with a fry like he’s holding court. “Ya guys got no romance in yer souls.”

“I’ve seen your romances,” Suna says. “I’ve had enough.”

Normally this would dissolve into harmless bickering—the usual rhythm of their trio. But today something clings to the air after the laughter fades. Atsumu keeps talking, voice full of that stupid spark, and Suna listens despite himself.

He can picture Sakusa too easily: calm, intelligent, unattainable. A person who would make Atsumu slow down for once, who could actually match his intensity without getting burned. It should make sense. It should even be a good thing. But instead, something tightens behind Suna’s ribs. Not anger, exactly. Not jealousy, not yet. Just a slow, unfamiliar heat curling through his chest.

Atsumu leans forward, elbows on the table, talking fast. “He sits near the window every class. The light hits his hair like—like—"

“Don’t say poetry,” Suna warns.

“Like destiny,” Atsumu says proudly.

Suna groans. “I hate you.”

Osamu finally sets his pen down, rubbing his eyes. “If ya start writin’ sonnets again, I’m movin’ out.”

“I didn’t write sonnets!”

“Ya wrote a haiku about a girl named Rika last semester,” Osamu says. “We found it in the printer.”

Atsumu’s face goes red. “It was practice!”

“Right,” Suna says. “Practicing heartbreak.”

Osamu laughs under his breath. It’s easy background noise, the kind that fills their afternoons. But even as Suna smirks, his mind feels heavy, dragged somewhere he doesn’t want to look. He tells himself it’s just the absurdity of it. Atsumu crushing on someone like Sakusa. Oil and water. Chaos and discipline. It’s bound to combust. But another thought slips through before he can block it: What if it doesn’t?

Across the table, Atsumu’s still talking. “So, I’m thinkin’, maybe I’ll ask him for his number after class next week.”

“Great plan,” Suna says. “Make sure ya sanitize the phone first.”

“Rin,” Atsumu warns, eyes narrowing.

“What? Just tryna help your relationship survive the first handshake.”

Atsumu throws another fry at him. It misses by a mile. When the laughter dies down, Suna finds his eyes drifting toward Atsumu’s grin again—bright, stupid, alive. The kind of grin that makes people orbit him without realizing it.

He’s known it for years, this gravitational pull. He’s never resented it before.

Suna Rintarou liked to think he was a rational person, the type who made measured choices and kept his emotions under lock and key. He’d built his personality around detachment, calm logic, and the smug satisfaction of avoiding unnecessary chaos. Born and raised in Tokyo, he lived his life like a straight line—stable, sensible, predictable.

Then Miya Atsumu showed up and stomped all over that line with his volleyball sneakers.

From the start, Suna’s brain labeled Atsumu as a walking red flag: too loud, too bright, too dramatic. A “performative male final boss.” He walked like he had fans, talked like he was mic’d up, and laughed like the world was his audience. He once took a selfie with the dorm cat and narrated the entire moment like a documentary host. He flexed at reflective windows, checked the definition of his shoulders after practice, waved at strangers like he was in a parade. Everything about him screamed: beware.

But the thing was, Atsumu wasn’t actually that much of a red flag. Not in the real, dangerous sense. Not in the “toxic, manipulative, playboy” way Suna liked to say in his head.

Atsumu wasn’t a heartbreaker. He wasn’t a serial flirt. He wasn’t even socially smooth enough to pretend to be one. His life revolved around exactly three things: volleyball, food, and the people he cared about. Anyone who thought he was a playboy clearly never watched him get flustered trying to order takeout or saw the way he clung to his brother like a sticker on laundry.

Suna has learned, through years of reluctant experience, that Miya Atsumu’s love life operates on a lunar cycle. Every few weeks, without fail, Atsumu falls in love again. It’s as predictable as the tides and equally as noisy. If someone ever asked him to summarize college so far, Suna could do it in three bullet points: midterms, instant noodles, and Atsumu developing a new crush every four to six business days. He could make a spreadsheet out of it, a tragic little timeline titled Miya Atsumu: A Study in Poor Romantic Decisions. He’d color-code it by duration: pink for three-day crushes, orange for the week-long flings, gray for unrequited disasters.

He tells himself it’s funny. It usually is.

Atsumu’s biggest misconception was that he was some kind of problem child, an evil gremlin protagonist sent to torment the world. In reality, Atsumu was too much sunshine for mastermind-level plotting. Too earnest. Too transparent. Too,  frankly, dumb.

Sure, he could be a jackass: loud, blunt, childish, maybe mildly feral. But Atsumu was never intentionally disrespectful. He understood boundaries better than people gave him credit for. The loudness? That was reserved only for people he trusted, people he was comfortable with. Strangers saw a toned-down version of him—awkward, polite, almost shy. He was more ambivert than the campus believed, flipping between introverted focus and extroverted chaos depending on who stood in front of him.

Miya Atsumu is walking contradiction. A bright, stupid paradox wrapped in natural talent and too much confidence.

And the worst part? That made him even more dangerous to Suna.

Because if Atsumu were actually toxic, Suna could walk away easily. He’d done it before, with other boys who had truly awful personalities. But Atsumu was the genuine kind of trouble—good-hearted, earnest, unintentionally charming, and so obliviously kind that Suna couldn’t even pretend to hate him. A threat not because he was harmful, but because he was painfully sincere.

A threat to Suna Rintarou’s remaining self-respect.

Because Suna knew better than anyone that Miya Atsumu wasn’t the villain people assumed. He wasn’t a red flag; he was a hazard sign with sparkles, warm edges, and a heart worn too openly. And that made everything worse. If Suna were normal, if he were sane, if he had any self-preservation left, he would’ve gone for Osamu. Rational, calming, emotionally coherent Osamu. The perfect type for someone who valued stability. But instead, Suna was over here, a full gay disaster, crushing on the human equivalent of a glittering grenade.

And every day, without fail, Atsumu pulled the pin a little more.

Osamu snaps his notebook shut, stretching. “Alright, lover boy, what’s step two?”

Atsumu beams. “Step one’s gettin’ his number. Step two’s marriage.”

“Step three’s restraining order,” Suna mutters.

Atsumu kicks him under the table. “Yer a hater.”

“Honest,” Suna corrects.

“Same thing,” Atsumu says, grinning, and the sound of it hits Suna harder than it should.

Later, when they part ways outside the lounge, Suna watches Atsumu walk ahead—hands in pockets, whistling, the picture of careless optimism—and he realizes he’s already memorized the shape of that back.

Suna knows better than to expect things to go smoothly when Atsumu declares a plan. He’s lived through enough of them, some involving fire alarms, others involving emotional damage, to recognize the look in Atsumu’s eyes right now: reckless optimism, weaponized confidence, and the delusion of a man who’s about to crash straight into reality. It’s almost nostalgic.

They’re sitting outside the lecture hall before class. Atsumu’s jittering like he downed three espressos, tapping his knee, hair suspiciously over styled. Suna’s sprawled on the bench beside him, half-asleep, hood up, watching the trainwreck unfold in real time. Osamu’s on his other side, unwrapping his onigiri with the serenity of a man who’s accepted that chaos is inevitable.

“Okay,” Atsumu says, straightening his posture. “Game plan. When Sakusa walks in, I’ll say somethin’ smooth.”

“Define smooth,” Suna says without opening his eyes.

“Like… natural.”

“Yer incapable of that,” Osamu says flatly.

“I am natural!” Atsumu snaps. “I’m charm itself!”

Suna finally cracks an eye open. “Charm itself doesn’t sweat through his shirt before saying hi.”

“I’m not nervous!”

“You’re vibrating.”

Osamu hums in agreement, mouth full. “Yer worse than when ya tried talkin’ to that librarian last semester.”

“That was different,” Atsumu insists.

“Yeah,” Suna mutters. “This one’s a germaphobe. You might not even make it within a five meter radius.”

Osamu snorts, nearly choking on rice. “Imagine Atsumu tryin’ to high-five him.”

“He’d get sprayed with disinfectant,” Suna says

“I hate y’all,” Atsumu mutters, crossing his arms. “I’m doin’ it anyway.”

“Sure,” Suna says, voice lazy. “Can’t wait to see love bloom under fluorescent lighting.”

When Sakusa actually walks in, the air shifts a little. He’s like that precise, quiet, existing in HD while the rest of the world lags. He’s got his headphones around his neck, notebook under one arm, black hair falling just right. Even his backpack looks organized. Atsumu immediately forgets how to function.

Suna can see it happen, the brain-to-mouth connection short-circuiting, confidence leaking out like a dying balloon. Osamu elbows him once, whispering, “Now’s yer chance, Romeo.”

Atsumu stands. Straightens his shirt. Breathes in. Then, in what might go down as one of history’s greatest tactical blunders, says, far too loud, “Yo, Sakusa! Nice… sanitizer!”

The silence that follows could cure disease. Sakusa blinks once. “Excuse me?”

Atsumu freezes. “Uh—I meant—like, it smells nice?”

Sakusa looks at him like he just offered a live rat. “It’s unscented."

“Oh.” Atsumu laughs weakly. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

From the bench, Suna can feel his soul leaving his body. He covers his mouth to hide a grin, eyes watering. Osamu looks like he’s watching live comedy. Sakusa simply hums, adjusts his bag strap, and walks away without another word.

Atsumu stands there, utterly deflated. “He ignored me.”

Osamu’s still laughing. “I would too.”

Suna swallows his laughter long enough to say, “You complimented his sanitizer. That’s not flirting, that’s a public health announcement.”

“Shut up,” Atsumu groans, slumping into his seat.

After class, they regroup at their usual café. Atsumu’s sulking into his iced latte, spoon stabbing the whipped cream with the kind of fury usually reserved for heartbreak or bad grades.

Osamu’s still trying to recover from laughter. “I can’t believe ya said nice sanitizer.”

“I panicked!” Atsumu says. “He smells clean, okay? I was tryna compliment him!”

“Maybe next time start with somethin’ human,” Suna says. “Like ‘hello.’”

Atsumu glares. “Yer all so supportive.”

“We’re realistic,” Suna says. “Big difference."

“Ya both suck.”

Osamu grins. “That’s true. But we ain’t the one who just flirted with Dettol.”

Suna nearly chokes on his drink. Atsumu points his spoon at both of them. “Keep laughin’. I’ll prove ya wrong."

Suna hums. “You’re welcome to try. It’s like watching nature documentaries—tragic but educational.”

The thing is, Suna should be enjoying this. He usually does. Atsumu being dramatic, Osamu making fun of him because it’s their default setting. Familiar, safe. But something about this feels heavier, like a rock sitting quietly in Suna’s chest. Maybe it’s the way Atsumu still looks half dazed, staring into his drink like he’s already imagining Sakusa smiling back.

Suna takes a long sip of his coffee and looks away. “Next time, don’t open with sanitizer. Try… anything else.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe just be yourself.”

Atsumu brightens a little. “Ya think that’ll work?”

Suna meets his eyes, forces a lazy smile. “No."

Osamu bursts out laughing again. “Yer both idiots.”

When Atsumu finally leaves—off to “plan an organic encounter,” whatever the hell that means— Suna and Osamu stay behind.

Osamu packs up slowly, glancing at him. “Ya ain’t gonna tell him to quit while he’s ahead?”

Suna shrugs. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“True.” Osamu’s voice softens. “Ya seem quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

Osamu hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. “Alright. I’ll grab us somethin’ for dinner later. Don’t mope here too long.”

“I don’t mope.”

“Sure ya don’t."

When Osamu leaves, Suna stays, phone in hand, unread notifications piling up. He scrolls aimlessly, eyes unfocused, replaying Atsumu’s idiotic grin, that stubborn spark that refuses to die no matter how often reality slaps it down. He tells himself he’s just tired. That the faint ache in his chest is secondhand embarrassment. But when he catches his reflection in the café window—half a smirk, half a frown—he doesn’t quite believe it. He’s seen Atsumu crash and burn a hundred times. He’s laughed every time. So why does this one feel different?

Suna liked to pretend he didn’t notice when Atsumu picked up a new crush. He didn’t wish for them to fail.

Except, yeah. Maybe he did. A little.

There was always that moment, right after Atsumu shrugged and said “guess they weren’t into me” with that too bright grin, where relief unfurled in Suna’s chest like a selfish exhale. Something tight loosening. Something fearful quieting down.

Because the truth was this: Atsumu was easy to like. Painfully easy.

