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Osamu grits his teeth, debating whether or not it’s possible to turn the broom in his hand into a lethal weapon. Probably — after all, he has fashioned ammunition out of several ordinary artifacts before, but the shop windows that adorn the front of Onigiri Miya give too much of a view inside and Osamu doesn’t want to get reported for attempted murder.
Atsumu’s guffaws really are testing him, though.
Every time the Black Jackals have an away game in Tokyo (or anywhere within twenty miles, really) Atsumu brings the entire team around for a post-game victory-slash-misery dinner. They’re a boisterous group and they draw eyes to them, so Osamu doesn’t mind. The star-potential brings in more customers, and everyone is always hungry enough to exceed Osamu’s profit margin for the day. Atsumu never eats with them, though — he just mills around, telling his teammates he’s not hungry, and then lingers after everyone has gone home so he can swindle Osamu for free food.
That’s what’s happening now. The shop cleared out fifteen minutes ago, and Atsumu took it upon himself to hop behind the counter like a delinquent and swipe three already-prepared onigiri from the display case. While back there, he decided to do what he does best and snoop around, and that’s where he discovered it.
“What’s this, ‘Samu?”
Osamu may have razor-sharp reflexes (due to years with his Inarizaki classmates and a lifetime with an asshole twin) but Atsumu is always faster. He snatched a piece of paper from the back counter, where Osamu had tried (apparently fuckin’ unsuccessfully) to hide the damning piece of evidence that was now being held up in front of him.
When Osamu explained, Atsumu started laughing, and the more he digested the contents of the report, the more obnoxious the giggles became.
“So, yer tellin’ me,” Atsumu repeats, for the third time in six minutes. “That this old lady — one of yer regulars — gave ya a whole portfolio on her granddaughter.”
“Yes.” Osamu feels a vein in his forehead twitch, and he’s convinced that he’s going to die of a sudden brain aneurysm and Atsumu is going to be responsible. “Her granddaughter is our age, and she said that she would be ‘just my type.’”
“She’s not yer type at all.” Atsumu snickers, examining the picture. “But she’s good-lookin’, at least. Blondes are hot.”
“Can’t say I agree,” Osamu deadpans, staring into Atsumu’s soul until Astumu makes an affronted noise and ruffles his straw-blonde hair.
“Whatever, at least she’s not a childhood friend like Ma is tryna do to ya. Ya know, you should be thankin’ me. Just last week she was askin’ if Aran is gay...said y’all always did look so cute together as kids. I told her he had a girlfriend.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Osamu groans. “And there’s no way in hell I’m thankin’ ya for anythin’ — this whole thing is yer fault to begin with.”
“My fault?!”
“Yer fault,” he repeats, turning to wipe down the stove-top behind him and nearly sending one of the grates flying. Atsumu doesn’t even attempt to smother his laughter — in fact, he full-on bursts into hysterics, like he can’t think of any situation more hilarious than one that brings Osamu discomfort. Asshole.
“It’s not my fault that yer perpetually single and all the old ladies take pity on ya. Maybe if ya didn’t walk around reekin’ of loneliness all the time, ya wouldn't have this problem.”
“Sometimes, I’m convinced ya just say shit to hear yerself talk, because nothin’ that comes out of yer mouth makes sense. I am not lonely, but everyone thinks I am because ya had to go and get yerself a boyfriend and since people seem to think twins are some goddamn conjoined entity, everyone thinks I need someone, too.”
Atsumu made getting into a relationship a damn nationwide event — he played the will-he-won’t-he game for months and months, clogging Osamu’s inbox and ears with whines about his unrequited love for one Sakusa fuckin’ Kiyoomi. When Osamu finally got sick of hearing it, he told his brother to just confess to Sakusa and get it over with. Atsumu generally listened to Osamu, and that situation was no different, but he always did it on his terms — anything Osamu told him to do, Atsumu had to turn into an entire ordeal, and that’s what he did with Sakusa. He went and won one of the most publicized V.League games then marched right over to Sakusa, grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him in front of a full stadium and ten-plus cameras.
It trended on Twitter for a whole day, and it wasn’t long before the floodgates opened on Osamu. His mother started it, tutting and fussing over how she always thought Osamu would settle down first, and it only got worse from there.
The old ladies that frequent his shop love Atsumu, so whenever he’s in town, he makes a point to sit and gossip with them, regaling them with ‘adorable’ stories about his sickening love life.
Osamu attacks a small pile of rice with a little too much aggression and it ends up swept under the refrigerator, never to be seen again.
“Yer the one who told me to ask him out!” Atsumu cries, interrupting Osamu’s brooding.
“Yeah, thought ya’d do it like a normal person and ask him on a date or some shit, not make-out with him in front of the entire country of Japan and make it everyone’s business.”
“Couldn’t just ask him out.” Atsumu looks equal parts scandalized and affronted by the mere implication. “Who do ya think I am?”
Osamu sighs and doesn’t answer the question.
