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Somewhere in the outskirts of Nagano, 1AM.
The job is supposed to be easy. At least, that’s what Ginjima told Osamu.
The villa is located in the outskirts of Nagano, surrounded by a serene forest. 4,567 square feet. Floor to ceiling windows. Multiple entrances. Security? On the stronger side, but even Atsumu could bypass it. And the residents? The parents are conveniently away on a business trip in Shanghai. The son is in Nagoya, attending boarding school.
On paper, it’s a textbook ‘Thread the Needle’ job—a quick in and out.
Easy.
Osamu is halfway to the door when a light shines on his face.
As he shields his eyes with his hands, panic pierces through him like shards of glass. Jobs almost never go according to plan, Osamu knows that much. But this is his first job alone . He wants to—no, he has to—do a good job. The job is supposed to be easy. His cousin had told him that much. His parents had reassured him that much before they left.
While normal teens grew up with curfews and homework, Miya Osamu had been brought up with his family’s own simple set of rules:
- Don’t get caught.
- Always double check your intel.
The light lowers and Osamu blinks. The boy in front of him looks about his age, with dark brown hair parted in the middle and intense eyes the colour of green citrine jewels. Osamu curses Ginjima internally. No one told him the son was cute.
He really, really should’ve double checked his intel. “You’re not supposed to be here,” Osamu blurts out.
The boy looks back at him, eyebrows raised. He’s holding a frying pan, Osamu realizes belatedly, for clobbering purposes or for protection, he doesn’t know. “Well, I could say the same about you.”
Osamu tilts his head, reevaluating his current position. He does have a point.
“Fair.”The boy studies him cautiously and Osamu squirms. He’s not going to call the police is he? he thinks nervously. Osamu does his best to look as non-threatening as possible, offering what he thinks is a toothy grin as he inches closer to the balcony door, swallowing as he watches the boy’s grip tighten around the pan. He looks hardly impressed. Uh oh. Osamu groans. If things go south now, he’ll never hear the end of it from Atsumu.
A beat passes, then the other boy relaxes, lowering his pan and setting it aside. He walks towards the walk-in closet, flicking the light on as he goes. Osamu watches with careful eyes as he backs away from the stranger. He is almost at the door when the boy turns back from the rack.
“I’m Suna Rintarou, by the way.”
Osamu freezes. Then, slowly, “You always give out your name to strangers, Suna?”
Suna cocks his head, smirking slightly. “Depends. You always stick your hands in other people’s closet?”
Osamu cracks an easy smile. “More often than you would think.”
Suna turns back to fiddle around in a drawer. “Have you ever stolen things besides objects?”
Osamu studies him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
There’s something almost wistful in Suna’s eyes, as he turns around to look at Osamu. “Like people?”
“No.”
“Ever want to?” Suna laughs when Osamu looks at him in surprise, lips curling up into a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. When Osamu doesn’t respond, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Osamu has one leg over the balcony when Suna tosses him something. “Here, take this.” Osamu fumbles to catch it. “It’s worth more than the Cartier you have in your bag.”
It’s a vintage Rolex pocket watch. Gold, with leaves embossed in the back. It rests heavily on his palm.
“Thanks?”
“No problem. I don’t like it anyways.” Suna is walking back towards the door that leads to the rest of the house when he looks back over his shoulder. “A gift, from someone who is also not supposed to be here.”
Then he flicks the lights back off and they lapse back into darkness. “See ya around.”
“I hope not,” Osamu mutters, before taking the jump.
The train ride home seems twice as long and three times as quiet. Rice paddies blur into city lights. The weight of the watch in Osamu’s pocket seems to get heavier with every mile he gets closer to home.
The sun is already up by the time Osamu walks through the door, stopping only to slip his jacket off, hanging it up neatly next to his brother’s.
So Atsumu has returned from his job as well.
He finds his brother and his cousin in the kitchen, a plate of tamagoyaki between them.
“How did it go?” Ginjima asks tentatively from his seat.
Osamu reaches for one of the bowls on the drying rack and helps himself to the rice in the cooker before answering. “Almost got caught. The son was there.” He shoots Ginjima a pointed glare. “Anyway, the box is in the hall, if ya want to pass it onto Omimi-san.”
He doesn’t mention the watch.
Osamu slides into a seat and pokes at the dish in front of him. Next to him, Atsumu just groans, eyes fixated at the card in his hands.
“What’s up with him?” Osamu asks between mouthfuls, jabbing his chopsticks in his twin’s vague direction.
Ginjima looks over at Atsumu and shakes his head. “Similar to ya, except I think ‘Tsumu had it worse. At least you finished yer job—someone beat him to his and left him a note.”
Osamu peers over his brother’s shoulders. The card is crisp white, with a simple weasel embossed in the center. “Which one was it?”
Ginjima shrugs. “Kiyoomi-kun probably.”
“Ah.”
Atsumu makes some sort of noise then, a pitiful garbled cry that has Osamu kicking his chair in annoyance.
“Get over it,” Osamu says as he stands up, chair scraping the floor in protest. “It’s not like they haven’t done this before. Remember Hong Kong?”
Pink creeps up Atsumu’s face as he seems to snap out of his daze. “At least I didn’t get caught in the middle of a job, ‘Samu!”
“No one told me there was somebody in the house!” The dishes clatter into the sink as Osamu stomps off to his room. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’ll be fine, Osamu,” Ginjima calls after him as he heads up the stairs. “He let you go, didn’t he?”
Yeah, he did, but Osamu isn’t sure why.
He lies awake in his bed for hours after, the pocket watch in his hands, flipping it open and closed, watching the clock hands glide steadily across the pearlescent watchface. Open, close. Open. Close. He closes his eyes and then opens them again.
He can’t get that little smirk and those green eyes out of his head.
Six months later, Shibuya intersection, 11AM — Tokyo
Out of all the cities he’s been to, nothing really beats the vibrant colours and organized chaos that can only be found on the streets of Tokyo. It is the perfect city to stand out yet remain hidden at the same time.
Osamu walks across the street, pretending to admire a storefront as he watches the crowd from the reflection of the glass. He can see his brother, weaving in and out between the sea of people, occasionally brushing past men with jackets lined with silk and women with wrists adorned with jewels.
It’s when he moves on to the next window pane that he sees him.
Suna Rintarou is exactly as Osamu remembers. He’s in a soft gray hoodie and wool peacoat, gaze glued to his phone as he moves through the busy crowd. He’s perfect, but not in the way one would expect to find perfection. From the distracted look on his face to the discreet designer tags on his clothes, Suna Rintarou is the perfect mark.
He doesn’t notice until it’s too late when Atsumu bumps into the boy, mumbling a quick “Sorry,” in a perfect Tokyo accent, hands reaching out to steady himself.
“No, I’m sorry.” Osamu hears Suna say, watching as hands reach up to brush at his brother's shoulders.
Osamu blinks.
A quick sleight of hand. A bump then a brush. Maybe it’s because he is watching from afar that he is able to see the whole thing unravel. Two boys. They part ways, with both of their pockets the same weight as before. Atsumu walks towards Osamu, but Suna—the perfect mark—stops after a single step. Then, Suna turns around to stare at Atsumu’s retreating figure, the pickpocket’s wallet in his hands.
The perfect mark.
No way.
He’s about to run towards his brother, towards their mark, when he feels a hand on his arm pulling him back. A glimpse of a familiar face, one he hasn’t seen in awhile.
“Kita-san.”