He was loud, sure, obnoxious even, but he loved people with the kind of sincerity you couldn’t fake. He was warm in a way that made you feel chosen just by standing near him. He remembered tiny things like your favorite snacks, the date of your exam, the stupid joke you made a week ago and acted like it was obvious he should care. He put his whole heart into everything, even small things: choosing a restaurant, hyping someone up, texting you memes at 3 a.m. And people were drawn to that. To him.

Of course they were. What was there not to like about Atsumu?

And every time Suna thought about that possibility—the one crush Atsumu might actually have a shot with something unpleasant twisted deep in his gut. Because he wasn’t scared that Atsumu would fall for someone. Atsumu fell for everyone.

He was scared that someone worthy would finally fall back.

Suna Rintarou has a theory: the universe runs on spite.

There’s no other explanation for why, out of every crush Atsumu’s ever had—the models, the classmates, the barista who once spelled his name “Atsubo”—this is the one that sticks. Because apparently, Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t like him either—Suna’s pretty sure Sakusa doesn’t like anyone—but he tolerates him. Which is somehow worse.

And Suna is discovering, in real time, that tolerance is the most terrifying form of affection.

Atsumu reports, with dangerous pride, that Sakusa didn’t flinch when he sat next to him in lecture. That Sakusa actually replied to one of his questions. That he even nodded.

Suna pretends to scroll through his phone, muttering, “He probably had something in his eye.”

Osamu, predictably, just laughs. “Yer jealous he’s makin’ progress.”

Suna doesn’t even look up. “Jealous of Atsumu successfully forming a sentence? No.”

But his stomach twists anyway. By the third week, Atsumu’s borderline glowing. They start studying in the same library section now. “Coincidentally,” Atsumu claims, which is funny considering he’s never voluntarily entered a library before.

Suna’s not invited, obviously. Osamu tags along once out of curiosity and comes back with a report, “Sakusa didn’t disinfect the chair Atsumu sat on. That’s basically romance.”

Suna wants to throw his drink at him. Instead, he shrugs. “He’s probably given up. Germs can’t survive that loud of a mouth.”

Osamu smirks. “Ya sound bitter.”

“I sound accurate.”

“Sure, Rin.”

They’re at the cafeteria when Atsumu starts recounting his latest interaction with Sakusa, voice bright and animated like always. “Ya know what he said? He told me I was ‘less irritating than expected.’ Less! That’s practically a compliment!”

Suna’s fork stops midair. “That’s—” he starts, pauses. “That’s tragic, ‘Tsumu.”

Osamu snorts into his water. “It’s progress.”

“That’s what diseases say before they spread,” Suna mutters.

Atsumu glares. “Ya can’t ruin my moment.”

“Not tryin’ to. Just setting realistic expectations.”

“Yer jealous I’m thrivin’.”

“I’m jealous of your confidence,” Suna says dryly. “It’s immune to logic.”

Atsumu leans back, smug. “Sakusa said he liked talkin’ to me. Said I was… what was the word? Genuine.”

Suna forces a laugh that sounds a little too sharp. “You sure he didn’t say ‘germ-laden’?”

Osamu side-eyes him. “Alright, Rin. Yer bein’ meaner than usual.”

“I’m consistent.”

Osamu raises a brow but doesn’t press. Which is good, because Suna’s not sure he could explain it even if he wanted to. It’s not like he’s mad. He’s not even sure what he is. He just knows the sound of Atsumu saying “Sakusa said” makes his jaw clench.

Later, when they’re walking home, Atsumu ahead, headphones in, humming, the quiet stretches too long between him and Osamu.

Finally, Osamu says, “Ya ever gonna tell me what’s actually crawled up yer ass?"

Suna blinks. “What?”

“Yer sulkin’.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“Yer visibly sulkin’.”

“I’m thinkin’.”

“Ya only ‘think’ when ya wanna avoid admitin’ somethin’.”

Suna snorts. “Look at ya. Pretendin’ you’re a therapist.”

“Maybe I’m just observant.”

“Maybe you’re nosy.”

“Maybe yer jealous.”

Suna stops walking. “Maybe shut up.”

Osamu grins, hands in pockets. “Got it. Just sayin’, ya don’t gotta act like it don’t bother ya if it does.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

“Sure.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence. Osamu doesn’t push, and Suna’s grateful for that. Because he’s not sure he could handle hearing himself say it out loud—how his chest tightens every time Atsumu laughs about Sakusa, how stupid it feels to want to be the one on the other side of that grin.

It’s pathetic, really. He used to joke about Atsumu’s crushes because they were safe to laugh at, fleeting, doomed from the start. But now, watching Sakusa Kiyoomi maybe, maybe, start to like Atsumu back,

it feels like watching someone discover fire for the first time. Beautiful, dangerous, inevitable. And Suna’s standing too close to the spark. He tells himself it’s fine. He’s good at pretending. After all, he’s been watching from the sidelines his whole life. He just didn’t expect to hate the view this much.

Suna Rintarou has been ignoring Atsumu for twenty-one days. Not that anyone’s counting.

(He is. He’s counting.)

It started the way people drift apart when schedules don’t line up. Then it became deliberate: replies left on “read,” lunch invites politely declined, study sessions replaced with naps that never actually happen. He tells himself it’s fine. That Atsumu’s busy with Sakusa anyway, that he’s giving them space. That it’s maturity.

It’s avoidance. It’s cowardice. It’s self-preservation.

He still sees Atsumu, of course. Campus isn’t big enough to disappear entirely. He catches glimpses of him at the quad, laughing too loudly; in the cafeteria, sitting beside Sakusa who looks approximately one percent less irritated than usual, which is terrifying in itself. Suna watches from afar, pretending he’s not watching at all. He hates how easy they look together.

Motoya calls one afternoon, voice too cheerful to mean anything good. “Yo, Rin. Haven’t heard from you in forever. Did you die or just decide to live in a cave?”

Suna shifts on his bed, rubbing his temple. “Busy."

“Busy ignoring people, maybe.”

“Yeah.”

“Tragic. You used to be fun.”

“I was never fun.”

“Okay, boring and a liar. Got it.”

Suna sighs. “What do you want?”

“Lunch. My treat. You sound like you haven’t seen the sun since midterms.”

“Maybe I like it that way.”

“You sound like a raccoon.”

Suna glares at his ceiling. “Fine. One hour.”

“Make it two. You’ll need emotional support after what I’m about to say.”

Suna frowns. “What?”

But Motoya only hums, smug and secretive. “See you soon, sunshine.”

They meet at a small café near campus, the kind that plays indie music too quietly and serves coffee strong enough to hurt feelings. Motoya’s already there, waving like they’re in a sitcom. He’s always been like this — too much energy in human form, a smile that could talk its way out of a parking ticket.

Suna slouches into the seat across from him. “What’s this about?”

Motoya grins. “Just catching up with my favorite ex-teammate.”

“Cut the crap.”

“Fine. My favorite ex-teammate who’s obviously heartbroken and in denial.”

Suna groans. “Not this again.”

“Oh, especially this again.” Motoya leans forward, eyes sparkling. “So, how’s Miya Atsumu and the architect doing?”

Suna freezes. “…What?”

“You know. Sakusa Kiyoomi? My cousin?”

Suna blinks slowly. “He’s your what?”

Motoya looks genuinely surprised. “You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Motoya grins wider. “This is even better than I thought.”

Suna wants to evaporate. It’s one thing to be jealous of a guy; it’s another thing to realize the guy has familial proximity.

He forces his voice to sound casual. “You two close?”

“Kiyo? Kinda. He’s family, so yeah. He’s… quiet, but chill once you get used to the disinfectant smell.”

Suna stares. “That sounds exactly like him.”

Motoya laughs. “Yeah, he’s intense. But he’s a good guy. Had this crush once, though — super out of character for him.”

Suna feels his pulse spike. “Crush?”

“Yeah, back in high school. Nationals training camp.” Motoya waves a hand, nonchalant, like he isn’t detonating a nuclear bomb. “Said there was this loud blond setter who wouldn’t stop talking to him. Thought he was annoying at first, then apparently started finding it…endearing.”

Silence. The kind that hums in your skull. Suna’s mouth goes dry. “Endearing,” he repeats flatly.

Motoya nods, sipping his drink. “Didn’t even know it was Atsumu till I saw them on campus. Small world, huh?”

Suna stares at him like he’s committed a crime. “You’re telling me Sakusa had a crush on Atsumu?”

“Keyword had. Past tense. Chill.”

“I am chill.”

“You’re gripping your cup like you wanna choke someone.”

Suna looks down. His knuckles are white.

“Rin,” Motoya says, suddenly gentler, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Suna says automatically.

He is not fine.

This is what he's been afraid of. The thing is, jealousy doesn’t sit well on him. It’s not loud or obvious. It festers. Quietly. Precisely.

He spends the next few days in emotional purgatory, trying not to imagine what endearing looked like to Sakusa. He tells himself it’s old news. That it doesn’t matter. That Sakusa probably doesn’t even think about it anymore. But then he sees them again, Atsumu waving animatedly, Sakusa watching him with that calm, impassive expression that could mean anything. And something ugly twists in Suna’s chest.

He starts avoiding Atsumu harder. Leaves group chats on mute. Pretends he’s asleep when Atsumu calls. Spends more time with Motoya, who doesn’t question it, at least not directly.

Sometimes Osamu checks in, says, “Ya two fight or somethin’?”

“No.”

“Then why’re ya actin’ like he kicked yer puppy?”

“Busy.”

“Yer always busy when yer bein’ stupid.”

Suna doesn’t answer. Because the truth is humiliating: Atsumu texts once, and Suna’s brain goes offline. He gets one smile and forgets his own name. He’s easy. He’s a pushover. He’s every cautionary tale about falling for your best friend. And he hates himself for it. Motoya catches him one evening, scrolling through Atsumu’s Instagram like a man inspecting crime evidence.

“Dude,” Motoya says, watching over his shoulder, “This is sad.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re literally zooming in on his story.”

“I’m checking the lighting.”

“For what?”

“For… academic purposes.”

Motoya snorts. “Right. Academic simp studies.”

Suna hurls a pillow at him.

Later, alone, Suna thinks about everything he’s avoided saying. About how maybe this whole time, he was only brave because Atsumu never liked anyone who could like him back. About how maybe that safety was what made it bearable. Because the second it becomes real even, just the possibility of it, Suna unravels. He tells himself he’s protecting himself, that this distance is necessary. But when Atsumu’s name flashes on his screen again— yo rin. u mad at me or smth? —he doesn’t know what to say. He types, deletes, types again. nah. just tired. It’s a lie. 

Suna knew all this, has always known it, and maybe that was the problem. Because it meant situations like this could actually happen: Atsumu suddenly getting hooked on the idea of Sakusa Kiyoomi. And Suna lying awake telling himself it wasn’t a big deal.

Except it was. Because Sakusa wasn’t blind. If anyone had reasons to like Atsumu back, it was him. They argued, yes, but they fit. Sakusa tolerated him in ways he didn’t tolerate most people. He listened when Atsumu rambled. He let Atsumu invade his space. He let Atsumu matter.

Sakusa wasn’t warm, but he wasn’t stupid.

It wasn’t impossible, not even unlikely, for him to wake up one day and realize that Atsumu’s overwhelming sunshine didn’t annoy him anymore.

Miya Atsumu is trying to win him back.

Suna can tell. Not in the dramatic, rom-com way—there are no flowers, no apologies, no “please talk to me.” Atsumu isn’t that self-aware. No, this is the Miya version of reconciliation: persistence disguised as cluelessness. 

It starts with, “Yo, Rin, wanna grab lunch?”

“No.”

“Cool, I’ll pick ya up in ten.”

Then comes the casual ambushes. Atsumu showing up outside his class, waving like an idiot. “Coincidence,” he says, when Suna glares.

“You don’t even take psychology.”

“I’m broadening my horizons.”

Then the guilt trips. “Yer really gonna let me eat alone like some loser?”

“You are a loser.”

“Yeah, but I’m yer loser.”

Suna hates how easy it is to laugh at that.

At first, he tries to hold his ground. He keeps replies short. Stops showing up to their hangouts. Pretends not to care. But Atsumu is relentless.

He leaves snacks on Suna’s desk during lectures (“protein bars for brain cells”). Sends memes at 2 a.m. Crashes Osamu’s apartment just to “happen to be there” when Suna visits. Every time, Suna tells himself he’s immune. Every time, he’s wrong. Because the thing is and it’s painful to admit Suna Rintarou is so easy when it comes to Atsumu. Always has been.