“Anyway, it’s a good thing that grannies are throwin’ their eligible grandkids at ya. Ya should date one of them, or at least get laid or somethin’. You’ve been so damn grumpy lately! I know ya say yer overworked, but I’m overworked too, and lemme tell ya, some good dick can really —”
“— Okay, thanks, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu interrupts him before he can open up that can of worms. “But I’m not interested in datin’ right now. I don’t feel like settlin’ down yet.”
“That’s funny,” Atsumu hums. “I remember when we were sixteen and I found yer notebook where you were plannin’ yer weddin’ with —”
“Shut up!” Osamu interrupts, smacking his hand over Atsumu’s mouth. They’re alone in the restaurant, but Atsumu isn’t the only one with a key, and if the clock is correct, Osamu’s second most-frequent customer is due to walk in any minute now. “What part of ‘never speak of this’ don’t ya comprehend?”
Atsumu licks his hand and Osamu pulls it away, disgusted. He runs it under hot water while Atsumu huffs at him.
“Fine, fine, but we all know that’s why yer so reluctant to date anybody. I get it, ‘Samu, I really do, but it’s been years. Ya either gotta make a move or ya gotta move on.”
“I’m not even still hung up on that,” Osamu snaps. “Yer just spewin’ bullshit, like usual, that’s got nothin’ to do with anythin’, and it hasn’t for the past five years, so I wish ya’d stop —”
Osamu’s rant is cut short by the melodic chime from the front door. Atsumu’s lips curve up into a menacing smile.
“Hey, Sunarin,” he simpers. “We were just talkin’ about ya.”
Osamu picks up a piece of uneaten onigiri from Atsumu’s plate and shoves it so deep down his throat that Atsumu will probably choke on it. Good.
“Oh?” Suna saunters into the restaurant like he owns it, and an involuntary wave of calm and affection cascades over Osamu. His own body — betraying him. He can’t believe it.
There are some things about Suna Rintaro.
One, he’s Osamu’s best friend. He’s Atsumu’s best friend too, technically, but Osamu met him first, so he gets favorite privileges. They’ve sent each other enough memes to start a museum, have probably watched the entirety of Tik Tok between them and used to stay up late at sleepovers, long after Atsumu passed out, whispering and laughing and trying not to wake him. They’re more than best friends, even if Osamu can’t quite find the right term to describe the bond they share.
Two, Osamu has, in the past, had a big, fat crush on him.
He tried to deny it at first. He didn’t tell anyone, and tried to act like a normal human being, but because Atsumu is Atsumu, he picked on it immediately. Osamu threatened him, pulled out a laundry list of blackmail he had, and scared him into silence, but he’s brought it up at least once a month for the past five years.
Three, the crush probably isn’t just in the past.
A lot of things have changed in the past five years but Suna never does. Ever since Osamu announced he was opening a Tokyo location, Suna declared he found a new favorite restaurant and he wasn’t exaggerating. Suna knocked on the window of Onigiri Miya three times a week, minimum, always fifteen minutes after close. They saw each other less before Osamu decided to expand to Tokyo, but the moment he established himself in the city, Suna walked back into his life like he never left it.
He never did, not really — they texted all the time, but with the distance, it was easier to ignore long-hidden away feelings. With Suna sitting in front of him, right at the counter, digging into leftovers or whatever experimental onigiri Osamu was testing out that night, the feelings are harder to ignore. He tried to slide him money, but Osamu never let him. Suna paid in other ways — helping sweep floors, unpacking shipments, or just providing Osamu with company while he closed up. Eventually, Osamu got sick of having to open the door for him, so he gave Suna a key.
But despite their friendship and the time they spend together on a weekly basis, there’s no reason to hold out for Suna. He doesn’t seriously date anybody — he gets into scandals with other models, occasionally gets drunk and makes out with his teammates, and flirts with women that are at least ten years older than him. Suna isn’t interested in him as anything but a ‘bro’ and Osamu has long since accepted that.
It doesn’t stop him from wholly turning into a love-struck fool whenever Suna enters the room, though. Osamu has to regularly check his reflection in the black countertops to make sure there aren’t stars in his eyes when Suna tells him another dry joke.
“What were you talking about?” Suna asks, snapping Osamu out of his little trip into the subconscious. Atsumu is continuing to sputter, but he’s not actively choking, so Osamu leaves him alone. Suna regards him with a smirk. “Are you alright, ‘Tsumu?”
Atsumu swallows, gasping for air like a big, dramatic idiot afterward. He shoots a severe glare at Osamu, one that would probably frighten a lesser man, but Osamu is impervious to all of Atsumu’s attempts at intimidation.
“Neither of ya even tried to save my life,” Atsumu grouses.
Osamu shrugs. “I was hopin’ ya’d die, actually.”
“I’m sure you’ve had bigger things in your mouth,” Suna quips. He winks when Atsumu groans and rolls his eyes, and takes the moment of distraction to swipe one of his onigiri from his plate. He pops it into his mouth.