An arcade in the backstreets of Akihabara, 2PM
A family business. That’s what they call it. It’s not too different from building up an heir to inherit a company. It’s an old art form, one passed down between generations, where grandfathers meet grandfathers, whose sons and daughters meet other sons and daughters until the word ‘family’ is something not built by blood but by practice, respect and secrecy.
Like any other family business, there are people that choose to carry on the legacy and then there are people that decide to walk away from it all.
Kita Shinsuke was seventeen when he walked away.
Osamu still remembers the moment clearly. They were in the kitchen when Kita had walked in, a thick envelope held with trembling hands. Every job he had ever done had been for the benefit of his family, but his last con was for himself.
Kita’s last con was to get himself into university.
For Kita, the grass on the other side had always seemed a little greener; growing up, he had struggled learning the ropes and the rules of the business and where the Miyas thrived with their quick wit and gravitation towards mischief, Shinsuke preferred a quieter life.
A life where he could go home everyday without worrying about whether or not his next job would land him in prison.
And now, as they crowd around an old Street Fighter arcade machine, laughing as Kita’s Ryu once again whips Atsumu’s Ken to pieces, it feels as if Kita Shinsuke had never really left.
“How’s—” Osamu pauses, struggling for the right words.
“University?” Kita finishes. “University is fine. Fun. Normal.”
They lapse into silence, focusing only on the tinny beeps and creaks of the joystick as Atsumu attempts to Dragon Punch his way to victory, only to be parried easily by Kita on the pixelated screen.
“There was a job.”
The victory animation lights up on the screen as Kita takes the win, but Osamu isn’t really paying attention to the game anymore. His throat dries as he watches as Kita pushes in a new token into the machine to start up the game again before continuing. “In Sendai. A week ago.”
On the screen now, Kita’s character pauses and Atsumu, taking advantage of this distraction, presses forward to attack. “I didn’t do it,” Kita says, eyes still on the screen. “But they think I did.”
Atsumu, the braver one, is the one who asks. “Who’s they?”
Kita doesn’t answer.
Osamu just stares blankly at the game. Kita’s Ryu backs up onto the edge of the screen but there isn’t really a place to run or avoid Atsumu’s attack. At some point, people can choose to walk away, but sometimes there is nowhere to hide.
The victory animation blinks again on screen and Atsumu turns to look at the older boy. “Are ya happy?” He demands, a whisper of his native accent peeking out as his voice shakes a little.
Kita looks at the phone in his hands. A boy on the screen looks back up at him with warm eyes and a warmer smile. He has a new family. Someone that isn’t them, or Ginjima or anyone in the business. Realization settles in the pit of his stomach as Osamu looks at Kita with new eyes.
Kita looks up, eyes creasing as he smiles. “Yeah, I really am.”
Beside him, Osamu can feel his twin’s breath hitch as fists grip the fabric on his knees. It’s a smile they’ve never seen before, back when Kita was still part of the family. It’s a smile they would like to keep on their friend’s face for as long as they can.
Osamu nods. “Then we’ll help ya.”
An hour later, they leave the arcade and go their separate paths, not before Atsumu flings himself at Kita for a tearful hug.
“We’ll take care of everything, so just concentrate on school.”
Osamu nods. “Omimi-san said he’ll be right over to make sure you get back safely.”
“I’ll send the blueprints over when I’m back in my dorm,” Kita promises with a wave as he heads down the street.
As soon as Kita is out of earshot, Atsumu pulls out his phone. “Hi, Uncle! It’s me, ‘Tsumu… say have you heard from Hitoshi recently?”
As his brother chatters on, Osamu holds up the card Kita had given them before he had left—a deep inky purple with an eagle embossed in stark white ink. On the back are three words that weigh heavily on their minds: Twelve days, Shinsuke.
The Westminster Roppongi, 4:45PM — Minato-ku, Tokyo
12 days before the deadline
“Did he end up calling?” the concierge asks when Suna passes on his way to the elevators to his apartment.
Suna stops mid step and swivels around. “What?”
“Your cousin? He said you left your Student ID at his place so he came to drop it off.” The concierge pauses, a look of doubt flickering across his face. “He said he had the key so he just needed to be buzzed up.”
“Oh. My cousin. Yeah, he said he’d come by.” Suna says calmly, already heading down the hall towards the elevators. “Thanks.”
As the elevator doors slide to a close, a look of surprise blooms on Suna’s face.
To be a good thief, one must always be two steps ahead of the game, or so Osamu likes to think. But as he hears the door click open and he comes face-to-face with the boy who let him go, he thinks that, maybe, in more ways than one, Suna might've taken two more extra steps than he had.
“Honey, I’m home,” Suna croons monotonously from the doorway of his own apartment, lips curling into a slight smile.
Osamu flushes, standing up from where he had been lounging on the sofa. "Suna."
Suna cocks a brow. "Miya."
Ah, so he did check the wallet. Osamu watches as Suna takes his time, pulling off his shoes and hanging up his jacket in the small closet near the door.
"So how did you get in here?"
Osamu smiles, slow and easy. "Well, honey , you can pick pockets." He gestures to the other boy and notices when Suna's hands fly to his left jacket pocket worriedly. Amateur. “But I can pick locks.”
Osamu walks closer until they're centimeters apart, hands pressing the Student ID Atsumu had stolen to the other boy's chest. “Among other things."
Suna's breath hitches as Osamu pulls away and Osamu pretends he hadn’t noticed the flecks of gold in Suna’s eyes. “Where did you learn that, by the way?” Osamu asks. “Doesn’t seem like something a boarding school in Nagoya would teach ya.”
Suna shrugs. He doesn’t look surprised that Osamu knows where he went to school. “Around. When your parents are never around and you’ve beaten every PS4 game in existence, you need to find something to do. The internet is a cool place. You pick up things.”
Osamu knows all about picking up things since his fifth birthday, when his parents decided that stealing Cinderella’s glass slipper was a child-appropriate activity for the twins’ birthday party in Disneyland.
“So what about you?” Suna asks curiously. “When did you learn all this?”
Osamu cracks a grin. “Family secret.”
It’s nice, talking to Suna, he realizes. It’s been awhile since Osamu has had a chance to hold a conversation with someone who wasn’t his brother, or a member of the family. But Suna is new. Suna, with his jewel toned eyes and playful smiles, makes him feel like he’s coming up for air after being underwater for a long, long time.
It’s nice. It feels...normal. Especially when for Osamu, normal usually means late nights in a museum exhibit with fistfuls of jewels in one hand and his brother yelling in his ear on the other.
“It’s Osamu, by the way.” He’s not sure why he’s telling Suna his name. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to be called Atsumu or maybe it’s because he wants to hear someone who isn’t family say his name out loud. “Atsumu is my twin brother.”
“Miya Osamu,” Suna repeats and Osamu finds that yes, giving Suna his name was a good idea after all.
“My friends call me ‘Samu.“ He gives Suna a quick glance before looking away; it’s getting late, and he has a plane to catch tomorrow. After a pause, he mumbles, “Well, I guess you can, too.”
Osamu ignores the warmth spreading from his chest to the tip of his toes as he waves goodbye. “I’ll be taking my brother’s wallet with me, thanks.” Osamu calls over his shoulder, waving Atsumu’s wallet as he heads towards the door as Suna stares, mouth agape as he pats his own jacket pocket, wondering when Osamu stole it back.
“See ya.”
Seoul, South Korea, 12PM
11 days before the deadline
They should really do jobs outside of Japan more often, Osamu thinks to himself as he munches happily on a drumstick. Yeah, he’s been to manga cafes, before but PC bangs in Seoul are just better . You can order fried chicken and tteokbokki all from the comfort of your computer. Forget Tokyo. Seoul is quickly becoming his new favourite city.