He realizes this slowly, horrifyingly, like watching a car crash in slow motion and realizing he’s the car. It starts when Motoya points it out, voice casual but sharp, “You ever notice you do, like, everything that idiot asks for?”

Suna scoffs. “I do not.”

“Oh yeah?” Motoya smirks. “Let’s review.”

Exhibit A: Food

Atsumu always forgets his wallet. Always. And every time, without fail, Suna covers for him. He tells himself it’s convenience — that it’s easier to pay than listen to Atsumu whine about being broke. But when Motoya points out his transaction history (“You’ve Venmo’d him twelve times this month, Rin”), it becomes harder to deny. He’s funding this man’s caloric intake. Out of love. Or stupidity. Possibly both.

Exhibit B: Schedules

Atsumu’s sense of time is a myth. He sets alarms he never hears, makes plans he immediately forgets. So Suna reminds him. Text reminders, alarms, “class starts in 10” messages, it’s practically a part-time job. Motoya scrolls through his phone once and laughs. “You’re his Google Calendar.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re whipped.”

Suna throws a pen at him. It misses. (Like his dignity.)

Exhibit C: Emotional Labor

When Atsumu’s down, a bad grade, a fight with a professor, an existential crisis because his protein shake didn’t mix properly, Suna listens. Every. Single. Time. He doesn’t even like talking on the phone, but for Atsumu? He answers. For Atsumu? He stays up until 3 a.m., listening to him rant about “life being unfair” while eating cold instant ramen.

And when Atsumu says, “Yer such a good friend, Rin,”

Suna smiles. Pretends it doesn’t hurt.

Exhibit D: Tolerance

Nobody in their right mind would voluntarily sit through Atsumu’s playlist, a chaotic mix of pop hits, gym anthems, and two songs that could qualify as war crimes. Suna endures them all. Even hums along sometimes.

When Atsumu asks, “Ya like it?”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

(It’s not fine. It’s auditory punishment.)

Exhibit E: The Smile Thing

This one’s harder to admit. Because sometimes, Atsumu looks at him, not even meaning to and Suna’s brain just short-circuits. It’s infuriating. He could be mid-argument, fully committed to hating him, and then Atsumu laughs, all sun and noise and warmth and Suna forget what he was mad about. It’s chemical warfare, that smile. No defense. No logic. Just surrender.

After Motoya’s “evaluation,” Suna spends the entire night lying face down on his bed, reconsidering his life choices.

He is, in short, pathetic. A simp of the highest order. And the worst part? Atsumu doesn’t even notice.

Because Atsumu, in all his oblivious glory, just thinks this is how Suna is dependable, quiet, the kind of friend who just cares a lot. He has no idea he’s single-handedly responsible for 90% of Suna’s emotional instability.

It wasn’t like Suna Rintarou didn’t try. He did. More than he’d ever admit out loud.

But the problem was simple: Atsumu never thought any of it meant anything different. Not because he didn’t care but because he cared so easily that Suna’s efforts blended right into the rest of Atsumu’s bright, messy world.

And Suna wasn’t built to stand out in someone’s world. He wasn’t the type to say “hey, I like you” with his whole chest. He wasn’t loud or reckless or shameless enough to throw his feelings into Atsumu’s sun and hope not to get burned. He didn’t do straightforward. He didn’t want attention. He barely liked when people looked at him for more than half a second. So, his affection came out sideways — quiet gestures, small consistencies, habits he pretended weren’t habits at all.

Waiting for Atsumu after practice even when he had no reason to. Buying him snacks he claimed he found by accident. Leaning into him, close enough to feel Atsumu’s warmth but never enough to give himself away. Sending him videos, memes, voice notes — all under the disguise of boredom instead of I thought of you. And Atsumu, being Atsumu, interpreted every single one of those as perfectly normal. Because to Atsumu, it was.

Of course, Suna waited for him. They were teammates, roommates, practically glued together. Of course, Suna remembered the things he liked. He remembered everyone’s preferences. Of course, Suna hovered close. They were friends, best friends and Atsumu never questioned why Suna never treated anyone else the same way.

Atsumu didn’t see anything romantic in it because Suna didn’t leave room for interpretation.

How could he? He couldn’t just walk up and say, “I like you.” Not when everyone in the world liked Atsumu already. Not when Atsumu flung love around like confetti while Suna hoarded every scrap of feeling like it was a secret he wasn’t allowed to have.

And if Suna confessed, if he actually said it out loud, everything would shift. Eyes would land on him. People would look. Atsumu would look. And Suna hated being looked at more than almost anything.

Besides, what if Atsumu laughed? What if he didn’t? What if he took it seriously or worse — pityingly? What if things changed?

Suna didn’t fear rejection. He feared losing the version of Atsumu he got to have now, the version who called him at 2 a.m., the version who sprawled on his bed without knocking, the version who leaned against Suna like they were interchangeable parts.

So instead, Suna kept trying in ways that didn’t count. Love disguised as routine. Yearning disguised as loyalty. Affection tucked into silence. And Atsumu never noticed not because he was clueless, but because Suna kept every feeling locked so tightly inside himself that Atsumu never even knew to look.

To Atsumu, Suna wasn’t dropping hints. He was just being Suna. And maybe that was the worst part: For Suna, being “just Suna” was exactly why he could never say the truth out loud.

Still, Suna can’t say no. He tries, once, maybe twice but every time Atsumu says something stupid like “miss hangin’ out with ya,” he’s done for.

And the thing about being easy is, once you know, you can’t un-know. Every choice feels like proof. Every smile feels like a mistake. He tells himself he’s just waiting for the feeling to pass. That it always does. But this one doesn’t. Because it’s Atsumu. And Suna’s been orbiting him for so long, he’s forgotten how to stop.

The next time Atsumu invites him out, Suna almost says no. Almost. But Atsumu grins that grin, stupid and golden and so him and Suna finds himself saying, “Yeah, sure.”

He hates himself the entire walk there. But when Atsumu bumps his shoulder and laughs, “Knew ya couldn’t resist me,” Suna thinks, Yeah, that’s the problem.

Suna Rintarou has thought about this. Too much, probably. The question of when it started this idiotic, long-term, career-ending crush on Miya Atsumu that has haunted him for years.

He doesn’t have an exact answer. It wasn’t cinematic. There were no violins, no romantic slow motion, no thunderclap of realization. It’s not like he woke up one morning, looked at Atsumu, and thought, oh wow, I’d die for that smile. Just a gradual, quiet unraveling like erosion, or decay, or gravity doing what gravity does. He tells himself it’s not that deep. It always is.

Back in Inarizaki, Suna was convinced he was asexual. Romance, attraction, lust — all of it felt theoretical. Something that happened to other people in classrooms, dramas, or bad love songs. He’d never been interested in anyone. Not the girls who flirted, not the boys who did. His friends would talk about crushes and confessions and first kisses, and he’d nod politely while mentally planning his next nap. He thought it was peaceful, being detached. Efficient. Clean.

Then came Atsumu. And suddenly, everything got very, very dumb.

There was no single moment. No Big Gay Awakening signposted in neon. Maybe it started the first time Atsumu yelled his name across the court, loud enough to startle the crows outside. The sound had been stupidly bright — Sunarin! — and Suna turned automatically, because of course he did. Or maybe it was the day Atsumu laughed so hard during water break that his voice cracked, sunlight catching his hair just right, and Suna had to look away before his face did something treasonous.

He told himself it was heartburn.

It wasn’t. There were signs, in hindsight. Embarrassing, incriminating signs.

Sign #1: He started showing up early to practice.

Suna Rintarou did not do early. He was a five-minutes-before kind of guy. Five minutes late, on bad days. But Atsumu liked early. Liked warming up serves, liked bragging about how good his set form was getting So Suna started liking early too.

“Coincidence,” he said when Osamu gave him a look.

It was not a coincidence.

Sign #2: He laughed at Atsumu’s jokes.

Not the polite chuckle type, not just normal laughter but ugly laughter; full-body, can’t-breathe, sleeve-over-face laughter. Atsumu wasn’t even funny. His sense of humor was aggressively mediocre. But he was charming in the way tornadoes are charming: destructive, unstoppable, fascinating to watch. Every time Suna caught himself smiling too long, he’d force his expression blank again.

“Yer laughin’, Rin!” Atsumu would say, smirking.

“I’m allergic to your voice,” Suna would reply.

Atsumu would laugh, victorious. And Suna would quietly die inside.

Sign #3: He started watching him.

Not creepily or so he told himself. Just observationally. Like an anthropologist studying a rare species of idiot. Except normal friends didn’t memorize the way their teammate’s shoulders flexed when he served, or the way he wiped sweat from his jaw with his shirt. Normal friends didn’t track their friend’s footsteps by sound. He told himself it was athletic observation. Science. Purely technical.

(It wasn’t.)

Sign #4: He got defensive.

Anytime a girl asked for Atsumu’s LINE, Suna’s blood pressure spiked. Anytime Osamu joked about his twin’s popularity, Suna considered arson. He perfected the bored expression, the dry one-liners, the lazy posture but beneath it, his chest burned. He pretended to be unbothered, perfected the eyeroll, the sarcastic “yeah, yeah, everyone loves Atsumu, shocking.”

He hated sharing Atsumu with anyone else. It wasn’t friendship anymore. It was a slow, silent possessiveness he couldn’t admit even to himself.

And the worst part, the absolute worst part, was that it had to be Atsumu. Of course, it couldn’t have been Osamu like a normal person. Osamu was grounded. Rational. Tolerable. But no. His traitor of a heart had chosen the loud twin, the reckless twin, the one who lived off validation and energy drinks.

Falling for Atsumu was like developing a crush on a natural disaster. Loud, unpredictable, and guaranteed to ruin your life.

He remembers the first real moment of clarity. After practice. Gym lights flickering, the smell of sweat and tape and effort. Atsumu was laughing with Kita, water dripping down his neck, shirt clinging to his back. Suna stared. Too long. Too obviously. And something in his brain just clicked.

Oh.

Oh no.

Because this wasn’t admiration. This was doom in slow motion. The world could’ve ended right there, and his last thought would’ve been, Atsumu’s hair looks soft today. Or if the 7 minutes memories before dying was correct, all that he will think was the moments Atsumu smiled.

He tried to rationalize it away. Told himself it was curiosity, habit, biology, boredom. But every time Atsumu grinned at him, or shoved his shoulder, or shouted his name, Suna’s chest did that traitorous stutter again.

He’d spent years perfecting emotional distance and somehow Atsumu ruined it by existing. He was too loud, too bright, too much and Suna wanted all of it.

Sometimes, he daydreamed. Inconveniently. He imagined Atsumu’s voice saying his name softer than usual. Imagined standing too close, imagined the air shifting between them. Imagined Atsumu’s grin faltering just enough to be something real. He hated himself for it. But the fantasies came anyway, uninvited, unrelenting, vividly detailed.

And of course, he kept it to himself. He wasn’t stupid. He played it cool. Blank expressions, eye rolls, sarcastic barbs. He was fine. Except every laugh, every casual touch, every stupid “Rin!” felt like electricity in his bones.

And Suna Rintarou, calm, detached, emotionally unavailable had become the biggest, most repressed simp in Hyogo.

Years later, nothing’s changed. He’s older now. A little smarter, maybe. Still pathetically weak where it counts. And made peace with the thought that Atsumu was sought after. Still orbiting Atsumu like a dying planet. Still pretending he doesn’t notice the gravitational pull.

One night, sitting outside a convenience store with Motoya, it finally slips out.

“I think,” Suna says, staring at the asphalt, “I’ve been a simp since high school.”

Motoya blinks. “For Atsumu? Yeah, no shit. I've been saying that for years.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Suna mutters. “Makes it sound terminal.”

“It is terminal,” Motoya says, grinning. “You’re a lost cause.”

“Why couldn’t it have been Osamu?” Suna groans. “He’s nice. Grounded. Doesn’t talk like a blender on fire.”

“Because Osamu doesn’t make you short-circuit just by breathing,” Motoya says.

Suna takes another bite of ice cream. It tastes like defeat.

If there’s one truth Suna knows now, it’s this: He never stood a chance. The first time he looked at Atsumu, he was already doomed.

Maybe the saddest part, the part Suna never said out loud, not even in the privacy of his own head unless he was tired or stupid, was that he’d gotten comfortable on the sidelines.  Somewhere along the way, he actually made peace with it.