“What the fuck, Sunarin, get yer own!”
“I wanted yours.”
Osamu grins. Suna is a man after his own heart — tormenting Atsumu is his love language.
“I woulda made ya somethin’,” Osamu tells him. “I’ve still got some premade ones that have gotta go, one of ‘em is the mentaiko, like ya like.”
“Oh, I like that!” Atsumu declares. “Gimmie one, since Suna ate mine.”
“Not for you.”
He slams his head on the counter like he’s been shot dead on impact. Osamu ignores him in favor of Suna.
“How was practice?”
“Productive,” Suna says, picking at his food with nimble fingers. He’s one of those weird eaters who has to take apart everything before putting it in his mouth. It’s oddly endearing. “What about me were you two discussing?”
“Your new serve,” Osamu lies, sending harsh, telepathic waves at Atsumu, trying to get the point across through his body-language alone that if he opens his mouth, Osamu will tackle him to the ground, giant store front windows be damned.
Suna hums. “Do you approve?”
“Looked good in the video,” Osamu says.
He nods, then sighs. “That was the only decent one I managed. I was practicing with Motoya earlier and nailed him in the face twice. Washio got it on camera once and it’s already gotten over ten thousand likes on Tik Tok.”
“Seems a little self-sabotagin’,” Osamu says.
“Anything for clout.” Suna shrugs. “I’ll get it down. It’s not a bad thing if I end up hitting the other team’s libero in the face. We watched your game at practice,” he says to Atsumu, who has let himself into the kitchen in order to scrounge together his own shitty version of onigiri. “Seems like you sent more passes to your sweet Omi-kun than anyone else.”
“I did not,” Atsumu bristles. He did. Osamu watched the game, too. “Don’t start that shit. We aren’t talkin’ about my love life, we’re talkin’ about Samu’s.”
“Are we now?” Suna’s eyes flash.
“We aren’t,” Osamu argues. He’s ten seconds away from strangling Atsumu. He’s always wondered what it’s like to be an only child and at this point in life, he thinks it’s time to find out. “‘Tsumu was just bein’ a bitch.”
“Did ya know ‘Samu is a hot commodity? The biggest eligible bachelor in Tokyo, apparently,” Atsumu continues. He has no regard for his life. “He’s got all the local grannies beggin’ him to date their granddaughters.”
“If ya don’t shut up I’m gonna lock ya in the freezer.”
There’s a mischievous twinkle in Suna’s eyes as he appraises the situation. “Have you told all of these well-intentioned grandmothers that you mostly swing for the other team?”
Osamu’s face turns a bright pink. Mostly. Osamu is bisexual, by definition, but it’s a useless title. He hasn’t had a crush on anybody other than Suna in years. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Hmm, that may help,” he muses.
“I’m sure they’ve got grandsons, too,” adds Atsumu, always entirely unhelpful in every situation. Family loyalty means nothing to him.
Osamu groans. “I’ve told ya, I don’t have time to date. You,” he jabs a finger in Suna’s direction, “are supposed to be on my side.”
Osamu avoids talking about his love life with Suna, because, well — yeah, but he’s also told Suna before that he’s not interested in dating apps or going out to bars and dancing up on strangers. Suna is passive about the entire thing and doesn’t often bring it up, but then again he’s always been on Osamu’s side for everything. He’ll agree with him just to agree, or rather, to disagree with Atsumu, usually. Suna has never been against him a day in his life, but now here he is, furthering his torture as Atsumu’s ally.
“Ah, well. The situation is pretty dire, ‘Samu.” He finishes his onigiri, and as soon as Atsumu sits down with a fresh batch for himself, Suna begins to pick at it. Atsumu screeches and jabs him in the chest with his chopsticks. Osamu doesn’t get involved.
“It’s not dire,” he snaps back. “Yer on route to be worse than Atsumu with yer naggin’ — d’ya really wanna be worse than ‘Tsumu?”
“Hey!”
The momentary distraction is all Suna needs, and he shoves half of Atsumu’s food into his mouth. Atsumu is half-murderous, half-defeated. He sighs, mutters something to himself about, ‘Omi would say it’s not worth it’ and takes himself right back into the kitchen.
“You’re gonna pay for the ingredients yer usin’ up.”
“Get fucked. Ya give it to me for free or I’ll chase down one of yer old ladies and pretend to be ya and accept a date.”
“I’m gonna tell Ma about the time ya gave the computer a virus from watchin’ porn and then blamed it on the babysitter.”
“Ooh, that’s a new one,” Suna interrupts, already typing away — more than likely informing his ten-thousand Twitter followers about Atsumu’s deceit.
Atsumu grumbles. “Fine, fine. I’ll pay for yer damn food and I’ll stop buggin’ ya about bein’ single. If you wanna die alone, be my guest.”
“You really should think about it,” Suna says. Osamu glares at him. He shouldn’t be surprised. Suna’s entire life’s purpose is getting involved with things that aren’t his business but Osamu has always been the exception. He must be frowning because Suna smirks. “I’m just saying! I could set you up on a date.”