“Ooo corndogs,” he says cheerfully, mouse gliding over the screen to add a couple to his cart.
Next to him, Atsumu scowls as he glances over at his screen. “Stop stuffin’ yer face, ‘Samu. We’re here on a job.”
Osamu frowns, looking over at his brother’s screen. “Shut yer trap, ‘Tsumu! Yer literally playing League of Legends right now.”
Atsumu ignores him, the Yone on the screen snapping back into his enemy and towards his timely death. He types something angrily into the chat. “Look what ya made me do!”
Osamu laughs. “Ya did it yerself.” He watches in amusement as Atsumu continues to argue with someone online. He wonders if Suna plays the game as well—he probably doesn’t have his brother’s fiery temper. Osamu shakes his head at the thought. Atsumu’s right. They are here for a job.
“Are ya sure he’s here?” He asks, voice low.
“Yeah.” Atsumu doesn’t even look away from the screen. “Three rows down. Seat 504.”
Osamu squints. “Is that a wig?”
Atsumu snorts. “It could use some work, right?”
They watch as the boy in Seat 504 gets up from this chair, carding his hand through his very questionable yellow-coloured wig as he heads towards the washroom.
A beat later, the door to the PC bang swings open and the twins both stiffen. Two men walk in, shirts too pressed and hips too packed to be normal civilians. As they head towards the counter to speak to the bored looking attendant behind the desk, Atsumu stands up abruptly.
“We gotta go.” He’s already moving, heading towards the computer three rows down. Osamu follows suit, grabbing both their jackets.
“My corndogs,” he mumbles mournfully.
“We’ll get corndogs later.”
When the boy in Seat 504 returns from the washroom, he finds two boys at his computer. One with his hair parted on the right is sitting in his chair, feet propped up next to the keyboard; the other—with his hair parted to the left—staring hungrily at his half-eaten corndog.
“‘Hot Russians in your Area?’” The one in the chair smirks. “Didn’t know you were branching out to blackmailing politicians, Gin.”
The boy in front of them groans. “Miyas.”
Atsumu smiles. “Hello, cousin.”
“How d’ya know I was here?” He asks and when the twins both raise their brows at the same time, Ginjima shakes his head with a shiver. “Never mind.”
They collect their belongings quickly and quietly and slip out through the back door before the police can get a whiff of their trail. Seoul is busy during this time of day, with office workers and old ladies lining the pavement. They turn around the corner to what looks like a street lined with pop up stalls.
“How’s yer dad?”
“Going through a midlife crisis.” Ginjima rolls his eyes and leans closer conspiratorially. “He’s been freelancing with National Security lately.”
Atsumu gasps teasingly. “Traitor.”
Ginjima shrugs as he tugs the wig off his head, discarding it onto a nearby mannequin as he passes. “It’s how I got this job, catching creepo politicians. Yenno, being the lesser evil and such.” He grabs a comb from the next stall in an attempt to fix his stone brown hair, guiltily slipping some coins onto the table when the storekeeper’s back is turned.
The twins each grab a knockoff baseball hat off one of the stalls to hide their natural brown hair. “How’s Uncle and Auntie?” Ginjima asks as Osamu passes him a pair of wide rimmed glasses.
“Job in Uruguay,” Atsumu says, the same time Osamu says, “Paraguay.”
Glares are exchanged over cheap knockoff track jackets.
As they make their way down the market bickering, somewhere along the way, identities are broken down and built back up until three brand new teenagers re-emerges from the crowd.
Ginjima examines his reflection in a side mirror of a nearby parked car. “So,” he says, turning around to face the twins, “what do you need help with now?”
In an Auto Repair Shop, 9:30AM — Osaka
10 days before the deadline
It’s a little known secret that if you have a penchant for speed, the loop of highways that connect into the heart of Osaka is the perfect place for a quick fix. Even when the tradition of street racing has long since faded, the roar of the exhaust and smell of burnt rubber replaced by city lights and jaded buildings, the chase still continues. If you were a local, you would hear whispers of a menace that would show up at weekly races with a new Honda Civic tricked out every time.
Osamu yawns as Atsumu tugs him into the building. Inside, cars line the garage, propped up at various heights by metal beams. “Are ya sure this is the right place?” He mumbles, leaning against his twin tiredly.
“Gin said he was here.” Atsumu squints at the legs protruding from under the cars. “Which one do ya think is him?”
Osamu shrugs. “I dunno. Just look for the most expensive car in the garage.”
They find Akagi Michinari under a shiny white Nissan GT-R.
“Yo! Tsumu! Samu!” Akagi exclaims. “Whatcha doin’ here? Ya need a car?” He lowers his voice with a wink. “There’s a really sweet Gran Turismo ‘round back that I can borrow if ya wanna take it out for a spin.”
“Really, Akagi-san? Just like how you’ve been ‘borrowin’ all those Civics for yer races?” Atsumu asks.
For his part, Akagi has the decency to look slightly guilty. “I put them back where I found them after…” He trails off as he gets up from under the car. He brightens, changing the topic quickly. “How’s Mama and Papa Miya?”
“In Paraguay.”
“In Uruguay.” The twins chime in unison once again.
Akagi nods. “International. Noice.”
Osamu coughs, shooting Atsumu a pointed glare before turning back to the Akagi. “How’s Auntie?”
“Engaged. Or married now?” Akagi gestures vaguely with his hand and Atsumu has to side step him carefully to avoid getting nailed in the face with a wrench. "He's got a nice car collection. Lamborghini Aventador. Mom says I can have it when she files for divorce.”
“Oh, has it been a year already?”
“Nope!” Akagi says happily as he sets down his tools and wipes his hands on his pair of coveralls. “This one’s just gonna be six months. Mom has already found a new target.”
Osamu hums politely. Akagi’s mother has always been someone who enjoyed a long con. He suspects she has married into all the conglomerate families in Japan once, each time with a new identity. “Of course she has.”
“So ya need a car? Two? Ya both wouldn't be here if it isn’t something. Spill.”
The twins eye each other warily before Atsumu speaks.
“Actually Akagi-san, we need more than just a couple of cars….”
"We need two more." Atsumu jerks abruptly on their train ride back home to Amagasaki, elbows nudging into his brother and almost causing him to drop his phone.
Osamu—who was reading an article about PS4 games, for reasons completely unrelated to one cute brunette—hisses at him in annoyance. He hardly has time to say something scathing when Atsumu jostles him again as he flails around excitedly.
"We should ask the Itachiyama crew if they can help."
Osamu eyes him suspiciously. "What, was Hong Kong not bad enough for ya?"
Atsumu flushes, face oddly pink as he turns towards the window and mutters, “Hong Kong wasn’t that bad."
Atsumu always has been an idealist.
Still, they are short a couple of people for the job. Komori Motoya and Sakusa Kiyoomi aren’t Osamu’s favourite people—more rivals than colleagues—but they are good at getting the job done.
Osamu sighs defeatedly. "I'll text Komori-kun."
Home, 9PM — Amagasaki, Hyogo.
9 days before the deadline.
For as long as Osamu could remember, “home” has been a lot of places. Kumamoto. Nagoya. That one year in Beijing. As a thief, he has spent years wrapping around ribbons of smoke, clinging onto the next shadow, waiting. After a while, he has come to realize that home isn’t a place, but where his family is.
“We have a job,” Atsumu announces to the group as soon as he and Osamu enter the living room.
"I knew it!" From the floor, Akagi cheers loudly, clapping his hands together. "Thank god, Osaka was getting so boring. It’s no fun when you keep winnin’."
"So what is it?" Ginjima asks, leaning forward. "A bank heist? A casino?"
