Chapter Text
“Do we really hafta go?”
“I hate to be that guy, but you were the one who suggested this in the first place.”
Osamu wipes the steam off the bathroom mirror so he can wrinkle his nose at his boyfriend’s reflection. It doesn’t seem to have an effect. “I was drunk when I said it, Rin! They weren’t supposed to remember.”
“Your brother is dumb, but he’s not an idiot,” Suna argues. “I haven’t seen him that happy off the court since…” Suna pauses, leaning against the doorframe as he thinks. “Actually I’ve never seen him that happy off the court. Maybe his wedding.”
“Bleh.” Osamu reaches for his toothbrush. “We’re too old to be goin’ on double dates. This is what high schoolers do.”
Suna shrugs. “Complaining isn’t going to get you out of it. I already confirmed the reservation and ironed your shirt.”
Osamu glares suspiciously at him, the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. “Yer actin’ awfully excited, yanno.”
Suna answers with a look that absolutely means Osamu is getting banished to the couch if he continues that line of thought. Osamu quickly turns back to the mirror and brushes his teeth quickly. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes,” Suna says before slinking away from the door. “Don’t dawdle.”
“M’not dawdlin’,” he calls back, mouth full. He blames his brother for this. Atsumu is the only one who would think going to all this trouble for an overpriced dinner at a pretentious restaurant is fun. Osamu is a certified chef, for god’s sake. It’s been a while since Osamu cooked for all of them at home. Definitely not since Suna bought him those new pans. Why does Atsumu want to go to some fancy restaurant instead?
He wipes his face as he rolls his shoulders back. He had no idea being in his late twenties meant chronic joint pain and deciding it was better to stay home more often than not. “Shit, I really am becoming my dad,” he realizes with no small amount of horror.
“Fifteen minutes!” Suna calls from the living room and Osamu determinedly tells his reflection that he’s going to go out, have a good time, not talk about the weather like his father always does, and he’s not going to let Atsumu rile him up.
.
“What the hell’re you wearin’?” is Osamu’s greeting to his twin brother, who raises his arms and gestures at his own shirt with a sharp, self-satisfied grin.
“This, brother mine, is called silk.” Atsumu winks. “Gotta wear gold for luck! Olympic qualifiers are comin’ back up. This time, there’ll be two Miyas on the court!”
Beside him, Kiyoomi gives a sigh. He has Atsumu’s coat draped over his arm. “You should’ve seen what he originally wanted to wear tonight. Believe me. The silk shirt is the lesser evil.”
Osamu shakes his head. “It’s not too late, yanno, Kiyo-kun. Divorces are, like, super easy these days.”
Kiyoomi touches his chin in fake thought. Atsumu scoffs. “Omi, it’s too early to be enablin’ him.” Then he reaches forward to greet Suna. “Sunarin! Always happy to see my favorite brother.”
Suna rolls his eyes, but there’s a little smile on his lips. “Not legally a Miya.”
“Semantics,” Atsumu argues as he pulls him into a hug.
Kiyoomi gives a nod to Osamu, who gives one back. He’s grown accustomed to Kiyoomi’s quirks, and the least Osamu can do is respect his boundaries after Kiyoomi willingly took on the brunt of Atsumu’s never-ending need for attention. Besides, Osamu likes Kiyoomi. Behind the mask and the scowl, he’s kind and responsible. He’s good for Atsumu. Good for Osamu, too. He fits right into the family with an ease that’s only understood when they all sit down for a meal.
“So this is the place you picked?” Osamu squints at the restaurant. “What’s wrong with it?”
Atsumu crosses his arms. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it! Obviously, I picked it because it’s perfect.”
“Yer definition of perfect includes a golden silk shirt.”
“What’s yer point?”
Suna places a hand on Osamu’s shoulder. “God. Let’s just go in already. I need a drink.”
“Yeah,” Osamu agrees, looking up at the sky. “It’s getting cold anyways. They’re callin’ for snow already. It’s comin’ earlier than normal this year, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?” Atsumu grimaces. “I don’t recall inviting our father to dinner.”
Osamu groans and Suna gives him a comforting pat as he shepherds him inside. The restaurant is dimly lit and ornately decorated. There’s a little waterfall fountain behind the hostess’s podium and satin drapes hang from the ceiling to the floor. It’s the level of pretension that Osamu was dreading. As the hostess leads them to their table, Atsumu says, “Omi and I came here on our… fourth date?”
“Fifth,” Kiyoomi corrects softly.
“It scored very high on its reviews,” Atsumu continues, “but I was still pretty nervous bringin’ him here.”
Kiyoomi hums. “You brought a bottle of travel shampoo thinking it was hand sanitizer.”
Atsumu shushes him. “That’s not the part of the story yer supposed to tell them!”