“Tried that,” Atsumu speaks up. He’s now given up on sitting entirely and is eating his hastily thrown together onigiri half behind Osamu’s back, safely away from Suna. “Wasn’t interested.”
“Ya tried to set me up with yer teammates . Yer captain!”
Meian is a good-looking guy, Osamu will give him that, but he’s his brother’s captain. That has to break, like, three of his moral codes at least.
“I offered Shoyo to ya as well.”
“Just the thought of tryin’ to keep up with someone like Shoyo is exhaustin’.”
Suna snorts at that. “Atsumu is a terrible match-maker. I’m incredible, and I wouldn’t set you up with anybody on the Jackals. Come on. You’re my best friend. Have some faith in me.”
“I dunno who ya would set me up with,” Osamu huffs.
“You don’t have to wonder.” Suna smiles. “I happen to know the perfect person, and he’s single.”
“Oh, yeah? Who is it?”
Suna’s practiced smile stays in place, but the look in his eyes spells troubles. Osamu remembers when Suna had first shown up at Inarizaki. Atsumu had elbowed him and whispered, entirely too loudly, ‘Oi, he’s got cat-eyes. Scary.’ Osamu never thought they were scary, but he didn’t ever think they could be so expressive. Suna chooses ‘bored’ as his default face most days, but Osamu has seen him display so much more in those eyes.
“Somebody you’ll like,” Suna answers cryptically. “Haven’t you ever heard of a blind date, ‘Samu? Half the fun is the anticipation.”
“Oh, Omi used to go on blind dates,” Atsumu butts in. “He hated all of them, obviously, because he’s loved me his whole life —”
“— He’s so damn full of himself,” Osamu mutters.
“I know, right?” Suna agrees.
Atsumu glares at them. “Anyway. He didn’t like any of them, but he said they were pretty fun.”
“I don’t think it would be fun,” Osamu grumbles. “Sunarin, I know most of yer friends, and I can tell ya, I wouldn’t wanna date any of them.”
“No, I think you’ll like this one,” Suna promises. “If you don’t, then I’ll pay for your meal.”
Osamu is stuck. On the one hand, his golden rule is to never, ever deny free food. On the other hand, this situation could be brutally awkward.
“Okay, maybe.” Osamu isn’t quite ready to admit defeat. “Can ya at least show me a picture?”
“What part of blind doesn’t make sense to ya, moron?” Atsumu asks through a mouthful of rice.
“Don’t talk with yer mouth full, ya animal,” Osamu snaps. To Suna, he says, “C’mon. I’m not meetin’ someone I don’t know anythin’ about. I gotta at least see his face.”
Suna shakes his head. “No can do, but I’ll tell you about him. I’ll set up the date for this Friday. That gives you five days for me to give you all the information you need, and if you think you’ll like him, you have to give him a chance.”
“Do it, ya scrub. Suna’s got all of those hot model friends — from Gucci!”
“Shut it,” Osamu growls. “Alright, fine. I’ll think about it.”
-x-
Suna takes Osamu’s reluctant affirmation and sets off at a full sprint with it. Not even twenty-four hours later, he’s blowing up Osamu’s inbox with vague memes that he claims ‘relates to his mystery man.’
Osamu tries to be positive about the whole thing. Sure, it breaks his heart a little that it’s Suna who’s setting him up with someone, because it just confirms Osamu’s suspicions — Suna really never has been into him.
But that’s fine. It’s fine. He knew that — knows that. This is just the final piece of proof he needs to get over his silly crush. If there isn’t even a smidge of hope left, Osamu should move on, and going on this date will help him do that.
He also considers running into the mountains and becoming a monk — that’s another way to avoid the feelings he doesn’t want to let fade away entirely, but he just started a new business and he would miss his regulars.
Besides, Suna would track him down and drag him back kicking and screaming to this date, judging by the effort he’s made so far. It’s Monday — Osamu’s one day off a week, and five days before his date. He’s never been good at relaxing, especially not since opening the restaurant, but he’s doing his best. It’s hard when Suna is spamming him with ‘clues.’
The clues suck. They tell him nothing. Osamu knew this would be the case because Suna can be a real bastard, and he takes a sick joy in teasing his friends. Osamu tries, though, to understand a deeper meaning behind them. Suna kind of reminds him of that cat from those horrifying, CGI-ridden Alice in Wonderland movies, especially now when he’s speaking in cryptic riddles and poorly-generated Internet memes from the early 2000s.
The first one he sends is one Osamu recognizes. It’s titled: Starter Pack for Being Osamu’s Dream Man. The image is a cacophony of things that must apparently make up this ‘dream man’ including an iPhone, gray joggers, a blow-dryer, cinnamon rice cakes, and a magnifying glass. He studies each item, trying to make sense of them altogether.