"Like Ocean's 11!"
From the sofa, Sakusa Kiyoomi snorts. "You do realize none of us are the legal age to even enter a casino, right?"
Ginjima deflates. "Oh. Right."
"It's not your typical job," Osamu starts off slowly. "We probably won’t even be able to walk away with anything to keep.”
The room falls silent.
Atsumu takes the opportunity to turn on the projector and dim the lights. The security feed Ginjima had pulled for them in Seoul a couple days ago begins to play.
"This is a private estate in Miyagi," Atsumu says as the screen flickers to life. Snapshots of the villa perimeter flashes by click by click. "When we say private, we mean private ."
"How do we get in?" Motoya leans against his cousin for a closer look at the screen, eyes squinting. Next to him, Kiyoomi huffs in annoyance, promptly standing up to move to a solo armchair.
Osamu's eyes flicker across the room to meet Atsumu’s. "You, uh, don't exactly want to visit this place willingly."
"People don't walk out of there alive," Atsumu adds grimly. "But keep an eye on that fence over there."
As if on cue, a figure in the clip runs up and scales the fence like a pro with a bag slung over his shoulder. Tufts of silver hair peeks out from under the hood.
"Hey, isn't that—" Ginjima begins.
Akagi nods. “Shinsuke’s MO.”
"It's not Kita-san," Atsumu cuts in sharply and Ginjima shuts his mouth real fast, gulping nervously.
"What Atsumu means to say is, " Osamu says, "is that Kita-san has recently contacted us for help."
"Whatever the thief stole, he left behind some sort of...compensation, if you will."
"Blueprints—" Osamu hauls some loose leaf papers up from under the table."—for something better than what was stolen."
"The owner of the estate has asked Kita-san—and by extension, us—for our help in retrieving the items detailed in the blueprints."
Akagi yawns, looking bored. "Why can't they do it themselves?"
The twins exchange meaningful glances.
"Well, it isn't exactly someplace they can just stroll into, middle finger guns ablazing."
"Without the middle finger part," Osamu chimes in.
"These people don’t go out much. And it’s more like, if we retrieve these items, the owner will consider not putting a bullet in Kita-san's head and cutting his newly formed university career short."
The twins offer the crowd a weak smile. "It’s a different kind of job than we’re used to. But, Kita-san really needs our help.” Osamu says.
“And we’ll owe ya."
It really isn't their typical job and the stakes are much, much higher. Osamu half expects them to stand up and leave.
Instead, Akagi walks over and puts them in a headlock, knuckles digging into Atsumu’s scalp. "I'm in. Anything for Shinsuke."
Ginjima stands up, looking a bit stressed but determined. "If it's for Kita-san, I'm in."
Motoya pipes up. “We’re in. We would do the same for Ilzuna-san if he was in the same boat. Consider it a favour and an apology for what happened in Hong Kong.”
As Atsumu and Kiyoomi suddenly turn a startling shade of scarlet, Osamu is hit with the realization that perhaps, maybe his brother experienced Hong Kong a bit differently than he did.
Ginjima coughs as both Atsumu and Kiyoomi look anywhere but at each other. "So what's the target?"
Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, 10:45AM
8 days before the deadline
Osamu has been to many museums. This is hardly his first rodeo, nor will it be his last, if everything works according to plan. There are a dozen or so great museums in the world according to his mother, and Osamu has only seen just a speck of them in his seventeen years of living.
The Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum is one of these museums. Built in the mid 2000s at the pinnacle of redevelopment and urbanism, it stands three storeys tall, a sprawling building of glass and steel. Some museums are nothing but refurbished castles with a handful of cameras and bored guards, but not the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum.
“Hey, Omi, you just sat on bird poop.” Atsumu’s voice crackles through the earpiece as the twins walk through the main doors.
Across the quad, a teenage boy stands up abruptly with a scowl. "Focus on the mission, Miya." Kiyoomi mumbles in annoyance, but he does swat his bottom worriedly when he thinks no one is looking. Next to him, sitting by the fountain, Motoya smiles serenely, taking coins discreetly from the water.
As the morning progresses, the mounted cameras will capture the two boys sitting on the edge of the fountain, one with a bright smile and sparkling eyes, the other with a mop of carefully combed curls and a forced grin. As the shorter one pulls out a sketchbook, the other dutifully poses with a scowl.
The security cameras that encircle the walls to the museum are perfectly calibrated and positioned for maximum security. What the security cameras will fail to catch that morning is that the view Motoya is sketching is not of Kiyoomi himself, but of the camera locations, guards and dimensions of the building perimeter.
Osamu knows better.
It’s almost too easy; people are always so painfully predictable. Mundane. Falling into routine is dangerous, living life in a constant time loop makes for easy cons and believable lies.
To the cameras and the guards, the pair just look like two regular teens enjoying the spring.
But, of course, there is always more than what meets the eye.
If the cameras and the guards of the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum don’t notice anything out of the ordinary from the cousins outside, they certainly miss the bickering twins that swat at each other as they make their way through exhibits, snapping up random pictures of vents and guard positioning.
“I can’t believe we’re gonna rob the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum,” Osamu mutters.
“Semantics, my dear brother,” Atsumu replies under his breath, “technically we are robbing at the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum.”
“As if that makes anything easier.”
They pass the café and Osamu stops to pick up a pen that rolled off a customer’s table. “Excuse me, you dropped this, dude,” he says.
Ginjima looks up, face blank as he takes the pen from Osamu’s hand. “Oh, thanks.”
“No problem.”
They continue walking past the cafe towards the room Osamu has seen on the blueprints. The Shiratorizawa exhibit is not a famous one by any means, but it still sees some traction in tourists’ pathing. Though most people only pass by for a few moments, no one pays any attention when two teenage boys linger.
It isn’t a large collection, only three paintings hung along the expanse of the gallery wall. At first glance, the collection isn’t anything special.
Except for the fact that there are currently six paintings in the room.
Osamu steps closer to the ornate frame as he takes in the dimensions to those he had seen etched onto the corners of the blueprint. It’s an amazing concept, if the blueprints are legit. Three priceless paintings, hidden behind three other ones.
Sometimes, the best way to hide something is to have it in plain sight.
“How do we know it’s really there?”
Atsumu looks up. “We don’t.” He places a hand on Osamu’s shoulder. “But we need to try.”
Osamu nods. “Ginjima?”
In the cafe, Ginjima sips on his latte nervously as he looks at his laptop. “It’s a closed-circuit system like we expected,” he says distractedly, pulling out a couple of small, spider-like devices from his pocket. “But give me ten minutes and we’ll have eyes.”
If the guests at the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum notice a series of blue spider drones crawling up the concrete wall of the museum that morning, no one says anything besides a couple of mutters of “Banksy?” that linger in the air. The guards certainly don’t say anything about it, so really, who's to say?
They’re used to all sorts of guests that make their way through the museum each year. Things are never out of the ordinary. Mundane. Boring. Easy.
“Woah!” Akagi says loudly as he walks up to the collection the twins are currently looking at. “That’s pretty dope!”
So when a teenage boy with black spiky hair with a mouthful of bubble gum strides through the halls that day, they think nothing of it. They think nothing of the penny board strapped loosely to his backpack, at least, not until it comes loose and slides across the museum floor with a clatter.
The guards only realize a beat too late as the boy yelps, chasing after his board and slipping on it, hands reaching out for something to steady himself with. They are a step behind when fingers brush against a frame to a painting worth a quarter million dollars, and there really isn’t anything they can do in that split second before he pitches forward and falls.
Suddenly, things are not so boring.