“Tsumu, man, you’re hopeless.” Suna chuckles as they sit. “Please, tell me he used it.”
Kiyoomi shakes his head. He removes his mask to reveal a smile. “He realized it just in time.”
Osamu laughs. “Ya’ve been holding out embarrassing Tsumu stories on me? I thought we had an agreement.”
Kiyoomi nods. “Well, there’s only so much time in the day.”
Atsumu quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Ya wanna play this game, Omi-Omi? Because I’m sure Sunarin and Samu would love to hear about the time ya were in middle school and ya said-”
“I will divorce you,” Kiyoomi interrupts, face serious. Atsumu grins.
“What?” Suna frowns. “What happened in middle school?”
“Don’t.” Kiyoomi stares at his husband. “Atsumu.”
Atsumu purses his lips. Kiyoomi’s shoulders relax. Osamu thinks he should know better than to drop his guard around Atsumu when he’s got gossip. As Kiyoomi scoots his chair closer to the table, Atsumu blurts, “Omi got called on to read a sentence in English-”
“You-!”
“It was some biology text, but when he tried to say ‘organism’ it kept coming out as…” He looks at Kiyoomi with an expectant gaze.
Kiyoomi sighs and whispers, “Orgasm.” Suna and Osamu snort into their hands, trying very hard not to garner negative attention from the tables around them. Kiyoomi glares at his husband. “This is a dangerous game, you know. You’ve done way more embarrassing things than me.”
“Oh,” Osamu lifts a hand, “I can vouch for that.”
“Shaddup, Samu, yer a direct participant in most of those stories.”
“What about when you tripped and fell at that Black Jackals fan event?” Suna grins, resting his chin in his hand with a glint in his dark eyes. Osamu adores him endlessly.
“No!” Atsumu stage-whispers and closes his eyes. “Why would you say that?”
Kiyoomi places a napkin in his lap with an appreciative nod at Suna.
The waitress approaches their table soon after to drop off the menus and answer questions as they order. Osamu frowns when he sees the prices and decides to just order whatever Suna gets. Atsumu and Kiyoomi decide on a bottle of wine for the table before giving their very specific orders to the waitress, who writes down every modification and request with a nonplussed expression. Osamu used to wonder how someone as high maintenance as Atsumu ended up married before him, but he quickly learned Kiyoomi is just as high maintenance. Atsumu is just a picky eater. Kiyoomi won’t let his food touch more surfaces than necessary, avoiding fryers and grills as much as possible. A match made in hell.
“Thank you,” Osamu says for all of them as he hands over the menus. Then, after she leaves, he whispers to Suna, “Can we leave yet?”
Suna snorts. “No. I haven’t mooched any wine from your brother yet.”
“You hate wine.”
“I like free.”
Osamu concedes to that. He smiles, reaching for his water when the smell of pomegranates wafts over to their side of the table. He looks at Atsumu, who’s cupping his hands so Kiyoomi can squeeze some sanitizer onto them. Atsumu rubs it in dutifully as Kiyoomi offers some to them. “Not shampoo,” he assures. Atsumu huffs.
Suna cups his hands with a laugh.
The waitress returns with the wine, which Kiyoomi examines for a moment before nodding and pouring them each a glass. Suna passes Osamu his before taking an overeager sip and immediately blanching. “Ew,” he chokes.
“You’re supposed to let it breathe,” Kiyoomi says while Atsumu chuckles.
“I thought they made wine out of grapes.” Suna shudders.
Atsumu raises his glass. “Let’s toast.” Osamu copies his brother, nudging Suna to follow even though his face is still pinched in disgust. “To our next season,” Atsumu continues, smiling at Kiyoomi. “Let’s shoot for a perfect season, Omi. All the way to Paris.”
Suna lowers his arm. “I’m not toasting to that.” Kiyoomi clinks his glass with Atsumu’s, and they drink. “Hey!” Suna leans forward. “EJP has a new starting setter this season so you better not think too far ahead of yourselves.”
“Huh?” Atsumu tilts his head to the side. His smile is sharp, and Osamu busies himself with his own glass to avoid the inevitable argument that’s about to strike. “Why should I be worried about some rookie setter? When I’m Japan’s top setter?”
“Weird, I don’t remember inviting Kageyama Tobio to dinner,” Suna hisses.
Atsumu stares at Suna for a moment then calmly hands his wine glass to Kiyoomi. “Okay, if ya wanna play it that way, let’s talk rankings. Where did EJP place the last three seasons, Omi? I can’t remember.”
Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Top eight.”
“Top eight,” Atsumu taps his forehead, “that’s right. I don’t usually look past the top five.”
“Really smug for someone who cried watching The Little Mermaid last week.”