Everyone in the country of Japan owns an iPhone, so, thanks, Suna, but that gives him nothing. Gray joggers? Okay, so they’re an athlete, or just any standard human being who enjoys comfort. A blow-dryer could also be anyone, but he’s glad his date at least styles his hair — Osamu doesn’t like men who don’t put effort into their appearance (which, probably also has to do with Suna, and how he meticulously applies eyeliner whenever they go out, and does his hair to go to the grocery store). Cinnamon rice cakes are one of Osamu’s favorite snacks, so he’s sure Suna added that to throw him off, and the magnifying glass — he doesn’t even know where to begin with that.
Osamu calls Suna, convinced that he’s not actually giving him real hints, but just trying to confuse him. When Suna answers, he all but confirms Osamu’s suspicions as he laughs on the other end of the line. “Would I ever do that to you?”
“It’s definitely somethin’ ya’d do to ‘Tsumu,” he grumbles.
“Yeah, because that’s ‘Tsumu,” Suna assures him. “I thought this was a good hint! It’s a starter pack — it tells you all of the basics of your dream man.”
“Ya could go up to any random on the street and they’d have half of this.”
“A little rude to call your future lover basic, don’t you think, ‘Samu?” Suna teases. “Look, I can’t tell you too much about him, or you’ll have nothing to talk about on your date. Think of this as just a sneak-peak. It didn’t turn you off, right?”
“No,” Osamu admits, entirely begrudging about the entire thing. “He seems...fine, so far.”
“Exactly.” He can hear Suna’s self-satisfied smirk. “Don’t think too hard about it. I’ll send you more hints tomorrow. You still have four more days to decide if you want to go on this date.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Osamu rolls his eyes. He’s not planning to back out of the date. If anything, he’ll do it just to appease Suna and get Atsumu (and his mother, and grandmother, and all of the grannies that frequent the shop) off his back for a minute. If sparks fly, then great, but Osamu doesn’t expect much.
-x-
Four days before Osamu’s date, Suna creates a digital countdown. For someone who has essentially two full-time careers, Osamu isn’t sure how Suna finds the time to be glued to his laptop for hours putting together these things...Osamu knows it takes hours because they FaceTimed for one-point-five already. Osamu tries to pry out more information from him while Suna tinkers with code but he’s getting nowhere.
“It looks like a doomsday clock,” Osamu decides.
“The ticking time-bomb on your life as a poor, lonely, bachelor.”
“How could I be lonely when ya never stop talkin’ to me?” he argues.
Suna rolls his eyes. They do talk constantly — on a daily basis, really. There’s a big lag in response times, but they’re busy, and Osamu always types something quick to Suna whenever he gets a minute of peace. They have a group chat with Atsumu and Aran that’s pretty much never silent, but Suna texts Osamu outside of it, too. It’s mostly food-industry memes or a shit-tweet about Atsumu (that they’ll laugh about and then promptly report), but sometimes Suna will send him something — a particularly big tree-trunk, or a dog with dark hair and tell Osamu it reminded him of him.
Suna doesn’t answer his question, but a smile plays on his lips. He freezes in that smile as he goes elsewhere on his phone, and a few seconds later, Osamu gets a message.
“This is your next hint. This video really sums up his personality.”
Osamu pauses his own screen to follow the link. A man in a gray hoodie stands in front of a solid white background. His expression is stone-cold, never wavering as an upbeat anime opening plays in the background. Right as the beat drops, the man starts bopping his head, never breaking the intense eye-contact. Osamu snorts, then his face turns to horror. He unpauses the screen so Suna can see it in its full effect.
“Oi, ya know you can’t set me up with my brother’s boyfriend, right?”
“You think I’m setting you up with Sakusa?” Suna laughs. “Well, I guess I can see where you’re coming from. They’re pretty similar. They’d get along as brother-in-laws, I think.”
“Christ, now we’re talkin’ marriage.”
“Hey, you never know. I’m pretty confident in this one.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Osamu yawns. “I’m goin’ to sleep. Ya comin’ into the shop tomorrow?”
“Hell yeah I am, I ran out of leftovers. I’m starving.”
Osamu snorts. He’s single-handedly keeping this man alive. His coach ought to start paying him for it.
“I’ll make somethin’ good for ya.”
-x-
Suna gets more cryptic as the weekend approaches.
Not that he was really giving Osamu anything to work with before, but now he has decided to solely communicate with memes, as if Osamu is onto him. He’s not going to tell Suna that he doesn’t have even the slightest clue who he’s meeting up with in two days, but if he did, it would be short-lived. He’s more confused than ever.
Physical attributes are a thing of the past — all Osamu has to go on is that the guy has dabbled in modeling, and is ‘probably the prettiest man he’ll ever see.’ Osamu holds back his snort at that because even years later, that’s Suna. No one could have him beat, and the world knows it. That’s why he’s all over the city in different fashion ads. Osamu remembers when Suna got his first shoot — it was a joint one, with Atsumu and Aran for Nike. They played up the high school classmates' angle, made it all nostalgic, and it was the first time in Osamu’s life in which he considered whether maybe he made the wrong decision all those years back.