Chaos ensues. Sirens go off. Metal gates descend from the ceiling, blocking the exits. Tourists hurry out of the exhibit, parents clutching their wailing children, and guards snap to attention, walkie-talkies crackling to life as they run towards the exhibit where Akagi lies, seemingly unconscious, his penny board right next to him.
If you asked the guards what the boy who triggered the alarm looked like that day, you would get a vague answer about a skateboard and spiky hair. Nothing out of the ordinary.
After all, it was only an accident.
No one noticed one of the twins running up to the boy’s side, slipping off the earpiece and replacing them with Airpods while shaking Akagi worriedly.
They also didn’t notice the other twin watching calmly on the other side of the gate, eyes glancing at the cameras as Ginjima says in his ear: “We’re in.”
If there wasn’t so much noise and chaos in the museum, someone might have noticed a hand coming to grab one of the earphones from Osamu’s hands and placing it into his own ear.
A flicker of green gold and a ghost of a smile.
Then, “Hey ‘Samu. Missed me?”
There’s a little known saying that runs around heist families. They say once is an accident, twice is a coincidence and three times is a pattern. As a thief, one should never strive to become a pattern. And yet, as Osamu comes face to face with Suna Rintarou, he thinks that maybe such rules are meant to be broken.
“What are you doing here?” Osamu blurts.
“This is a public venue, ‘Samu,” Suna says wryly, tugging uncomfortably at his shirt cuffs with an annoyed huff. “It’s not like I showed up at someone’s house uninvited.”
He gives him a pointed look, but Osamu doesn’t notice. Suna is dressed differently than the day Osamu saw him at the intersection. The oversized hoodie is replaced with a light blue button down shirt and matching dark blazer. His tie is so loose around his neck that Osamu wants to reach out and adjust it for him.
In the sunlight, Suna looks…hot.
Osamu looks away, heat creeping up his face.
“So whatcha up to?”
Osamu turns back to the other boy nonchalantly, schooling his features into his best poker face. “Just visiting with my brother.”
“Really? I didn’t think this was your type of place to visit.”
Osamu narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not like an alcoholic would casually visit a liquor store without trying to buy something.” He purses his lips, giving Osamu a once over. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t be ‘buying’ anything, would you?”
Osamu lets out a surprised laugh, holding up both hands in mock submission. “You can search me if ya like.”
Suna grins. “I trust you.”
Osamu ignores his heart somersaulting.
“Anyways, I came here because my dad wanted me to be useful for once and deliver some papers for the upcoming charity luncheon the Suna foundation is hosting next week. But I guess the museum is busy today, huh.”
“Yeah. Some sort of accident, I think.”
Suna looks at the envelope in his hands. “I guess I’ll come back another day then.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”
“Do you wanna come with?”
That question surprises him and Osamu looks up, flustered.
Suna places a hand on his shoulder and leans in closer so that his breath tickles Osamu's ear when he speaks. “Just you, though. I don’t think I can handle a whole group.” He jabs a thumb at the parting crowd, where Akagi is now groggily getting up. He slips the earphone he took from Osamu back into the other boy’s ear, fingernails lightly scratching at the curve of Osamu’s earlobe. A shiver runs up his spine.
“Text me some time, okay?”
Before Osamu can even respond, Atsumu is calling out to him and he automatically moves toward his brother’s voice. When he looks back, Suna is already lost in the crowd.
Text me some time, okay?
Komori household, 5PM -- Tokyo
8 days before the deadline
“‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” Motoya suggests.
Kiyoomi shoots that down immediately. “I think they’d notice if a scrawny teenager suddenly descended from the glass atrium midday, Motoya.”
There’s a pause as Motoya crosses it off his list. “What about ‘My Fair Lady’?”
“I am not wearing a skirt again, thank you,” Atsumu snaps as he scrawls something onto the whiteboard that now occupies a good chunk of Komori’s living room.
There are blueprints and diagrams scattered all around the floor as they list out every possible con their parents have ever taught them, but nothing seems to stick. Osamu looks at the white board where pictures of key museum staff and members of the Suna family are held up by magnets.
The annual Suna Foundation Charity Luncheon for the Arts will be held in the museum in a week’s time and that is the best possible day they could pull off their little heist. He finds his gaze lingering on Suna Rintarou’s picture, hands fiddling with his phone nervously.
Somehow during their talk in front of the museum, Suna managed to add his phone number into Osamu’s phone. How he managed to pick it from his back pocket and slip it past Osamu was beyond him. He was getting good, Osamu has to admit. Almost on par with Akagi or Ginjima now as far as running basic cons goes. Absentmindedly, he makes a mental note to bring Suna around for some tips once his dad returns from Paraguay or Uruguay or whatever.
Osamu shakes his head, trying to clear his mind as he turns towards his cousin. “Gin?”
Despite having drunk 3 cups of caffeine earlier that morning, Ginjima looks like he’s one ill-timed Nvidia driver update away from crashing and burning. He taps something into his laptop, one of his blue spider-like devices plugged in next to it. “The Suna foundation is hosting their annual charity luncheon in a week, and it’s the largest event the museum has every year. The staff are all restless because they need the Sunas’ event to go well to receive their annual donation but the board recently approved some renovations that are happening at the same time,” he rattles off and Osamu perks up.
Atsumu looks up excitedly. “Renovations?”
Ginjima nods. “They are reworking the security system a bit since the luncheon is auctioning off a Cartier bracelet set worth millions. There’s also been an issue with a faulty boiler lately, but the company they usually source for maintenance is not available to service it.”
“That’s an in.” Kiyoomi points out.
“That’s our in.” Atsumu claps his hands and looks at his brother, eyes shining. “They’re scared that things will go wrong, right?”
Osamu nods slowly, brows furrowed as he looks at the whiteboard.
“Then let’s have everything go wrong.”
The room falls silent at this revelation and Osamu smiles and reaches over the table to give his twin a high-five. “It’ll work.”
“Well, you know what they say… where there’s smoke—”
“—there’s fire.”
Excitement crackles through the room and Osamu shifts to his feet with renewed energy. This might actually work. No, it has to. Except...
“There’s no way we can do this with just the six of us.” Kiyoomi, the source of reason, points out. “We need an inside man.”
Atsumu scowls, brows scrunched as he does a quick headcount. “We can.”
“Six is risky.”
“What’s a little risk?” Atsumu challenges, but Osamu knows better.
There is confidence and then there is risk. Sometimes the line between them is blurry, but only if you let your guard down. One can argue that some of the biggest heists in the world have gotten away because risks were taken, but they’re wrong. Risk takers get hurt. Risk takers get caught.
Osamu thinks about Suna’s sleight of hand and looks at Suna’s picture on the board thoughtfully.
“I think maybe we can get seven.”
The Westminster Roppongi, 12AM — Minato-ku, Tokyo
7 days before the deadline
“Have you ever worked in a team before?”
Osamu ducks as the silhouette figure in the bed curses loudly, shooting up and throwing a pillow at him. He laughs. “Chill, it’s just me.”
The light besides the bed flickers on.
“Samu.” Suna eyes him warily. “Have you ever tried ringing the doorbell?”
“Funny story,” Osamu says, having the decency to look slightly guilty. “Ya might wanna get that fixed.”
Suna rubs the sleep from his eyes, his hair sticking up in different directions. Osamu resists the urge to run his hands through it as he comes closer to sit on the edge of the bed.
“You know, breaking and entering is illegal.” Suna flops back onto the pillows with a huff.
“Well, so is petty theft, but that didn’t stop you, did it now?”
Suna laughs and Osamu’s face colours. It’s a nice laugh, one he’d like to hear more often. “You’re one to talk.”