Peace with the idea that Atsumu wouldn’t like him back. Peace with watching Atsumu chase crush after crush, dramatic and loud and heartbreakingly hopeful. Peace with being the person Atsumu came home to talk about those crushes with.

Because the alternative was terrifying.

If he stepped forward, if he tried, he risked losing everything he already had: the late-night calls, the casual touches, the easy familiarity. The way Atsumu leaned into him without thinking. The way Atsumu trusted him first, complained to him first, smiled at him in that thoughtless way that meant Suna was part of his everyday life. Being on the sidelines meant he got to keep that.

And Suna knew himself. He wasn’t greedy. He wasn’t bold. He didn’t need center stage or spotlight or a dramatic confession scene where the whole world stopped breathing.

He just wanted Atsumu in his life. Even if it wasn’t in the way he secretly ached for.

So, he learned to swallow the jealousy when Atsumu developed a new infatuation. He learned to sit with that tight-lunged fear when Atsumu laughed too hard with someone else. He learned to accept the relief that came, shameful, and warm when those crushes ended the way they always did.

He told himself he was fine with it. Fine with being the friend, the constant, the background character in Atsumu’s whirlwind love stories. And some days, he believed it. Some days, staying quiet felt safer than hoping for more. Some days, being the one Atsumu returned to, even if only as a friend felt like enough. Maybe not perfect, maybe not painless, but enough for Suna’s quiet, private heart.

Because wanting more from Atsumu felt like wanting the sun to shine only for him.

Impossible. Unfair. Selfish. And Suna had already decided a long time ago: He would rather stand just outside the light than risk losing it altogether. He would rather stay on the sidelines than step forward and ruin everything.

But Atsumu didn't stop. Atsumu texts him for “casual stuff.” (hey rin wanna run some games later? osamu’s busy w/ the shop. bring snacks or i’ll bite you) Suna replies with something appropriately neutral. (“die.”)

He still shows up. He tells himself it’s fine, harmless nostalgia, just like old times. Except it’s not just like old times, because in early high school he didn’t have to fight the urge to stare at Atsumu’s collarbones every time he flops dramatically onto his bed. They end up having these “non-dates” at Atsumu’s apartment, where the Miya twin chaos lives on through an open-door policy and poor life choices. Osamu occasionally joins, rolling his eyes as he drops off food before making a pointed exit.

“Don’t break anything,” he tells them, as if that’s ever worked. Then quieter, looking directly at Suna, “Don’t enable him.”

Suna lies through his teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Atsumu, halfway through setting up the console, grins. “See? Sunarin's the chillest.”

Suna ignores the way his heart spasms. “You keep saying that like it’s a compliment.”

They play video games. Atsumu is terrible at most of them but refuses to admit it, so Suna lets him win occasionally, under the noble banner of “keeping the peace.” The first time he does, Atsumu cheers, throws his arms up, and like a curse from the gods tackles Suna sideways onto the couch.

“HA! Still got it!” he shouts, his full body weight on Suna’s chest, laughing into his shoulder.

Suna dies a quiet, internal death. He’s frozen for a solid five seconds, body stiff, face blank before Atsumu rolls off to grab his phone and record the victory screen. Suna stares at the ceiling and contemplates prayer. He’s not religious, but if divine intervention could smite him right now, that’d be great.

It keeps happening. Atsumu calls him again like no time has passed. He kicks his feet onto Suna’s lap, complains about Osamu’s new recipes, starts watching bad reality shows just to yell commentary at the screen. Suna sits next to him, quiet, content, completely unguarded for the first time in months.

It’s stupid, but he feels safe here. The familiarity aches. He tells himself it’s muscle memory. That the fondness is leftover nostalgia. But when Atsumu laughs, head thrown back, eyes crinkled. Suna knows it’s a lie.

It’s him. It’s always been him.

They have a sleepover the way they used to, all snacks and laziness, half-watched movies, and Atsumu talking too much. He passes out halfway through some sports documentary, sprawled diagonally across the futon, one arm hanging off like an idiot. Suna’s sitting up beside him, phone forgotten, just watching. He shouldn’t. He knows that. He could look away. He doesn’t. There’s a quiet hum in the room, air conditioner low, Atsumu’s soft breathing filling the space and it feels like being seventeen again. Like the universe pressed pause just for them.

Suna watches the rise and fall of his chest, the faint light on his hair, the way his lashes flicker even in sleep. Every inch of him feels known. Familiar. Dangerous.

He whispers, mostly to himself, “I hate you.”

Atsumu stirs, half-asleep, mumbling something incomprehensible before shifting closer, cheek pressed to Suna’s thigh. Suna’s brain blue-screens. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. He just sits there, one hand suspended awkwardly in the air, torn between running his fingers through Atsumu’s hair and throwing himself off the balcony. Eventually, he settles for neither. He just stays still and lets the weight of it crush him — soft, stupid, perfect.

The next morning, Atsumu wakes up like nothing happened, stretching and grinning. “Man, ya let me sleep on ya again, huh? Yer so comfy.”

“Yeah,” Suna says flatly, because sure. That’s one word for it. Internally, he’s planning his own funeral.

Atsumu doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t. He’s too busy rifling through the snack drawer, humming off-key, sunshine personified. And Suna, poor, delusional, masochistic Suna, smiles before he can stop himself. It’s small. Barely there. But it’s real. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything.

It does.

That night, he texts Motoya.

kill me.

im so inlove with him

i think i have brain damage.

Motoya replies immediately with, "simp."

Suna stares at the screen. Then throws his phone onto the bed and groans into a pillow. If this is regression, he thinks, he’s not sure he ever learned how to move forward in the first place.

Suna Rintarou has an internal rubric for Atsumu crushes.

Atsumu still talks about Sakusa. Not constantly, but enough. A passing comment here—“he sent me a weird meme lol”—a small, bright thing there—“he actually smiled when I said that.”

Atsumu speaks of him like weather: informative, incidental, passing. It ought to feel harmless to Suna. Instead, it wakes him, every single time, to the same lesson he thinks he’s learned and never has, he is always the one who is left when the crush finishes burning out. He told himself, for a long time, that this was only because Atsumu’s crushes were cheap and disposable. He told himself these cycles were harmless, that it was normal for a loud, reckless person like Atsumu to orbit new people like satellites around a trash fire. He said—out loud— that of course he wanted Atsumu to be happy. Asked anyone who’d notice, he’d answer with the easy, practiced indifference he’s perfected, “Of course. I’m fine.”

The truth sits in him like an old bruise.

He’s been here longer. He’s seen the beginning, the middles, the ends. He’s been the recipient of late-night rants, of triumphant texts, of half-baked plans. He’s folded band-aids for Atsumu’s ego more often than he can count. He’s held food on the nights Atsumu forgot to eat. He’s walked the line between friend and parent and punching bag. He’s been the logistics, the safety net, the person who knows the exact number of spoons Atsumu uses to make ramen and the proper emergency route for when Atsumu’s charm causes literal chaos.

So why—he asks himself in the dark, and never gets an answer—does his stomach still drop when Atsumu’s attention lands on someone else? Why does a small, stupid name—Sakusa—feel like somebody else building a house where Suna has been living, quietly, for years?

They get invited to a party because of course they do. Campus parties are garden-variety disasters and Atsumu is an enthusiast for disasters. Osamu reluctantly agrees and pretends he isn’t, Motoya comes later with energy and worse advice, and Suna goes because saying no feels like admitting something more dangerous: that he can be left out.

The place is sweat and bass and the kind of plastic glow that blurs details and sharpens feelings. Plastic cups clink. Someone is too enthusiastic about karaoke. Atsumu is bright and immediate, laughing at everything and nothing, a livewire who attracts people like paper to a flame. Sakusa is not there; the absence leaves a small hollow of relief that Suna almost resents himself for feeling.

At first the night is tolerable. Suna stands at the edges in practiced indifference, sipping something he didn’t want but accepted because it’s easier to hold than to answer questions. Atsumu performs his usual orbit: he waves at everyone, goes where noise is loudest, returns with stories, drags half the room into a circle with his grin. Suna watches, protective and tired and viciously aware of everybody that crosses Atsumu’s path. A part of him logs it all like evidence

Then Atsumu comes back, beer-scented and full of good-natured trouble, and, without so much as a courtesy of asking, leans his whole weight against Suna’s shoulder. He hooks an arm across Suna’s chest as if the couch were made of trust instead of cushion. He laughs into Suna’s ear about something he’d said to someone else five minutes ago, the way he does when he assumes Suna will always be there to receive the noise.

The contact is small and casual and entirely everything.

Suna feels his body betray him in three distinct stages: the immediate physical recoil because boundaries are a thing and midriff-clings were not on the syllabus; the heat that blossoms under his ribs, a traitor’s warmth; and then the voice of a man who has been excellent at denial all his life whispering, Do not let this affect you.

His hands want to shove Atsumu off like an annoyed roommate. His hands want to anchor him and feel the ridiculousness of it, the exact solidity of the shoulder under his palm. Both impulses are loud and ungainly and make his brain short-circuit like a cheap amusement ride.

Atsumu presses his head to Suna’s shoulder and makes a small, satisfied sound, soft, unconscious and Suna’s control goes down the drain like everything else. He experiences the most human of irrationalities: a sudden, furious wish to reorder the universe.

He wants, he discovers with the precise, awful clarity that love tends to bring, to punch Atsumu in the face for being so insufferable, for being so careless with other people’s certainties and then, immediately after, to kiss him better so that the world would make sense again. He wants to fix it and break it and have it right in one simple motion: insult and apology folded into a single, reckless gesture.

Atsumu laughs, ruffles Suna’s hair, and says, “Yer quiet, Rin. Yer not sulkin’ for real, right? I thought yer not mad anymore, relax.”

Relax. The word is a small blade.

Instead, Suna laughs thin and brittle and says, “I’m not sulkin’. I just have better things to do,” because lying is easier than confessing that the idea of Atsumu being liked by someone else feels like a theft, and because saying anything else would require admitting that he has been standing here, quiet and useful waiting for what Atsumu gives without knowing that what he wants is not merely scraps of attention but the whole catastrophic person.

Atsumu leans up and does that thing he does, an arm across Suna’s shoulders, easy like acreage and Suna’s world narrows down to breath and the prickling at the back of his neck where every nerve now stands to attention.

Somewhere across the room, Motoya is watching and not watching, the way someone looks at a slow-motion train wreck and still scrolls on their phone. Osamu is an island around them both, eyes soft with recognition and a careful refusal to escalate what’s clearly already an internal conflagration.

A drunk girl squeezes through the crowd and flings herself onto Atsumu’s lap. He laughs and handles her with the same careless charm with which he handles everyone: generous, oblivious. Suna’s jaw tightens. He feels, absurdly, like a person barging into a family photo only to discover he’s been cropped out.

Atsumu’s attention is shared and split and for a bare second Suna wonders why he still thinks he deserves exclusivity. The thought is ridiculous and devastating and impossible in equal measure. He had been here, first in the sense that he had always been here—silently cataloguing, quietly repairing, the slow infrastructure of friendship that someone else’s flirtation could not replicate. He had been the late-night calls, the returned texts, the hoodie thrown over shoulders in winter. He had kept the map. He had believed himself to be steady, immovable.

And then, when the person he has anointed quietly goes looking at others, Suna realizes he has soft spots shaped exactly like Atsumu’s laugh and his careless hands and his ability to make disasters look like a performance.

His body is loud in its betrayals. He can feel the thrum of want and the acid of resentment in the same breath, as if two separate weather systems are having the indecent luck of meeting over him. He hates Atsumu for being what he is. He hates himself for wanting him to stay exactly that way.

“Rin?” Atsumu says, turning his face toward him in that lazy way that suggests he believes the world can be paused by being affectionate. “Ya good?"

Suna looks at him. He can, in this single moment, catalog everything that makes it impossible and everything that makes it necessary. He could push Atsumu away. He could stand up and walk out and let the night swallow whatever courage he does not have. Or if he were honest even with himself, he could lean in and close the infinitesimal distance.

His hands clench into fists at his sides precisely because he needs something to do with them. He imagines, for a blink, the immediate violence of a punch, the ridiculous tenderness of the following kiss, a comic-sequence of making it right with shock and saliva. The fantasy is absurd and perfectly formed.

Instead, he lets out a noise that is equal parts exasperation and reluctant affection. “You’re impossible,” he says, which is true on every level.

Atsumu grins like a man who’s been forgiven before for worse. “Yeah. But ya like it anyway."