He does miss it — volleyball, but he doesn’t regret his life at all. He would’ve been doing it just to stick around, to stay in the group, and Suna makes sure that he still is included, regardless. He keeps Osamu up to speed on all of the happenings, ensures he has an invite to every event.
That’s another hint — Suna says he plays sports, but he will not, no matter how much Osamu presses, tell him what sport. It’s gotta be volleyball. It logically makes sense that it would be volleyball, but Suna lets him guess and tells him if he’s wrong, and he’s guessed everyone on EJP, the Red Falcons and the Jackals.
“It can’t be someone ya just met in passin’. Ya have to know him better to know all this stuff about him,” Osamu accuses. “Ya told me ya wouldn’t lie about the hints.”
“I haven’t lied,” Suna promises him. “I keep my word, ‘Samu, you know that. I know this man very well.”
Osamu isn’t so sure. “Ya better not be offended if I don’t like him. It’s nothin’ personal, I’m just not really all that —”
“— interested in dating. So you’ve said. You’ll like him, though. He’s just your type.”
“Alright, alright. What’s my clue for today then?”
“This very specific scene from Naruto is your clue today.” He pulls up his phone, beckoning to Osamu from behind the counter. “Pay very close attention to all the characters.”
Osamu squints at the phone screen. He’s seen Naruto — probably fifteen times, at least, half of those with Suna and he recognizes the scene. It’s Shikmaru against Temari, which is one of Osamu’s favorites because Temari is a badass and Shikamaru is the coolest character in the whole show, hands down, but after the clip ends, he’s more confused than ever.
“Is the person yer settin’ me up with a ninja or somethin’? They use Shadow Clone Jutsu?”
Suna smirks and then shrugs. “I’m not answering any more questions, but I hope you paid close attention to the characters because your date reminds me very much of one of them. I think you’ll agree.”
“I’m not really into the whole man-bun look,” Osamu muses, suddenly worried about it. He’s not shallow but he does have a type, and man-buns are not it.
Suna sighs and pats Osamu on the shoulder. “I’ll be back tomorrow with your last clue. Also, the tarako? Slaps. Add that to the regular menu.”
“Ya think so?”
“It’s so good that I might actually pay for it.” He winks, and then as Suna always does, he disappears into the night with a wave over his shoulder.
He texts Osamu not even fifteen minutes later with another clue, this one in the form of a tweet. It reads: “Can you guys please recommend books that made you cry?” and the response is ‘New General Mathematics.’ The accompanying message tells Osamu that his man is the response and Osamu laughs to himself, incredulous.
Well, they have that in common. Atsumu is more math-inclined. Osamu got the creative brain.
Suna is really trying, and well, if anyone knows Osamu better than himself (excluding Atsumu) it’s Suna. The guy doesn’t sound bad — they seem to share the same sense of dry humor, both have their lazy tendencies but overall work hard for what they want, and most likely run in the same circles. Osamu has been single for a long time, and he doesn’t want Atsumu to get married before him — that was never the plan. His crush on Suna is just that — a crush. Sure, it’s been fun spending all of this time with him, but they’ve always been friends first. Osamu can live with that — it’ll be easy, even, with this mystery man.
He finds himself hoping, a little desperately, that he ends up liking this guy.
-x-
With just a day to go, Osamu is starting to actually trust Suna on this. What other choice does he have? If he can’t have Suna himself, then the next best option is somebody Suna hand-picked for him. He’s the type to play pranks and jokes but Suna wouldn’t be deliberately cruel and set Osamu up with somebody he would hate.
The clues have gotten more concrete — less memes, more actual evidence, though he’s still being vague. Suna tells Osamu that his date does, in fact, have a background in modeling like Atsumu guessed, though it isn’t his main career. He adds in the fact that his modeling gigs are catered mostly to his best features, and that Osamu may have seen him on a billboard somewhere.
Osamu ponders the thought, and then asks, “It’s not that awkward, gangly kid from Nekoma is it? The half-Russian?”
Suna, who is currently occupying his favorite stool in front of Osamu’s counter, barks out a laugh.
“No, but that’s a missed opportunity. I remember playing them — kid was a disaster. That would be hilarious, but I suppose you deal with enough disasters in your everyday life already.”
“Yeah, ya think?”
“Don’t worry, no Russian models for you. Your date is fully Japanese, lives right here in Tokyo.”
Osamu considers that for a moment, and then feels like an idiot — there’s over nine million people in Tokyo and he’s thinking he can narrow it down. He’s just...itching to know. There’s been a lot of waiting. Atsumu used to tell Osamu he was a freak because he never worried about anything — he just did what he had to do, whether that be schoolwork, whatever obligation Atsumu dragged him to, or volleyball. It’s not the truth though — Osamu gets anxious, he’s just quieter about it than Atsumu. He picks at his nails instead of whining, and internalizes rather than spilling his guts to everyone around him. He never worried as much as when he opened the restaurant, but he does get caught in the undertow of anticipation and the mystery of the current situation causes his anxiety to run wild.