Yeah, he really is, isn’t he?
“You know, you could’ve texted before you came over,” Suna smirks, tugging the blankets around him in fake modesty. “Then I would’ve had time to get dressed.”
He’s shirtless, Osamu realizes as his face colours, turning as red as one of the rubies his mother had stolen in Singapore when he was thirteen. He tries very hard to not look below Suna’s neck. Just look at him in the eye and tell him about the job, Osamu coaxes mentally.
“You’ve been getting really good with yer hands.” Osamu manages to say instead.
What. What ?
Suna’s grin grows wider. “Take a boy out on a date first,” he teases as Osamu covers his face with his hands in mortification.
“T-that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“I have a job,” Osamu says quickly, before he can embarrass himself further. “We need another person for it.”
Suna blinks slowly. “What, like Miya’s 11?”
“There’s...only like six of us actually. And it’s more like...Kita’s 7? But that’s not the point.”
Osamu knows he is taking a big risk. Suna Rintarou is not part of the family business, or even the business at all. But for some reason, he finds himself inexplicably drawn back to him time after time. The pattern had solidified itself the second they met at the museum. There is no plan to this, nor has he thought of what would happen if things were to go wrong. But at that moment, Osamu doesn’t care. It just feels right.
He decides to take the leap.
“Do you trust me?” Osamu asks.
“Isn’t that something I should be—” Suna trails off as he notices Osamu’s expression. He swallows thickly. “Yes.”
“Have you ever worked with a team before?”
Suna looks at his hands quietly, shaking his head. “I’ve always been alone.”
Osamu thinks of the large quiet villa in Nagano, with its empty cold halls and thin layer of dust in all the rooms but Rintarou’s. He thinks back to the concierge in the lobby, who mumbled something about the “poor Suna boy, at least he has his cousin to come visit now.” Suna, whose eyes seem to ring with loneliness, expression almost wistful as he watched Osamu and his friends at the museum just hours earlier. Osamu looks at Suna then and realizes that what Suna had asked of him when they first met was genuine.
“ Have you ever tried stealing people?”
It wasn’t a question, so much as a pleading request.
I’ve always been alone.
“Well, do you want to keep it that way?”
Komori household, 3AM -- Tokyo
7 days before the deadline
Out of all the things Osamu has ever considered himself to be good at, sneaking back into the Komori household should be on the list. But despite having already broken into another apartment building several hours prior, Osamu realizes that there really is no point hiding from people who also do that for a living.
“‘Samu?”
Osamu freezes and curses the high heavens that his brother always was a light sleeper.
“Tsumu.”
Atsumu watches as Osamu slips his shoes off, sitting on the sofa with his head tucked on his knees. “Samu, where did you go?”
“Out.”
“Out where? We almost finalized a plan and we need ya to-“
Osamu never finds out what Atsumu needed him to do because at that moment, the boy whose face is currently plastered on a whiteboard in the Komori living room, decides to step out from behind him and say, “Yo.”
“‘Samu, who’s this?” Atsumu asks tightly, as if they hadn’t spent hours thinking of ways to rob a museum in broad daylight on the day of the Suna charity luncheon earlier that evening.
“Suna Rintarou.” The teen introduces himself.
Atsumu doesn’t even spare him a glance. “I wasn’t talking to ya. ‘Samu, can I speak to you outside… alone ?”
Osamu looks at Suna before turning back to his brother. “Okay.”
As soon as the balcony doors slide shut behind him, Atsumu whirls around, looking annoyed. “Can you explain to me why I just saw Suna Rintarou in Motoya-kun’s living room?”
Osamu's eyes narrow at his brother’s tone of voice, body tensing defensively. “We needed an inside man.”
“But Suna? Do you know who his father is? What if we get caught? You were the one who said we couldn’t afford to be risky but look at ya now. Hypocrite.“
Flames of annoyance lick at the pit of his stomach as he finds himself speaking louder. “It’ll be fine, ‘Tsumu,” he says hotly, “ya said we needed seven and now we have seven. Don’t get yer panties in a twist. ”
Atsumu— who has been pacing worriedly—swivels around sharply. “Seven as in Omimi-san. Maybe even Riseki, seven. Not SUNA FUCKIN’ RINTAROU SEVEN!”
Osamu flinches, stepping back from his brother.
Atsumu’s expression softens. “He’s not part of the family.”
The match in Osamu sparks and he snaps.
“Ya think Akagi-san was always part of our family? Or what about Kita-san? We are not related to them by blood anymore than Suna is.”
His eyes prickle with frustrated tears and he wipes at his face angrily. Atsumu just looks at him, anger dissolving into something softer, sadder. Osamu hates how Atsumu looks at him like that.
It’s almost pitiful.
Atsumu studies him closely, amber eyes knowing. “Ya like him don't ‘cha.”
Osamu refuses to meet his gaze. “I don’t.”
Truth is a flimsy thing.
“He’s just not one of us , ‘Samu.” Atsumu whispers, not unkindly.
Osamu looks at where Suna is staring up at a Monet in Komori’s hallway. As if sensing his gaze, Suna looks up and shoots him a small smile. Osamu smiles back reflexively. “But he could be.”
Atsumu just looks at him. “It’s late. I’m headin’ back to bed.” Atsumu says finally. “We’re not done here though.”
“Well, I am.” Osamu calls as his brother makes his way back to the room he is currently sharing with Kiyoomi. He swipes at his eyes with his sleeve before heading to the hall to find Suna.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Suna says distractedly, finger pointing at the painting in front of him. “Isn't this a—”
“Monet, yeah.”
“How did y—”
“Motoya’s parents specializes in art.”
Suna side eyes him suspiciously. “Like creating?”
“More like distribution,” Osamu considers with a tilt of his head. “And duplication.”
“So like forgery.”
“Like forgery,” Osamu confirms with a small laugh, bad mood dissipating.
“And your parents?”
“Jewellery collectors.”
Suna looks at him from the corner of his eye. “Was everything okay back with your brother? You seem kind of upset.”
“It’s fine,” Osamu lies. “I just thought I could bring ya up to speed back at yer place instead since it’s kinda crowded here.”
The hall is empty except for them.
“Okay.”
As they walk down the hall towards the door, their shoulders brush and Osamu does his best to ignore how good it feels to be next to Suna.
Atsumu is wrong. I don’t like Suna like that, he tells himself.
Truth is a flimsy thing. If you say something enough times, eventually others will believe it.
I don’t like Suna Rintarou like that.
The problem with being a con artist is that after a while, it makes you so hard to con. Even when the person you’re desperately trying to deceive is yourself.
A field outside the outskirts of Tokyo, 2:15PM
5 days until the deadline
Two days. That’s how long Atsumu has been dancing around Osamu ever since he brought Suna into the Komori household. It isn’t the first time the twins have fought, but it is the first time Atsumu has given him the cold shoulder for so long.
“A little more on the smoke, less on the boom, thanks,” Atsumu is saying to Motoya through a walkie talkie as Osamu walks up to the little set up Gin and Atsumu had created on the field. Laptops are set up on a foldable table, a bag of shrimp chips lying between various gadgets. From a distance, dark spirals of smoke bloom behind a row of trees.
“How’s that?” Motoya’s voice crackles.
Osamu gives Atsumu a tentative thumbs up, which he ignores. “More.”
Ginjima glances at Osamu as he reaches over to grab a handful of chips. “He’s still not talking to ya?”
Osamu shakes his head and Gin frowns. “I wonder why,” he muses, brushing the crumbs off with his jeans.