“At least I express my feelings!” Atsumu points at Suna with a scowl. “Not like you. All you express is the shipping on all those shitty Etsy soaps!”
Osamu chokes on his wine, covering his mouth with his napkin as Suna’s eyes narrow. “A-Atsumu,” Osamu interjects weakly, “watch yer mouth. There’s nothin’ wrong with buyin’ soap off Etsy, anyhow.”
Kiyoomi drapes his arm over Atsumu’s chair. “Please, those soaps have nowhere near enough lye. They fall apart after two uses, and no one likes soft soap.”
“Ya hear that?” Atsumu pats Kiyoomi’s hand. “Soft soap!”
“They smell nice, and they’re responsibly sourced!” Suna throws his hands up in frustration. “Not everything has to be Olympic quality, you know.”
“Yer just mad yer soap has no lye!” Atsumu shouts.
“Ugh, only you would find a way to be immature about SOAP!” Suna yells back, voice carrying through the restaurant louder than expected. The room falls silent, patrons and staff alike staring at them with a mixture of disdain and surprise. Osamu isn’t surprised to see two angry waiters standing at their table with a bill forcefully shoved in Kiyoomi’s direction.
.
“GREAT!” Atsumu explodes the second they’re outside. “Just great! Kicked out of the best restaurant in town because Suna’s jealous of the Black Jackals’ success.”
“Kiyoomi, do the Jackals have a backup setter?” Suna asks.
“He’s out with an injured wrist,” Kiyoomi answers suspiciously.
“What a shame. Since their starter is about to be out with an injured face.”
Kiyoomi inserts himself between Atsumu and Suna as they make faces at each other, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “All right,” Osamu speaks up, irritated that he apparently needs to be the voice of reason here, “enough! We already got kicked outta one place. Ya really wanna add public disturbance to tonight’s itinerary?”
Suna and Atsumu back away from each other. Suna huffs, brushing against Osamu’s side. Osamu threads their fingers together, squeezing sympathetically. Atsumu lets out a frustrated sigh as he stretches out. “Man, I’m starvin’! Where are we supposed to go now?”
Osamu lifts his chin. "I know a place."
.
Osamu takes a deep breath. Apron tied around his waist and the familiar weight of a knife in his hand, all the stress from earlier is forgotten. Chopping cabbage and grating carrots; this is exactly what he needed.
"He's in his element," Suna says from behind them. "Look at him."
"He was always like that," Atsumu interjects. "Spent most of middle school worried he was gonna chop off a thumb. How would he have spiked with no thumb?"
"Do you ever think about something other than volleyball?" Suna asks.
Kiyoomi answers for both of them, "It's probably about eighty-percent of the time."
Suna sets a plate on the table. "I guess that's fair. Also, how do you know so much about soap?"
"Watched some documentary in college while procrastinating a paper."
"You procrastinated in college?"
Kiyoomi shrugs. "Not my fault my brain is eighty percent volleyball."
"And twenty percent weird facts from documentaries?"
Atsumu collects four cups from the cabinet next to Osamu's head. "Ah, that’s actually one of the many reasons I married him. Smart."
"At least one of you is," Suna mutters.
Osamu holds out a hand. "Salt." The word has barely left his mouth before Atsumu, mechanically, passes him the shaker.
Atsumu leans against the counter, arms crossed, and asks, "We watched a documentary about bees the other day. Ya should check it out. Bet ya'll never look at fruit the same again."
"I'll add it to the list," Suna assures him, "but don't forget about our House marathon."
"Wait, is that why you're hanging out this weekend?" Kiyoomi asks, exasperated. "You're just going to argue the whole time again."
Atsumu shrugs. "Isn't that what family does? S'not fun otherwise."
When dinner is ready, Osamu ushers them to their seats and serves them his own recipe. "Way better than some pretentious cuisine," he grumbles as he drops some chicken on Atsumu's plate. Atsumu just grins.
As he takes his seat, Osamu realizes that this is exactly what he wanted when he first mentioned a double date. Though they hang out separately all the time, it's actually rather hard for all four of them to sit down together. Atsumu and Suna have their stream nights. Kiyoomi goes with Osamu to the farmers' market. Osamu and Atsumu still watch volleyball games and send shitty memes. Even Kiyoomi and Suna went to some concert together. They have matching t-shirts for a band that Osamu has never heard of.
With their busy lives, nights like these are rare. But they're cherished all the same. Whether they're getting thrown out of a restaurant or playing MarioKart, it's always better when they're together.
"Wait, wait!" Atsumu scrambles for his drink and, despite it being just fruit punch, lifts it up. "I propose a new toast! To a fun season, and three Miyas on the next Olympic court!"
Kiyoomi, Osamu, and Suna copy him. "Not a Miya," he says again.
The word "yet" stays suspended in the air as they clink their cups together and drink.