Part of it is the letting go — if he likes this guy, it should be a good thing, but it will mean saying goodbye to the half of him that has clung to Suna for so long.
“You’re looking introspective right now. Are you about to monologue?”
Osamu snorts and rolls his eyes at Suna. “Nah. But hey. Why are ya doin’ this? Settin’ me up?”
“Hmm.” Suna leans back. Osamu hates when he does that, tells him it’s because he’s scratching the floor, but he’s really worried he’ll go too far and fall over. Suna steadies before he continues. “Because you take care of everyone, ‘Samu.”
“Huh?”
“You do. When you first moved away from him, you called ‘Tsumu three times a day to make sure he was taking care of himself. You sent him care packages.”
“He’s useless without me, that’s why,” Osamu grumbles.
“You watch every one of our games and take extensive notes so we know what to work on — Aran told me that you’re the reason he got his steps for his float serve correct, because you analyzed a bunch of footage and helped him correct it.”
“Well, got nothin’ else to do.”
“You have plenty to do. You could’ve finished closing the shop twenty minutes ago, but you’re feeding me instead.” Suna takes a bite out of his half-eaten onigiri. “I just think it’s time somebody takes care of you, and I trust this guy to do that.”
-x-
Twin telepathy is a bitch. People play it up like it’s this crazy, otherworldly bond that allows you to know whatever your twin is thinking, or the ability to sense danger, but really, it just gives Atsumu the freaky and frankly, obnoxious, capacity to know whenever Osamu is losing it.
He’s losing it a little right now, straightening his jacket for the fifth time before abandoning it altogether on the floor, when Atsumu calls him.
“Yer overthinkin’ it.”
Osamu doesn’t ask him how he knows. He just sighs. “I fuckin’ know I am. I’m not good at shit like this — talkin’ to strangers was always more of yer thing.”
“Ya didn’t pick anythin’ up over the years?” Atsumu teases. “Look — I have a feelin’ ya won’t be nervous at all when ya see him. It’ll be like ya aren’t even strangers.”
“How would you know?”
“Sunarin told me. I’m his confidant.” He can hear Atsumu preening. “He told me all about the guy, and I know for a fact you’ll like him.”
Osamu doesn’t make a habit of trusting Atsumu, especially not with his love life, but Suna is a different story. Suna just — he wouldn’t set Osamu up with somebody intolerable. At the very least, Osamu is sure the mystery man will be pleasant, he’s just...he’s holding on to that hope like a lifeline.
“Just feels kinda like the end of an era, ya know.”
“Or the beginnin’ of a new one,” Atsumu offers.
“Yer bein’ strangely wise. Is yer Omi-kun whispering shit to say in yer ear?”
“No!” Atsumu huffs, affronted, though Osamu hears the telltale sound of a low chuckle on the other end of the phone, and so he knows Sakusa is at least an audience to this conversation.
“Alright, alright. Get on with yer date or whatever,” Osamu says.
“It’s not a date, we’re just doin’ the whole post-sex cuddle thing.”
Ew. Atsumu dating somebody is the worst thing to ever happen to him. He has no filter, and he’s already heard more than he ever wants to know about how flexible Sakusa is.
“Great. Goodbye.”
“Make sure ya call me when it’s over! FaceTime me, actually. We wanna see yer face.”
We. Osamu is going to try with all his heart to enjoy this date, just so he can save himself from a life of third-wheeling. He didn’t think he’d have to worry about PDA with Sakusa Kiyoomi of all people, but according to Suna’s sources on the Black Jackals, he’s absolutely disgusting with how touchy he is. He plays with Atsumu’s hair after practice — when it’s sweaty.
He sighs and shakes himself out of his weird mood. It may be the end of an era, but it’s one that’s long overdue. No more pitying looks from old ladies; no more nagging from his ma; no more pining over his best friend. Osamu is going to give this date his absolute all, and if it sucks, then he’ll just get right back out there and try again. It’s all he can do.
He decides on the jacket as an afterthought and leaves.
On the way, Osamu texts Suna. He asks for final hints before the big reveal, but, incredibly, Suna leaves him on read. Suna is never not on his phone. Osamu is ninety-eight percent sure that it’s glued to his hand, or he has a microchip in his brain programmed to tell him exactly when he needs to check it. His standard reply time is forty-three seconds. They timed it out every day for a week and averaged it out.
So when five minutes, ten minutes, the majority of his ride goes without a response, he frowns. Well, it’s not like it’s impossible — Suna could be at the gym, or with someone. Maybe he has his own date tonight.
Osamu rolls his eyes at himself. He’s not going to wallow in unrequited love the night he has a date; that’s just not fair. He stops psyching himself out and silences his phone.