Osamu can only offer him a shrug and Gin cracks a smile, slapping his cousin on the back. “Anyways, thanks for getting us this space, ‘Samu. How did ya ever find it?”
The plot of land belongs to the Suna family. For the past couple of days, when Osamu wasn’t busy preparing for the heist, he would be at Suna’s apartment, giving him planning updates and to just practice. Though they technically weren’t speaking to one another, Atsumu had grudgingly handed him a set of diagrams to pass along to the rookie the other night.
“Just use my parents’ lot outside Tokyo,” Suna had said with a shrug as Osamu recounted the latest bump to their heist. They were in Suna’s bedroom, practicing passing keycards discreetly between them. “They were planning on building a new villa but nothings been constructed yet. It’s just empty space.”
Now, as more smoke billows metres away, Osamu smiles in anticipation for the night to come. “A friend let us borrow it,” he tells his cousin.
Ginjima whistles. “I wanna be their friend, too.”
“Bigger!” Atsumu says, and Osamu shakes his head, moving away from the group to pull out his phone. He’s laughing at a meme Suna had just sent him, texting him a quick reply when a shiny red McLaren pulls up next to him.
“Yo!” The falcon wing door closest to him swings open to reveal Akagi in all his glory, sporting a pair of very new, very stolen-looking sunglasses.
Osamu stares. “Akagi-san,” he starts slowly, “this is not a bus.”
“It’s a McLaren MP4-12C!” Akagi chirps brightly.
“Why do you have a McLaren MP4-12C?”
Behind him, Atsumu catches a glimpse of the red and marches over before Akagi can even reply. “Akagi-san, we don’t need a Mclaren MP4-12C, we need a bus!”
“But it’s shiny.”
“Put it back!”
Akagi boos.
As Akagi stomps off to find a better car, a resounding boom bellows in the distance and a plume of smoke follows quickly after.
The walkie talkie crackles to life as Kiyoomi says crisply, “Motoya just took that to his face. He’s fine. Just…missing some eyebrows.” A garbled groan of confirmation from one slightly burnt Komori Motoya bleeds through the speakers.
Ginjima shakes his head, getting up with a resigned sigh. “I’ll go help.”
Osamu watches him go. Atsumu holds up the walkie talkie. “Ya gotta admit, Omi, fried Moto-kun aside, that boom was perfect.”
The Westminster Roppongi, 10:35PM — Minato-ku, Tokyo
3 days before the deadline
“I arrive at the venue at 11.” Suna recites slowly, pacing back and forth in the room. “At 11:10, the cameras will cut. I have a minute to make the switch. Then… then—”
“You meet Akagi-san in the lobby at 11:25.” Osamu finishes.
“I meet Akagi-san in the lobby at 11:25.” Suna repeats, before scrunching his nose up in confusion. “Wait. Which one is Akagi again?”
From the carpet, Osamu purses his lips thoughtfully. “The one you said looked like a black haired Sonic the hedgehog.”
Suna laughs, rolling over and off the bed to join him on the floor. “Right. Him.”
They’re in Suna’s apartment again, going over the plan one last time. Tomorrow is the day. Osamu is nervous. Maybe it’s because so much is at stake, or maybe because Suna’s hand is just centimetres away from his.
“Tell me about them.” Suna says as they lie on the carpet in Suna’s bedroom.
“What?”
“Kita’s 7, or 6 or whatever.” Suna props himself up on his elbows. “Are you guys all related?”
“Mmm. Not all of us.” Osamu stares at the ceiling. There are those little glow-in-the dark star stickers stuck up there. It’s pretty. Suna must have stuck it up there himself when he was younger. “There’s m’brother, ‘Tsumu. And then there’s Gin, my cousin—his dad and ours are step brothers.”
Osamu rests on his elbows, fingers tracing out family lines on the fluffy carpet. “Akagi-san’s mom and our mom are best friends. They met in boarding school. Motoya and Kiyoomi’s grandparents are our great-uncle’s friends? Honestly, it gets kinda confusing after that.”
“How about Kita?” Suna asks. Cool air breezes through the open window and Osamu doesn’t complain when Suna wiggles a bit closer for extra warmth.
“Kita-san’s granny used to heist with our grandpa all the time. We grew up with him and Gin.”
“And you?”
Osamu blinks. “What about me?”
The other boy just looks at him with a half exasperated, half amused expression. “Tell me anything. How you got into my house that night. What’s your favourite colour.”
“I’m nothing special. It’s boring.” Osamu tries to wave him off.
“You are about to rob one of the biggest museums in the country, ‘Samu.” Suna shakes his head, giving him a look. “You are far from nothing special.”
There are some stories thieves will never tell. Family secrets. Heists that have gone embarrassingly wrong. In the past seventeen years of his life, there are stories that Osamu has learnt to never utter; his life isn’t quite one of them but yet somewhere along the way, he realizes he has hidden his heart and his dreams up in his sleeve alongside the family secrets.
Until now.
Under the moonlight, Suna is beautiful. They’re so close Osamu can see the flecks of gold burning in Suna’s irises.
He can’t help it. He leans in. Noses brushing gently as Osamu tilts his head and finally closes the gap between them.
Rintarou’s lips are soft as Osamu presses closer, hand moving up to cup his jaw, sinking into the kiss with his heart on his sleeve…only to realize that Rintarou is frozen next to him.
He jerks back, heart pounding and face flushed in panic. “Sorry. I—” Osamu stands up quickly, sending papers scattering all over the floor. “I should go.”
Regret bites into him, cold and harsh as the night’s air as he heads towards the door, face burning.
He of all people should have known better. He had taken the leap, shown his hand, only to realize that he had played his cards too early. He let his guard down. There is confidence and then there is risk. Risk takers get caught up in the moment.
Risk takers get hurt .
“‘Samu.” Rintarou calls after him and Osamu stays silent, refusing to look back.
A minute passes.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Rintarou finally says.
“Yeah.”
And then Osamu slips off into the night, heart pounding in his chest as he runs back to Motoya’s apartment, thinking about when exactly had he left his heart on his sleeve and how easily Suna Rintarou slipped into his life to steal it.
Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, 11AM
2 days before the deadline
The day begins like any other day. Osamu wakes up. Ginjima makes coffee. Atsumu spills jam on Kiyoomi’s pants. But as the clock ticks on and Akagi pulls up across the street with his newly acquired bus, Osamu knows that from then on out, it is too late to turn back.
Monday mornings begin as any other day would at the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum. Security guards shuffle wearily into position as school buses begin to line up in the parking lot. “Field trip season,” they complain to one another as groups of uniformed children file into the building.
Upstairs is just as hectic. Staff hustle about in one of the larger exhibition rooms, setting up sets of cutlery on large round tables and strewing streamers as decoration for the annual Suna Foundation charity luncheon later in the afternoon. An empty pedestal waits on a makeshift stage, ready for the Cartier bracelet delivery at the hands of one Suna Rintarou.
It is a busy day at the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, but, thankfully, Osamu has always liked it when things get a little busy.
The guards manning the security room at the museum are not idiots. Having spent so many years behind the screen, they have witnessed everything from couples making out in the elevator to tourists picking their nose discreetly when they think no one was looking. So when two young men from Itachiyama Plumbing and Heating pull up to the service entrance that morning, the guards have every right to be a little skeptical.
“G’morning my dudes,” Motoya says way too cheerfully for a Monday morning. “We’re here for a—” he squints at the clipboard in his hand, “—Daikin faulty boiler? We’re here to fix it.”
The guard looks at the two men before him. “Aren’t you a little young to be fixing furnaces?”