The sentence is casual, an observation, an accusation, a confession all rolled into one. It lands like a pebble in Suna’s chest and bounces up memories and small saviors and all the quiet ministrations Suna has offered over the years. The pebble turns into a stone. Suna can’t answer because words are fragile and inadequate. He manages instead a look, flat, careful, honest in a way his sarcasm never is—and a quiet, “Don’t be an idiot."

Which, in different circumstances, could be read as affection.

The party goes on. People yell. Someone starts Karaoke and is immediately stopped by more talented friends. Atsumu squeezes closer, content, and Suna realizes the truth he’s been avoiding with scholarly efficiency: he is not the kind of person who will remain unmoved by proximity for long, not when the proximity belongs to Miya Atsumu. He is not made of ice. He is old, soft, and fallible.

When he finally gets up, stiff and deliberate. Atsumu protests halfheartedly, but he lets go. Suna walks into the cool night air and tastes salt—sweat, beer, and something that could be grief or relief or the residue of nearly saying something that would ruin and redeem everything.

Suna doesn’t know how to stop.

He only knows that the ache in his ribs is real and complicated and that the night has rearranged some of his certainties. He knows, too, with the precise finality of a conclusion reached after long experiment, that he will be back. He will orbit again. He will fold band-aids. He will answer Atsumu’s stupid phone calls.

And the thing was, Suna wasn’t stupid.

He knew what kind of person he was. Steady, quiet, detached to the point people sometimes forgot he was in the room. Someone who lived in the background and preferred it that way. Someone who didn’t give grand gestures, didn’t fall loudly, didn’t know how to be gentle in ways other people understood.

And Atsumu deserved more than that.

He deserved someone who could match his volume, his brightness, his whole-hearted way of loving. Someone who wouldn’t shut down when given affection. Someone who could keep up with him, emotionally, socially, explosively. Atsumu was too much for most people, but Suna knew that wasn’t a flaw. It was exactly what made him special. Exactly what made him impossible to forget. And maybe that was why Suna always felt like his quiet, muted kind of love wasn’t enough. Too thin. Too small. Too hidden. Atsumu deserved someone who would love him out loud.

Someone like Sakusa.

It wasn’t even a matter of comparison, Sakusa and Suna were completely different universes. But Sakusa had something Suna could never compete with: balance. He grounded Atsumu. His presence steadied Atsumu’s chaos instead of fueling it. He had patience, discipline, and a kind of blunt honesty Atsumu never took personally.

And Atsumu admired him. Really admired him.

Suna saw it in the way Atsumu talked about him, half annoyed, half fascinated, entirely soft without realizing it. The way Atsumu respected Sakusa’s boundaries. The way he listened, actually listened, when Sakusa corrected him or teased him or simply called him out. It was the kind of dynamic that could turn into something real. Something lasting. And Suna wasn’t blind; he knew it. He knew Sakusa was a better match, stable, principled, quietly protective. He knew that if Sakusa ever decided to like Atsumu back, he would take care of him in all the ways Suna wished he could but never would.

Because Suna wasn’t enough. He wasn’t expressive. He wasn’t brave. He wasn’t someone who lit up rooms or hearts or futures. He hovered. He watched. He loved silently, selfishly, in the only way he knew how, from the sidelines where he couldn’t break anything.

So, he told himself this truth until it stopped hurting: Atsumu deserved someone who would choose him loudly. Sakusa might be that someone. And Suna wasn’t. He was just the person who loved Atsumu quietly enough that Atsumu didn’t even notice.

And maybe that was exactly why Suna needed to stay where he was.

Suna Rintarou has always considered himself a realist. He knows gravity exists, that what goes up must come down, that nothing, especially feelings, defies physics forever. So, when he wakes up the morning after the party, brain still cotton-stuffed and throat sore from pretending to laugh at things that weren’t funny, he decides, logically, that this is it. The comedown. The fall. The point where everything stabilizes again. He thinks to himself, Depression cannot hit a moving target.

He’ll stop being pathetic. He’ll stop being the kind of man who gets heart palpitations from casual shoulder touches. He’ll stop orbiting Atsumu like some tragic planet that doesn’t know how to break free.

That’s the plan.

The problem is, Atsumu keeps existing. He texts like it’s a sport. “U up?” at 8 a.m., followed by a barrage of cat memes and something about “Osamu’s makin’ onigiri again.” He FaceTimes while Suna’s half-asleep. He shows up at Suna’s dorm door uninvited, smelling like soap and chaos, with a grin that says you missed me, didn’t you?

And the worst part? Suna still lets him in. Always. He tries to rationalize it. We’ve been friends forever. He needs me. I’m just being nice. But then he’s got a controller in his hand, playing split-screen Mario Kart while Atsumu’s knee brushes his every thirty seconds and his brain short-circuits like a blown fuse.

It’s the gravity problem: every time he tries to pull away, Atsumu drags him right back

They have another sleepover one weekend—like old times, Atsumu says. Osamu’s there too, rolling his eyes at the nostalgia. They order pizza, play stupid games, argue over whose turn it is to shower. It’s painfully domestic. And if Suna didn’t know better, he’d almost believe it was normal. Osamu falls asleep first, sprawled on the floor like a corpse. Suna and Atsumu end up on the couch, controllers forgotten. The TV flickers low blue light across Atsumu’s face, and Suna, idiot, masochist, looks at him. Really looks.

The curve of his cheekbone, the faint scar on his chin, the way his lashes cast shadows when he blinks. He looks alive and tired and perfect in a way that shouldn’t be allowed. Suna hates himself a little. Atsumu’s head lolls sideways until it lands on Suna’s shoulder. The contact feels electric, immediate. Suna freezes, heart doing the world’s worst drum solo.

He could move. He should move. Instead, he sits there and watches the muted glow of the TV, pretending his pulse isn’t screaming in Morse code. He can smell Atsumu’s shampoo, something cheap and citrusy and it hurts more than anything ever has.

Then Atsumu murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “Yer warm.”

It’s nothing. A half-conscious observation. But Suna’s brain detonates anyway. He stares at the ceiling like it might have answers. He’s cataloging every neuron firing, every muscle screaming, every ounce of restraint he has left. He can’t do this again. He’s done this a hundred times, felt the hope, crushed it, called it friendship, repeated. So why does he still let it happen?

Later, when Atsumu’s asleep and breathing softly beside him, Suna lies awake staring at the dark. He made another list—an invisible ledger of every other stupid thing he’s done for Atsumu.

Exhibit A: Carrying Atsumu’s duffel bag for him after practice. “It’s heavy,” Atsumu had said. 

Exhibit B: Skipping his own lectures to walk Atsumu to his department because, “I don’t wanna go alone, Rin.”

Exhibit C: Editing Atsumu’s essays at 3 a.m. because, “Yer better with words.”

He’s really a simp. A certified, self-destructing simp. He’s self-aware enough to recognize the irony, but not strong enough to stop. He’s seen this pattern play out a thousand times—Atsumu reaching for someone else, Suna pretending he’s fine—and yet, when the hand comes back to him, he always takes it. Because even gravity has its comforts.

In the dim quiet, Atsumu shifts in his sleep, nuzzling closer like its instinct. His arm finds Suna’s waist. Suna exhales, brokenly soft. He could move. He could fix this, stop this, make it less of a problem. He doesn’t. He just closes his eyes and lets himself pretend, for one more night, that maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed to have this.

In the morning, Osamu finds them tangled together on the couch, one blanket between them, Suna blinking awake in quiet panic.

Osamu raises an eyebrow, all dry judgment. “Right. Totally platonic.”

Suna glares. “Shut up.”

Atsumu snores. And Suna, miserably, realizes he’s back where he always ends up: exactly where he swore, he wouldn’t be. 

It’s been seven years.

Seven long, humiliating, soul-decaying years of being in love with Miya Atsumu. That’s roughly 2,555 days. 61,320 hours. Approximately one brain cell lost per minute. Suna knows because he’s counted. Or maybe he just feels it, the gradual erosion of his sanity every time Atsumu slings an arm over his shoulders and says, “Yer the best, Rin.”

Every thanks, buddy chisels away another piece of his fragile self-worth. Every smile directed his way makes another vein twitch in his forehead. It’s a miracle he’s not bald from stress. And maybe it’s because he’s finally hit emotional rock bottom, but this week, Suna finds himself sitting across from Motoya Komori in a dingy café that smells like espresso and bad life choices, saying the words he’s been avoiding for years.

“Do you think I should move on?”

Motoya nearly chokes on his drink. “You mean from Atsumu?”

Suna deadpans. “No, from my crippling gambling addiction. Yes, from Atsumu.”

Motoya stares at him, eyes wide. “Holy shit. You’re serious.”

“I’m tired,” Suna admits, tone flat but heavy. “I can’t keep doing this. It’s like my brain dies a little every time he calls me his best friend. I think I’ve got one neuron left, and it’s trying to hang itself.”

Motoya hums, stirring his drink. “Seven years is a long time to be stupid, yeah.”

“Thanks for the support."

“Just being honest. You’ve been simping for him since high school. I thought you’d die before giving up.”

“I might still.”

Motoya snorts, then sobers when he sees Suna’s expression—equal parts tired and lost. “So what are you gonna do?”

“I dunno.” Suna slouches, picking at his straw. “Maybe… move on. Find someone else to yearn for. Someone who’s not… him.”

Motoya tilts his head. “You mean someone who isn’t a blond volleyball disaster with abandonment issues?”

“Exactly.”

“Or you can just confess like a normal person."

Suna glares.

Motoya grins. “Alright, alright. I’ll help. I know people. We can set up a few blind dates. You’ll meet someone new, make out a bit, maybe remember what having a life feels like.”

Suna groans. “You make it sound like physical therapy.”

“It kinda is.”

And somehow, that’s how Suna ends up on a string of blind dates—each more awkward than the last. The first one talks exclusively about her cats. The second forgets his name mid-dinner. The third asks if he’s into “astrological alignment bonding,” which sounds more like a cult.

Suna smiles politely, pays for his own drink, and goes home each night wondering what kind of karmic debt he owes for falling in love with Atsumu.

Atsumu, for his part, takes it weirdly personally. It starts small—offhand comments. “Yer goin’ out again? With who?”, “Blind date? Seriously? Ya hate people.” and a “Since when do ya care about dating?”

Suna keeps his tone neutral. “Since I decided I wanted to stop dying every time you smile at me.” Of course, he doesn’t say that part out loud. He just shrugs, says, “Since recently, I guess.”

Atsumu frowns like it’s a personal attack. “Ya? Dating? Thought ya weren’t into that stuff.”

“I’m allowed to change my mind.”

“Yeah, but…” Atsumu trails off, brow furrowing. “Why now?”

Suna almost laughs. "Because you made it unbearable. Because I can’t keep looking at you and pretending it’s nothing. Because I’ve been in love with you for seven years and I think I’ve lost permanent brain function." Instead, he just says, “Felt like trying something new.”

Atsumu looks at him like he’s committed treason.

The next few weeks are weird. Atsumu starts hovering. He texts more. Shows up more. Insists on “hanging out, just us,” like it’s suddenly urgent. He complains about Suna being “busy” or “acting different.” He gets sulky when Suna cancels plans for a date, even though he’s the one who used to ditch Suna for Sakusa.

It’s a cosmic joke, really. One night, when they’re walking home from class, Atsumu blurts out, “So, ya like someone now?”

Suna side-eyes him. “That’s the point of dating, yeah.”

Atsumu kicks a pebble. “Just askin’. Don’t gotta be snarky.”

Suna sighs, rubbing his temple. “You’re the one who’s been acting weird about it.”

“I ain’t weird about it!” Atsumu snaps, too defensive, too quick. “It’s just—ya never cared before. And now ya do. It’s… I dunno. Weird.”

Suna laughs softly, hollow. “Yeah. Weird."

Because what else can he say? You had seven years to notice me, and now you’re bothered when I try to stop.

Later that night, he texts Motoya with a 'i think it’s working.'

motoya: the dates?

suna: no

suna: i think i’m finally too tired to care

motoya: …you say that like it’s a good thing

suna: it’s not. but it’s peaceful

Motoya replies with a string of sympathetic emojis and a, 'ur doomed btw.'

Suna stares at the screen, then at the ceiling, and thinks yeah. He probably is.