It’s not a long trip — the restaurant that his date picked out (and Suna communicated, really hammering home the whole ‘blind’ aspect of this date) is just a few blocks from the train station. It’s a nice place, allegedly, but not too nice that Osamu has to put on anything stuffy. He’s ‘dressy-casual’ according to the Internet, which he consulted before picking anything out.
He realizes as he gets to the hostess stand that he doesn’t actually know how he’s supposed to find his date. Suna briefly mentioned his looks, but it was more along the lines of ‘great body, gorgeous face, tall’ or ‘everything you like, ‘Samu’. He resists the urge to roll his eyes — like Suna has any idea what ‘everything he likes’ truly is. He scans around the room before giving his name to the hostess, and just as he opens his mouth, he freezes.
In the back corner of the room, almost out of his line of sight, he sees Suna. Is he here to spy on him? He half-expects to see Atsumu on the other side of the booth, but Suna is alone.
“Uh, I see my friend. Thank you,” he tells the hostess hurriedly, and then with as much stealth as someone of his stature can manage, he creeps his way to Suna.
“Oi, what are ya doin’ here?” he whispers, like he’s in a movie theater. This place is loud, definitely more casual than fancy, and Osamu is probably a little overdressed, but still. “Did ya come to make sure my date goes okay?”
Suna’s grin is megawatt — at least three times brighter than usual.
“Something like that, I guess,” he says. “You wanna sit down?”
“Uh, shouldn’t I find my date? I guess since you’re here you can tell me what he actually looks like.”
Suna’s smile stays in place. “I did tell you. He’s got a great body, and even greater face, and he’s exactly what you like.”
“That doesn’t tell me anythin’.”
“I guess I can be more specific,” Suna hums. “He has hazel eyes — I think you called them ‘cat-eyes’ once, which he was offended by, but at least you didn’t stereotype him as a stoner. He’s a model — has done some big campaigns actually. Are you familiar with Nike? Gucci?”
Osamu’s heart increases in pace and he’s not entirely sure his brain has caught up. He thinks his mouth might be hanging open, but is Suna saying…?
“He’s got a dry sense of humor, but he loves memes. He’s obsessed with those little, fluffy white crackhead dogs, especially when they have stupid haircuts. He has a resting bitch face, some rude people would say.”
‘Resting bitch face’ — exactly what Osamu told him he had about one week into their friendship. Huh.
“Are ya — yer my date, arent’cha?”
“I knew you’d figure it out quickly.” Suna chuckles. “Do you want to sit? I think the entire restaurant is expecting us to have some big dramatic moment soon with the way you’ve been standing and gawking at me. Should we give them a show? Another clue for you — your mystery man kisses on the first date.”
“Jesus, hold on. I’m still processin’.” Osamu slips into the booth. Suna watches him with amusement and wonder on his face. “So...this whole time, you were tryin’ to get me to go on a date with you?”
“Mhm. I just wanted to hook you up with someone your type, and apparently, Osamu, that’s me.”
“Why didn’t ya just ask me out like a normal person?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Suna laughs before turning serious again. “I wasn’t convinced you’d say yes, I guess. I spent the entirety of last week trying to sell myself to you so that even if you didn’t like me, by the date you wouldn’t be able to deny that I’m at least the type of man you like. Then I mentioned it offhandedly to Atsumu and he called me an idiot and said you’d been in love with me since our first year.”
“Bastard,” Osamu mutters, making a mental reminder to beat Atsumu’s ass later.
“At that point, I’d already made up the blind date excuse, so I had to see it through.” He shrugs. “It was fun watching you freak out. You thought I set you up with someone from Nekoma.”
“It coulda made sense.” Osamu is a little faint, but mostly, he’s relieved. All of the nerves he was holding onto for this night disappear up in smoke, leaving Osamu light enough to float. He’s at a restaurant with Suna — not Onigiri Miya, not a convenience store after school, but an actual nice restaurant; on a date.
“I’ve liked you for a long time too, for the record,” Suna says.
“Ya’ve always dated.”
“Yeah, thought it would help me get over you, but here I am, making desperate plans like a lunatic. Ah, feelings.”
“You’re...somethin’ else, Sunarin, but I’ve always liked that about ya.”
Suna’s smile is now borderline goofy, and it may be Osamu’s favorite one yet. He catalogues it in his head, planning to draw it out many more times. Suna lifts his wine glass and toasts the air.
“To what has the potential to be a complete disaster relationship.”
“To the dumbest couple to exist, I guess.”
“At least we make more sense than your brother and goddamn Sakusa Kiyoomi.”
“God, for awhile, I thought we didn’t.”
Suna pretends to shudder, and then looks down at the menu. Osamu follows his lead, glancing down and noticing, for the first time together, that this is a ramen restaurant. His favorite, always.
“How’d ya pick this place, anyway?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the menu. “It’s perfect.”
“I told you — I know what you like. I’m just your type.”
When Osamu looks up, there’s that dopey smile. Osamu mirrors it and reaches across the table to take Suna’s hand.