Suna Rintarou continued to develop his coping mechanism. It’s called: avoid Atsumu at all costs. And when that’s not possible, when the walking migraine insists on showing up at his dorm uninvited, or texts him seventeen times in an hour asking “where r u loser”—Suna simply retreats to the safest location he knows: Onigiri Miya.

It's the Miya's family business that mostly gets run by Osamu when they don't have class. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Smells like soy sauce and competence. And, most importantly, Osamu doesn’t talk about feelings. Well, usually.

Today, unfortunately, Osamu is feeling chatty. Suna’s sitting at one of the side tables, poking at a bowl of miso soup and radiating the general aura of a cat forced to socialize, when Osamu slides into the seat across from him.

“So,” Osamu says, smirking, “How’s yer love life?”

Suna deadpans. “Nonexistent. Thanks for bringing it up.”

“Nah, heard from Motoya yer goin’ on blind dates now.”

Suna freezes. “He told you that?”

“Of course he did,” Osamu says cheerfully. “He said yer finally ‘breaking free from yer emotional Stockholm syndrome.' Whatever that means."

Suna groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It means I’ve reached the final stage of brain rot.”

"Since when are you and Motoya taking?"

"We trauma bonded because we both suffer from yer gay suffering for my brother," Osamu grins. “And good fer ya. Didn’t think ya’d ever get tired of moonin’ over my idiot brother.”

“I’m not mooning.”

“Ya were orbitin’ him like a sad lil’ planet fer years, Rin.”

Suna glares. “You’re supposed to be neutral.”

“I am neutral,” Osamu says. “I’m Switzerland. Just… brutally honest Switzerland.”

Suna pokes at his soup harder. “I just needed space. He’s been acting weird lately.”

Osamu raises a brow. “Weird how?”

Suna hesitates. “Hovering. Asking questions. Looking at me like I’m the one who changed.”

“Did ya?”

“I started going on dates, not faking my death.”

Osamu chuckles, leaning back. “Well, ya might as well have. He’s been complainin’ non-stop. Keeps askin’ if I know where ya are. Like a divorced husband who forgot how shared custody works.”

Suna winces. “Great. I’m haunted by a blonde ghost."

“Ya like ghosts.”

“I like peace,” Suna mutters. “Which is why I’m here.”

Osamu hums. “So, how were the dates?”

Suna glares at him. “Awful.”

Osamu grins wider. “Define awful.”

“One girl brought her cat. To the restaurant.”

“Oh, that’s cute.”

“The cat peed on me.”

Osamu snorts. “Romantic.”

“The next one asked if I believed in star sex compatibility.”

“Do ya?”

“Do you want to get hit?”

Osamu laughs, full-bodied and mean. “Yer a disaster, man. Who’d’ve thought? Stoic, unbothered Suna Rintarou reduced to dating horror stories.”

Suna sighs, long and exhausted. “At this point, I’d take emotional stability over attraction.”

Osamu gives him a look that’s just shy of sympathetic. “Still hung up on him, huh?”

Suna doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. His silence says enough—the way his jaw tightens, the way he picks at his food without eating.

Osamu softens. “He’s an idiot, y’know. Always has been. But ya can’t spend forever waitin’ for him to notice ya.”

“I know,” Suna says quietly.

He really does. Knowing, however, doesn’t make it easier. Later, when the shop closes, they end up in the twins' apartment—like old times. They sit on the couch, gaming, exchanging dry commentary about their mutual stupidity. But Atsumu was out with Sakusa tonight. At one point, Osamu pauses the game and looks at him. “If ya need me to throw a rice ball at his face, just say the word.”

Suna smirks, barely hiding his laugh. “Make it two. One for each brain cell he has.”

“Deal.”

It’s not much, but it helps, a little. The laughter, the quiet, the normalcy. Suna’s still tired. Still tangled up in something that feels like unreciprocated gravity. But sitting there, with Osamu’s steady presence and the faint hum of the TV in the background, he feels marginally okay.

At least until his phone buzzes.

Atsumu: rin.

yer ghostin me again

come hang out w omi and i

pls ;((((

Suna stares at the screen for a long time. Then sighs. “'Samu,” he says, “You ever get tired of loving someone stupid?”

Osamu smirks. “Yer askin’ the wrong twin.”

There’s a special kind of peace that comes from isolation. Suna Rintarou has perfected it.

He wakes up late, eats convenience store food, ignores messages, and tells himself this is self-care. (It’s not. It’s avoidance. But he’s too tired to care about the semantics.) He spends his days scrolling through job listings he’ll never apply to because #1 he's still a student living off his parents allowance #2 he can't commit to his stand-his-business-moving-on yet so applying for a part time job as distraction might just be the end of him and his nights playing online games with Motoya or Osamu, who alternates between giving sincere life advice and calling him a “tragic gay hermit.” It’s quiet. Predictable. Blessedly Atsumu-free. Until it isn’t.

Because apparently, Miya Atsumu doesn’t believe in boundaries when it comes to him.

It happens on a Wednesday afternoon. Suna’s halfway through microwaving leftover curry when someone starts knocking on his dorm door—loudly. Aggressively. Like a police raid. He freezes. There’s only one person who knocks like that. He stares at the door for a full ten seconds, considering pretending not to exist. Then, “RIN! I KNOW YER IN THERE!”

Suna closes his eyes. “Maybe if I stay quiet, he’ll leave,” he mutters to himself.

He does not. “RINTAROUOOO. SUNARINNN!!! OPEN UP, YA EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED PIECE OF—” He can feel the neighbors are starting to peek out into the hallway.

Suna groans, drags himself to the door, and opens it. Atsumu stands there, bright and infuriating as ever. Sweats, backwards cap, holding an energy drink like a man possessed.

Suna blinks once. Then deadpans, “No solicitors,” and tries to shut the door.

Atsumu wedges his foot in. “Don’t ya dare, I walked here!”

“You live ten minutes away.”

“In this heat! That’s basically a death march!”

Suna stares at him flatly. “You’re dramatic, and you smell like Monster.”

Atsumu grins, unbothered. “Missed ya too, Rin.”

Suna wants to throw him out the window.

Fifteen minutes later, Atsumu has somehow taken over his dorm room. He’s lying on Suna’s bed, stealing chips, acting like this isn’t a crime.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Suna says.

“Yer dorm ain’t got my name on it, but yer heart does,” Atsumu replies without missing a beat.

Suna stares at him, deadpan. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Everyday.”

“Tragic.”

“Flirtin’ with me now?”

“I’ll bury you under the vending machine outside.”

Atsumu just laughs, loud and reckless. The sound fills the small room, too familiar, too easy. Suna hates how much he missed it. They fall into old rhythms without meaning to. Atsumu boots up Suna’s console. Suna grumbles but hands him a controller. They play until sunset, arguing, bickering, swearing like it’s therapy. It’s almost normal. Almost like nothing changed. Until Atsumu ruins it.

“Ya still goin’ on those dates?”

Suna pauses mid-game. “What?”

“'Samu said ya went out last week. Some med student, right?”

“Why are you talking to Osamu about my life?”

“‘Cause ya won’t talk to me!” Atsumu snaps, tossing his controller down. “Ya been avoidin’ me like I’ve got the plague!”

“Maybe I just prefer your twin,” Suna mutters.

“I’m serious, Sunarin!”

“So am I,” Suna says flatly. “You’re exhausting.”

Atsumu blinks, thrown off for once. “What—what did I do?”

Suna exhales, rubbing his temples. “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

Atsumu frowns. “Yer makin’ no sense.”

“Exactly.”

It’s silent for a moment. Only the faint hum of the fan and the muted city noise outside. Suna doesn’t look at him. Can’t. He focuses on the floor, the clutter, anything else. He can feel Atsumu watching him, though—confused, frustrated, and too damn close.

Then Atsumu says quietly, “Ya don’t like me hangin’ out with Sakusa, do ya?”

Suna’s heartbeat trips. “What makes you say that?”

“Ya act weird when I mention him. And ya stopped replyin’ the week we all went to that party.”

Suna forces a shrug. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

He finally looks up and regrets it immediately. Because Atsumu’s expression isn’t teasing this time. It’s soft. Concerned. Sincere in a way that makes Suna’s chest twist.

“I just…” Atsumu says, scratching his neck, “I dunno. I don’t like it when ya shut me out, Rin. Feels wrong.”

Suna swallows, his throat dry. “You’ll live.”

“I won’t if ya keep ignorin’ me.”

“Then maybe you should stop showing up uninvited.”

“Then maybe ya should stop pretendin’ ya don’t care.”

Silence. Heavy. Real. Suna laughs first—quiet, bitter, tired. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Atsumu frowns. “Get what?”

Suna doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not yet. So, he just shakes his head, picks up the controller again, and mutters, “You’re the worst, Miya Atsumu."

Atsumu grins faintly, tension breaking like sunlight through clouds. “Yer sayin’ my full name. Must be serious.”

Suna doesn’t rise to it. He just starts the next round, jaw tight, heart louder than it should be. And beside him, Atsumu laughs again, oblivious, warm, too close. The same laugh that started this whole mess.

It starts with a text. Then two. Then a barrage of increasingly chaotic messages from Atsumu, none of which Suna answers.

[12:44 PM] Atsumu: where r u
[12:44 PM] Atsumu: heard u got another date 
[12:46 PM] Atsumu: what’s his name
[12:46 PM] Atsumu: tell me he’s not that guy who wears fedoras to class
[12:47 PM] Atsumu: rin
[12:48 PM] Atsumu: rin i swear to god if he has a soul patch

Suna stares at his phone for a solid minute before dropping it face-down on the table and muttering, “He’s insane.”

Motoya hums across from him, sipping iced coffee. “You knew that when you met him. Why are you still surprised?”

“Because he’s persistent,” Suna says. “Like a fungus.”

“Fungus that texts you seventeen times in an hour,” Motoya says. “That’s love, man.”

“Don’t start.”

Motoya smirks. “You’re the one trying to move on and still keeping him on read like he’s your ex-boyfriend.”

“He’s not—” Suna stops, groans. “Forget it. Let’s just get this over with.”

His “date” is a quiet literature major named Yuuta. Nice enough. Smiles too much. Talks about Dostoevsky and bad film adaptations. Suna tries to focus, nodding along, trying to remember what it feels like to like someone who isn’t Atsumu. It’s going fine until he hears that laugh. That familiar, too-loud, I-own-the-room kind of laugh. He freezes.

Motoya looks up from his phone, grimaces. “Oh no.”

Suna doesn’t need to turn around. He already knows. Atsumu is at the café. And he’s walking toward them like he’s on a damn runway.

“Rin!” Atsumu greets, way too cheerfully. “What a coincidence!”

Suna stares at him, expression flat. “You tracked my location.”

“Coincidence,” Atsumu insists.

Motoya coughs into his drink. “I’m gonna—uh, get a refill. You guys have fun.”

He abandons them like the traitor he is. Atsumu plops himself into the empty seat beside Suna, ignoring Yuuta’s politely confused look.

“So,” Atsumu says, flashing his most charming grin. “Who’s this?”

Suna clenches his jaw. “Atsumu, this is Yuuta. Yuuta, this is the pest control I ordered.”

Yuuta laughs nervously. “You’re funny.”

“He’s not,” Suna says.

Atsumu beams, unbothered. “I’m his best friend.”

Suna’s hand tightens around his coffee cup. “Not for long.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that,” Atsumu says, leaning close. “I was just passin’ by.”

“Our dorm's two train stops away.”

Atsumu’s grin falters. “…Okay, maybe I was just curious."

“About what?”

“About who yer spendin’ yer time with when ya could be hangin’ with me.”

Suna stares at him, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”

Yuuta, bless his soul, senses the storm brewing and excuses himself. “Uh, I should get going—”

“Yeah,” Suna says tightly. “Good idea.”

Once he’s gone, Suna turns to Atsumu, voice low and sharp. “What the hell are you doing?”

Atsumu frowns. “What? I’m just—”

“You’re just what? Interrupting my date? Showing up uninvited again? Acting like you own my time?”

Atsumu’s smile drops completely. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean anything, Atsumu!” Suna snaps, louder than he intends. A few heads turn from nearby tables, but he doesn’t care. “You just do whatever you want, and everyone’s supposed to deal with it.”

Atsumu’s eyes flash. “Well excuse me for carin’ that my best friend’s ignorin’ me all the damn time!”

“Best friend,” Suna repeats, laughing bitterly. “Right. That’s all I’ll ever be, huh?”

Atsumu blinks, thrown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m tired,” Suna says. His voice cracks on the word, and he hates that it does. “Tired of being your backup plan. Your emotional support. Your audience. You don’t even realize what you’re doing, Atsumu. You never have.”

Atsumu’s mouth opens, then closes again. His hands clench uselessly on the table. “I—”

“Don’t,” Suna cuts him off. “Don’t say anything. I can’t—” He exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair. “Just go.”

Atsumu hesitates. “Rin—”

“Go,” Suna repeats. “Please.”

The please does it. Atsumu stands slowly. He looks lost, like someone pulled the ground out from under him. “… Okay.”

And then he leaves. No loud goodbye. No half-joke to smooth it over. Just silence. Suna doesn’t move for a long time after that. The world feels too still. His heart, too loud. Later that night, he’s back in his dorm, staring at the ceiling when Motoya calls.

“So. That was brutal,” Motoya says.

Suna sighs. “I know.”

“You okay?”

“Not even close.”

“Do you regret it?”

He thinks about Atsumu’s face, the shock, the hurt, the confusion. He thinks about how saying it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Yeah,” Suna says quietly. “And no.”

“Well,” Motoya says after a pause, “At least now he knows.”

Suna lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s the problem. I don’t think he does."

Suna doesn’t remember walking to Onigiri Miya. One second, he’s in his dorm room, phone buzzing nonstop with Motoya’s worried messages; the next, he’s standing in front of the shop like a ghost that finally found its unfinished business. The place is closed for the night, but the lights inside are still on. Through the window, he spots Osamu cleaning up, sleeves rolled up, earbuds in, the usual “I’m so done with everyone” look on his face. Suna knocks on the glass. Osamu glances up, frowns, then unlocks the door.

“Ya look like shit,” he greets.

“Thanks,” Suna mutters. “You got beer?”

“Ya got cash?”

Suna gives him a look.

Osamu sighs. “Fine. Sit.”

They end up at one of the corner tables, a couple of cold beers between them, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. Osamu doesn’t ask right away because he’s Osamu, and he knows better than to push.

But when Suna downs half his drink in one go, Osamu says, “So. What happened this time?”

Suna groans, dragging his hands down his face. “I yelled at your brother.”

Osamu hums. “Finally. Been waitin’ for that one to blow up.”

Suna leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “He showed up to my date.”

There’s a beat of silence before Osamu bursts out laughing. “Yer kiddin’.”

“I wish I was.”

Osamu’s grin fades when he catches Suna’s expression, the kind of tired that’s bone-deep. “…What’d ya say to him?”

“I told him to go.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah.”

Osamu whistles low. “Damn.”

Suna tips the beer bottle toward his forehead, like it’ll cool the heat still simmering there. “I think I broke something. Not between us — I think I broke me.”

Osamu tilts his head. “Ya finally snapped, huh.”

“I don’t even know why I kept holding on,” Suna says, voice quiet now. “It’s been years, 'Samu.Years. I’ve done everything short of tattooing I like you, you dumb blonde on my forehead.”

Osamu snorts. “Wouldn’t help. He can’t read nuance."

“I know.” Suna’s laugh comes out cracked. “He’s so—he’s so stupid, Osamu. Like, functionally, emotionally, romantically stupid. I think he was born missing that entire section of his brain.”

Osamu leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Ya just realized that?”

Suna shoots him a glare.

Osamu shrugs. “Don’t gimme that look. I told ya since high school. Atsumu’s a genius on the court and an idiot everywhere else. He don’t get hints. He don’t even get full sentences sometimes.”

Suna groans. “So, what, I have to spell it out?”

“Ding ding ding.”

“I did! I’ve been spelling it out for seven damn years!”

Osamu raises an eyebrow. “Nah. Ya’ve been doing it for seven years, not saying it.”

Suna opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

Osamu smirks. “Thought so.”

Suna sinks lower in his seat. “You don’t get it. If I say it, and he doesn’t—if he looks at me like I just kicked his puppy or worse, like I’m some freak—”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Osamu says. “Because if ya really think Atsumu would treat ya like that, then it's like ya don’t know him at all.”

That shuts Suna up.

Osamu takes a slow sip of his beer before continuing, “Look, I’m not sayin’ he’ll confess right after or suddenly realize he’s been in love with ya or some dramatic crap. But ya keep actin’ like yer protectin’ him by stayin’ quiet, when really, yer just protectin’ yerself. It’s gettin’ pathetic, Rin.”

Suna glares weakly. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Yer welcome. Have another beer.”

Suna groans again, this time burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I’m in love with him.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the club of poor life decisions.”

“I could’ve fallen for you instead,” Suna mumbles. “You’re stable. You cook.”

Osamu smirks. “Nah, I’d eat ya alive.”

“Hot.”

“Focus.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Osamu shakes his head, smiling faintly despite himself. “Point is— ya either tell him or ya move on. But this middle ground? It’s killin’ ya, Rin. Ya look like a ghost that’s still waitin’ for permission to haunt someone.”

Suna lets that sit. And for once, he doesn’t have a comeback. Because Osamu’s right. He’s done everything except confess. He’s spelled it out in loyalty, in patience, in showing up again and again even when Atsumu never noticed. He’s loved him in silence for seven years, waiting for a miracle that would never come unless he forced it to.

Suna exhales, long and slow. “…He really won’t get it unless I tell him, huh.”

“Nope,” Osamu says, popping open another beer. “He’s Atsumu. Ya gotta hit him with a baseball bat made of honesty.”

Suna nods slowly, eyes fixed on the floor. Then, after a beat: “You think he’ll still wanna be friends after?”

Osamu looks at him, really looks at him and says, “If he doesn’t, then he’s not worth all the years ya spent waitin’ and ya move on.”

Suna hums softly. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“’Course I am,” Osamu says, kicking his shin lightly under the table. “Now go home before ya start cryin’ into my rice cooker.”

Suna stands, smirking weakly. “Thanks, 'Samu.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Osamu says, eyes glinting. “Yer the one who still has to talk to that idiot.”

Later, walking back to his dorm, Suna scrolls through his contacts. His thumb hovers over one name. Atsumu. He doesn’t press it. Not yet. But for the first time, he thinks he finally will.

It’s 2:04 a.m. when someone starts pounding on Suna’s dorm door. He thinks, briefly, about pretending to be dead. Then the voice comes, muffled but unmistakable.

“Rin, I know yer awake, open up!”

And that’s the thing about Miya Atsumu. He’s impossible to ignore even at 2 a.m., even when you want to. Suna groans into his pillow. “If this is about ranked queue, I’m committing a felony.”

But the knocking doesn’t stop. So, out of self-preservation, he drags himself out of bed and opens the door. And there he is. Atsumu, in all his late-night, half-broken glory. Hoodie thrown on, hair a mess, eyes wide and restless like he sprinted the whole way. He’s holding a plastic convenience-store bag. Peace offering, probably. Or bribe.

“What,” Suna says flatly.

Atsumu breathes out like he’s been holding it for miles. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Fine.”

Atsumu slips inside, kicks off his shoes, and dumps the bag on Suna’s desk. Coffee, chips, Pocky — the usual currency of bad decisions.

Suna folds his arms. “You have five minutes before I call campus security.”

“Osamu kicked me out,” Atsumu mutters.

Suna blinks. “For what?”

“For bein’ stupid, apparently.”

Suna nods. “Finally, accountability.”

Atsumu glares at him but doesn’t argue. He looks tired and that, more than anything, unnerves Suna. Atsumu never looks tired. Annoying, yes. Overconfident, always. But not tired.

“Why are you here, ’Tsumu?” Suna asks quietly.

Atsumu’s mouth twists. “Because ya hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Then what is this?” Atsumu gestures between them, frustrated. “Ya don’t talk to me, ya don’t hang out anymore, ya disappeared. Every time I text ya, ya act like I’m botherin’ ya. What did I do, huh? Just tell me so I can fix it.”

Suna exhales, long and shaky. “You really don’t know.”

“No,” Atsumu says, exasperated. “That’s what I’m sayin’—”

“I like you,” Suna cuts in, voice sharp, tired, trembling at the edges.

"I like ya too."

"No. I like you."

Silence. Atsumu blinks once. Twice. “Wait, like—like like like me?”

Suna stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “No, Atsumu, I meant I admired your tax record. Yes, like really like you.”

Atsumu’s mouth opens, shuts. No sound.

Suna scoffs. “God, of course you’re speechless now. I’ve been holding that in for seven years.”

“Seven—what—Rin—”

“Yeah,” Suna goes on, laughing hollowly, words falling out too fast now to stop. “Since high school. You were my sexuality crisis, thanks for that. I thought it’d go away after graduation. Spoiler: it didn’t. I tried to move on, went on stupid blind dates, did everything short of hiring an exorcist, but you—” He gestures at Atsumu, helpless. “You keep showing up. You keep ruining everything.”

Atsumu looks stunned, guilty, something else entirely flickering across his face. “Why didn’t ya tell me?”

“Because you were too busy crushing on half the population!” Suna snaps. “Every time I thought maybe—maybe—you’d notice me, you’d start talking about someone new. Because it was safer to pretend I didn’t care than risk losing you completely!”

Atsumu’s eyes soften, the fight draining out of him. “Rin…"

“No. Don’t Rin me. You wanted to know what you did wrong? That’s it. You existed, and I was dumb enough to fall for you.”

Atsumu stands there quietly for a long moment. Then, almost too softly, he says, “Yer not the only dumb one, ya know.”

Suna blinks. “What?”

Atsumu takes a step closer. “Ya think I was chasin’ people ‘cause I didn’t care about ya? I was chasin’ them ‘cause I did. ‘Cause I thought—hell, I thought ya’d never look at me that way. Ya were always calm, unbothered, like nothin’ could touch ya. I figured… if I liked other people, maybe I’d stop likin’ ya.”

Suna’s brain short-circuits. “Excuse me?”

Atsumu shrugs helplessly. “Didn’t work.”

“Obviously.”

“And for the record,” Atsumu adds, quieter now, “Sakusa already rejected me.”

That gets Suna’s attention. “What?”

“Couple weeks ago. Said he didn’t see me that way. We’re just friends. He even said he thought I was still hung up on someone else, like I only talk about ya and I didn’t know what he meant until… now.”

Suna stares at him, half-aghast, half-bemused. “You’re telling me Sakusa turned you down because he thought you were in love with me?”

Atsumu grimaces. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“The man’s a genius.”

“Shut up,” Atsumu mutters, cheeks burning. “I didn’t even realize it till he said it. I was sittin’ there, wonderin’ why I couldn’t stop gettin’ missing ya whenever ya weren’t around. Thought maybe I just missed ya, y’know, like best-friend stuff.” He huffs a weak laugh. “Turns out it wasn’t best-friend stuff. It was I’m-an-idiot-who’s-been-in-love-this-whole-time stuff.”

Suna blinks, the ache in his chest shifting into something softer. “You needed a rejection to realize you liked me?”

Atsumu glares. “Don’t make it sound worse!”

“It’s already bad,” Suna says, but he’s smiling, small, tired, a little helpless.

Atsumu throws his hands up. “Then ya started goin’ on blind dates, and I thought ya weren’t interested in anyone! Thought maybe ya were a monk or somethin’. Then Motoya told me ya went out with that girl who brought her cat, and I—” He groans. “I got jealous.”

“You got jealous.”

“Yeah.”

“Of the girl,” Suna deadpans, “Who brought her cat.”

“She was touchin’ yer arm, Rin! And ya were smilin’! I didn’t like it!”

Suna stares at him, long and incredulous. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yer one to talk!” Atsumu fires back. “Yer sittin’ here thinkin’ I’d never like ya when all ya hadto do was say it!”

“Me?!” Suna points at himself, offended. “You’re the one who needed a damn twin to tell you I liked you! I literally did everything except confess!”

“Well, ya shoulda confessed!”

“Oh my god, you’re insufferable.”

They’re both breathing hard now, frustrated, raw, stupidly close. And then Atsumu blurts, “So what do we do now?”

Suna blinks at him, at the wildness in his eyes, the desperation sitting in the corner of his mouth. “Now?” he says slowly. “Now, I’m supposed to tell you to leave, and you’re supposed to apologize, and we both pretend this didn’t happen.”

Atsumu swallows. “Do ya wanna pretend?”

Suna looks at him. Really looks. At the mess of his hair, the crease between his brows, the stubborn tremor in his voice. And for once, he doesn’t overthink it. He steps forward, grabs Atsumu by the hoodie, and kisses him. It’s messy, a little angry, a little stupid, everything about them condensed into one dizzying, electric second. Atsumu freezes, then exhales, melting into it, kissing back like he’s been waiting just as long.

When they finally pull apart, both breathing hard, Suna mutters, “You’re an idiot.”

Atsumu grins, dazed and radiant. “Yeah. But I’m yer idiot now, right?”

Suna sighs, resigned. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

Atsumu laughs, that stupid, contagious laugh Suna’s been addicted to since they were seventeen and Suna thinks, well, there goes my last brain cell. But maybe it’s worth it so he leaned in. The kiss shouldn’t feel this good. But it does. Of course it does. Because Suna Rintarou has been suffering seven years for this exact brand of emotional stupidity. The room feels too small like the air’s been vacuumed out and replaced with something heavier, wetter, realer. He can taste Atsumu’s breath, can feel the tremor still running through him, and all his carefully managed apathy collapses like cheap furniture.

He kissed Miya Atsumu. Correction: he is still kissing Miya Atsumu. And worse, Atsumu is kissing back like he’s been waiting just as long. Seven years of repression, undone by a single bad decision made at 2:04 a.m. When they break apart, both are breathing like idiots who’ve forgotten lungs are supposed to work. Atsumu’s eyes are wide and bright and too close. Suna’s brain has left the chat.

“Y’know,” Atsumu murmurs, voice low and wrecked, “Ya look like yer havin’ an existential crisis.”

“I am,” Suna replies hoarsely. “I think I’m allergic to hope.”

Atsumu laughs, breathless and golden, like he hasn’t just detonated seven years of Suna’s composure. Suna glares weakly, because it’s either that or cry. It hits him then all at once, too much. Every repressed thought, every half-swallowed dream, every stupid night he spent pretending Atsumu’s laugh didn’t make his ribs ache. He’s touch-starved in ways that are no longer poetic, the kind of hunger that years of denial sharpened into need. So, he does what anyone in his position would: he grabs Atsumu by the hoodie again and kisses him like his oxygen depends on it. And maybe it does. Atsumu freezes for half a second, then laughs against his mouth — this soft, giddy sound that shoots straight down Suna’s spine. He thinks he kind die right here, right now. He's so fucking hot.

“Rin,” he murmurs, smiling into the kiss, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Suna hums, voice gone rough. “You better not. I’ve waited seven years to commit this crime.”

“How many times ya gonna confirm I’m real?” Atsumu teases between kisses, already breathless.

“Statistically?” Suna says, chasing his mouth again. “At least twelve. Maybe thirteen for quality assurance.”

Atsumu snorts or maybe it’s a gasp and then they’re laughing and kissing and it’s all terribly human. Too much teeth. Too much heat. Too much finally. Suna pulls back only long enough to look at him. Atsumu’s cheeks are flushed, his grin lazy and dazed, like he’s realizing in real time that they’re both equally doomed.

“You’re unbelievable,” Suna mutters.

“Yer one to talk,” Atsumu fires back. “Ya’ve been pining for seven years like a background character in a tragic anime.”

Suna groans. “Don’t make this meta.”

Too late, Atsumu’s smiling again, thumb dragging a slow, dangerous path along the side of Suna’s neck. It’s not even seductive — it’s fond, which somehow makes it worse. Suna’s brain short-circuits completely. He’s wanted this so long it feels like muscle memory, like some cosmic inevitability finally allowed to exist. Every touch feels like catching sunlight after years of pretending the sky didn’t matter.

And the thing is, Suna’s not gentle about it. He’s clumsy. Desperate. Half feral with relief. He tilts Atsumu’s head, kisses him deeper, slower, like he’s memorizing him through taste alone and for once, Atsumu doesn’t talk. He just feels. They pull apart again, both flushed, both stupidly smiling like teenagers after their first crime. Suna leans his forehead against Atsumu’s, dizzy and annoyed at how right this feels.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he mutters, “But Osamu and Motoya are never living this down.”

Atsumu blinks. “What?”

“They’re gonna roast us for decades,” Suna says grimly. “Motoya called this in 2020. Osamu probably has a betting pool.”

Atsumu groans, dropping his face into Suna’s shoulder. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Suna sighs, dragging his fingers through Atsumu’s hair. “And the worst part is, he deserves to win.”

Atsumu laughs into his neck, that stupid, bright, too-loud laugh that used to drive Suna insane and now feels like oxygen. Suna feels it shake through both of them, and he thinks, yeah, maybe he’s the biggest idiot alive.

But maybe that’s fine.

He tilts Atsumu’s face back up, thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth. He kisses him again, slower this time, tender enough to hurt. Because seven years of wanting shouldn’t end quietly. It should end like this: messy, trembling, real. A disaster, yes but one worth every second of ache that came before.

Suna breathes against his mouth, whispering between kisses, “You have no idea how stupid this is.”

Atsumu smiles, lips ghosting over his. “Maybe. But we’re stupid together now, yeah?”

Suna lets out a weak laugh. “Unfortunately.”

He kisses him again anyway. And again. Because apparently, seven years of touch deprivation turns you into a menace with no self-control. And when Atsumu laughs, that ridiculous, alive sound. Suna thinks, maybe being an idiot was worth it. Maybe all of it was. Every sleepless night, every sarcastic deflection, every time he told himself he didn’t care. Because now Atsumu’s here. In his arms. Grinning like an idiot. And all Suna can think is, finally.

There are many things Suna Rintarou regrets.

Letting Atsumu copy his notes. Letting Atsumu convince him to watch horror movies. Letting Atsumu exist within a five-meter radius of him, unsupervised. And, most recently, letting Atsumu know that he is touch-starved. Because now?

Now Atsumu has weaponized it. It started small. Hand-holding in public. Subtle, normal, couple-coded things. Then came the escalation: looping his arm through Suna’s at every crosswalk, forehead kisses mid-conversation, a horrifying new habit of feeding him fries unprompted. And it would be fine, great, even if they weren’t constantly around witnesses. Specifically: Osamu, Sakusa, and Motoya. The four of them are currently occupying a table at Onigiri Miya, and the air is heavy with secondhand embarrassment. Osamu looks one existential crisis away from banning them. Sakusa is sipping his tea like he’s witnessing a crime. Motoya’s recording.

“Delete that,” Suna warns.

Motoya grins. “Oh, I will. After I send it to the group chat.”

“Which one?” Atsumu asks, already leaning his head on Suna’s shoulder like this is a romance drama and not a public eatery.

“All of them,” Motoya replies cheerfully.

“Good,” Atsumu says. “They should know love wins.”

Osamu groans. “Love needs to win somewhere else.”

Suna tries to peel Atsumu off him, but it’s like trying to separate two magnets. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Atsumu grins against his shoulder. “Obviously.”

“Why?”

“Because ya get all flustered ‘n cute.”

“I don’t get flustered.”

“Yer literally red.”

“I’m hot.”

“Yeah, ya are.”

“Shut up,” Suna mutters, but it’s useless. Atsumu just kisses him on the jaw like it’s punctuation.

Motoya gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, they’re doing it again.”

Sakusa looks up from his tea, deadpan. “If they start making out, I’m leaving.”

“Ya said that an hour ago,” Osamu says.

“And I meant it an hour ago.”

Suna sighs. “You could all just not look.”

“We tried,” Osamu says. “The trauma’s burned into my retinas. Everyday ya guys make me regret helping ya get yer shit together.”

“Yer welcome,” Atsumu says brightly.

The thing is, Suna knows Atsumu’s doing it to get a reaction. He also knows it’s working. Because Atsumu’s laughter still does that stupid, warm, gravitational pull in his chest. Because after years of holding everything in, every little touch feels like both punishment and relief. Because somewhere between the fries and the shoulder kisses, Suna realized he doesn’t actually mind being ridiculous.

He leans back, lets Atsumu’s hand find his under the table, and murmurs, “You’re insufferable.”

“And yer in love with me,” Atsumu fires back instantly.

Suna exhales. “Unfortunately.”

Motoya claps. “God, it’s like watching a live-action fanfic.”

“Don’t give him ideas,” Osamu mutters. "I thought the suffering will stop if they get together but it only goes downhill from here."

“It’s too late,” Suna says. “He probably has a tag for it already.”

Atsumu perks up. “#canoncompliant, baby.”

Suna groans. “I’m breaking up with you."

“No yer not.”

“No, I’m not.”

They grin at each other like idiots. Osamu throws a napkin at them.

Sakusa finishes his tea and stands. “I’m leaving before you two start narrating your own kissing.”

Atsumu calls after him, “We already do!”

Motoya cackles. “Oh my God, they do.”

And for once, Suna doesn’t care about the teasing or the laughter or the stares. He spent seven years running from this exact kind of chaos, and now he’s right in the middle of it, noisy, messy, touch-heavy, and so stupidly happy he could scream. He glances sideways. Atsumu’s still smiling, salt on his lips, mischief in his eyes.

Suna always thought that dating Atsumu would feel like standing too close to a bonfire—loud, hot, a little dangerous if you weren’t careful.

A few days past, he’s lying on Atsumu’s bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Atsumu is draped across his chest like a six-foot weighted blanket that talks too much.

“Yer heartbeat’s fast,” Atsumu mumbles, face buried in Suna’s hoodie. “Yer nervous or somethin’, Rin?”

“No,” Suna says, immediately lying. “You’re heavy.”

Atsumu snorts and tightens his grip around Suna’s waist so aggressively it’s basically a threat. “That’s not what ya said last night.”

“I didn’t say anything last night,” Suna deadpans. “You talked enough for both of us.”

Atsumu flicks his chest. “Yer so rude. I’m breakin’ up with ya.”

“No, you’re not.”

Atsumu pauses. “Yeah, I’m not.”

He settles again, quieting down in a way that only happens when he’s too overwhelmed to do anything else. Suna feels the weight of Atsumu’s breath against his ribs—slow, steady, content. Something warm and stupid fills Suna’s chest, leaking into every corner he used to pretend was empty.

“Hey… Rin?” Atsumu asks again, voice softer, careful.

“Hm?”

Atsumu hesitates. “Thanks for… y’know. Likin’ me.”

Suna blinks. “It wasn’t really a choice.”

Atsumu lifts his head just enough to squint at him. “Is that a romantic thing or an insult?”

Suna tucks a messy bang behind Atsumu’s ear. “Both.”

Atsumu’s face scrunches—scandalized, fond, annoyingly beautiful. “Yer unbelievable.”

“You love it,” Suna says.

Atsumu goes still at that. His fingers curl into Suna’s hoodie, tugging him closer until their foreheads bump.

“Yeah,” Atsumu breathes. “I do. ’Course I do.”

Suna’s chest loosens, years of ache dissolving into something soft and stupidly real. “Good,” he murmurs. “Took you long enough.”

Atsumu lets out a strangled noise, half laugh, half whine and kisses him. It’s messy and warm and completely Atsumu, and Suna kisses him back like he’s been waiting years. Suna doesn't think he can get used to this.

When they pull apart, Atsumu collapses onto him again, satisfied. “Now ya can’t make fun of my crushes no more.”

“On the contrary,” Suna replies, stroking the back of his head, “I have front-row seats to all your stupidity. I thought that'll be my villian origin story.”

Atsumu groans dramatically. “Yer the worst. I regret datin’ ya.”

“No, you don’t.”

Atsumu pauses. “Yeah. I don’t.”

Silence settles between them, comfortable, warm. Atsumu’s breath evens out, but right before it tips into sleep, he mumbles:

“Y’know… my first crush was ya.”

Suna’s heart stutters.

Atsumu’s voice is slurred, sleepy but honest. “Middle school. Before all the other ones. ’Fore everythin’. It was ya. I just… didn’t know what it meant. I just—didn’t get it. So I ignored it. And then I got distracted by every shiny person who walked by so I— I dunno. Forgot? Or pretended I forgot. But… yeah. It was ya.”

Suna stares at the ceiling, stunned. “How do you casually drop that right before falling asleep?”

Atsumu pokes his ribs weakly. “I’m shy.”

“You’re impossible.”

Atsumu hums. “Mm. But ya still like me.”

Suna sighs, brushing a thumb over the back of Atsumu’s neck. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do. ’Course I do.”

Atsumu melts at that fully, shamelessly and finally drifts off, heavy and warm and entirely his. For the first time, Suna realizes he doesn’t mind the weight at all. He never did. He just didn’t know it was his to carry.

Because in the end, Atsumu’s first crush was him. And somehow, Suna gets to be his last.