“Why yes! Yes, we are!” Motoya chirps as Kiyoomi just glowers as he gets the tool bags from the back of their company van. It’s a bright neon green, the guard notices faintly. What a weird brand colour. “It’s a family business, sir, we started young.”
If the guards looked closer, they might notice that the taller boy’s coveralls are a bit too short around the pant legs and that the one with fresh stubby brows seems to be carrying a tool bag that seems way too light.
But there was a notice of repair in their email inbox that morning, so, of course, the guards don’t bother noticing the little things. “The furnace is in the basement, stairs are to your left.”
The cousins exchange worried glances before Kiyoomi interjects. “I’m sorry, sir, but we need to do a systematic sweep of the environment to find the root of the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, our last job had us go straight to the furnace and, as you can see,” Kiyoomi gestures vaguely to Motoya’s face. “We ran into a bit of a problem since we weren’t allowed to do a full sweep.”
“Boom” Motoya sadly reaches up to touch his eyebrows with a forlorn expression on his face.
Kiyoomi nods. “Boom,” he repeats. “Now, I would hate for us to run into the same issue, especially when you have so many patrons in the facility today and my colleague here only has so many brows left…”
The guard stands a bit straighter, looking a bit nervous. “So where do you need to go?”
Motoya nods briskly, features morphing into a more professional expression to match his cousin as he consults his clipboard. “First floor, Vent D.”
The guard looks at the boys one last time. “Well… okay then.”
If you asked one of the guards about the museum, they’d tell you that field trip season is the absolute worst. Too many loud children all over the place, they’d say with pinched faces. So on such a busy day, when one of the loud kids — with his shirt untucked and his tie never properly made — breaks apart from the group mumbling a quick “I needta pee!” in a slight Kansai accent, no one really thinks it’s anything out of the ordinary.
They don’t notice when he lifts one of the ‘Closed for Cleaning’ signs when he passes a nearby janitor cart on his way to the men’s bathroom on the third floor. Of course, they definitely don’t hear when the same boy whispers, “‘Samu, I’m on standby.”
As far as set ups went, Ginjima has been in a lot worse places. There was that squatting toilet in Guangzhou he had to bend uncomfortably over for an hour, and there was the time in the back of a farm in the outskirts of Batangas. Chickens pecking at his laptop is far from ideal. At least the stalls in the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum have toilet covers. And bidets.
Osamu makes his way down the hall towards the Shiratorizawa exhibit with Atsumu by his side. They sidestep some maintenance workers in yellow jumpsuits who are working around an open vent. They pass a bathroom that is closed for cleaning. With each step, the antique watch Suna gave him six months ago seems to tick louder in Osamu’s head. Just a few meters away hang paintings worth more than a couple million yen and Kita Shinsuke’s life, hidden in plain sight from the patrons of the museum.
Time is running out.
“Stop going so fast!” A voice complains loudly. Across the room, patrons begin to part like ocean waves as Akagi Michinari enters the room pushing a wheelchair. In it is one grumpy looking Kita Yumie.
But Osamu isn't looking at Kita Yumie—or Akagi, for that matter—but rather, the young billionaire accompanying them.
Suna Rintarou plays the role of a rich heir perfectly. Maybe it is from all the years of pretending to be someone he never wanted to be or maybe because today, there is a bigger game at play.
“As you can see ma’am, every year the Suna Foundation donates all proceeds from our charity luncheon towards art education and resources for those who may not have the money to support this passion,” Suna is saying as the trio walks closer to the twins.
“I just want a tax write off,” Yumie replies crabbily from her wheelchair, looking ever so much like the rich potential donor she is pretending to be. “I don’t care about no kids.”
The corner of Suna’s lips twitches. “Right.”
To make a lie believable is to ingrain a little bit of truth into it . It was Kita Yumie who had taught his father that, and it was his father who passed down that knowledge to Osamu. But right now he isn’t some random high schooler on a field trip with his twin brother, and Suna isn't the heir to a multibillion dollar corporation.
They aren’t supposed to know each other.
They certainly aren’t supposed to look at each other.
Yet, Osamu can’t bring himself to look away.
I kissed you. He wants to scream. Why didn’t you say anything about it?
Why didn’t you kiss me back?
He takes a step forward as the crowd thickens, wanting to run to the boy across the room to bring him back to the time six months ago when he received the watch that he has now come to treasure.
“‘Samu.” Atsumu grabs his arm, shaking his head. “It’s 11:55.”
Across the room, Kita Yumie’s voice raises, “I can walk y’know!” It’s the loudest thing Osamu has ever heard anyone with the Kita surname say. The words bounce off the walls of the long room, echoing slightly. “Let me out of this wretched thing or I’ll—”
Osamu never hears what thinly veiled threat Kita’s grandmother says because, before she can even finish her sentence, a piercing siren fills the space.
As he glances around the room, clouds of heavy smoke sweeps through the doorways and into the room. Then comes the belated boom and people start screaming; guards appearing from nowhere to shuffle everyone safely towards the exits. Osamu looks around desperately for a peek of burgundy fabric and emerald eyes as he too, is swept up by the crowds, Atsumu calling out for him a few meters away, fingertips reaching out to grasp at nothing but smoke.
As the clock strikes 12:00, the exhibits begin to lock down and then the countdown begins; the moment to walk away from it all has long since passed.
If there is anything museums fear more than theft, it would definitely be fire. This proves to be true as the sirens ring louder than it ever did back when Akagi’s fingertips brushed a frame. People jostling into others as the patrons of the museum all run towards the doors and towards the promise of fresh air. Amidst the chaos, no one notices when a pair of identical boys fights through the crowd. And in the smoke, no one notices when another boy, a flash of burgundy and green, presses against one of them, fingertips brushing against fingertips, a small plastic keycard passed between them.
“Sunarin’s getting good,” Atsumu admits grudgingly as Osamu swipes the card against a panel on the wall. A red light turns green as automatic locks are overridden silently. “He still ain’t shit though.”
They’re in.
Osamu steps into the Shiratorizawa exhibit slowly, the smell of smoke still lingering in the air as he and his brother glance around the room. Behind him, the noise of the sirens begins to fade as the airtight fireproof doors slide to a close.
Even as the lights flicker overhead, the room is quietly beautiful—polished stone floors and ornate frames with no guards between them and the mission in front of them.
“Wait a second,” Gin says into their earpiece just as Atsumu starts to take a step forward. “Grid deactivating in ten.”
Atsumu swallows, foot retreating from where he has almost stepped on one invisible line of a grid of sensors laid out on the floor. Osamu shoots his twin a glare.
“Cams off in twenty.”
Except they didn’t have twenty because suddenly, the glow of the emergency lights begins to pulse a sickly blue.
“Uh, Gin?” Osamu says slowly, “I don’t think we have twenty.”
“Well, the tech dude says he needs twenty.”
“Yenno,” Atsumu echoes, voice rising in panic. “Have you tried turning it on and off again? Maybe it’ll work faster.”
Sweat brews on the edge of Osamu’s brow as a mechanical voice cuts through the air.
“Fire protection measures will be in effect in FIVE. FOUR. THREE…”
“HITOSHI!”
“Just a second!”
Atsumu cries out as the voice continues to count down. “We don’t have a second!”
The thing is, while museums are scared of fire, they are more prepared for them than any other building could ever be. With millions of dollars worth of art behind their walls, water would destroy the careful brushwork in an instant. At a museum, they fight fire with oxygen. Or the lack thereof. By sucking out the oxygen from the room, there would be nothing for fire to cling onto. Simple as that.
Osamu can feel the shift in the room before he hears the hissing sound of air being sucked out of the room and out of his lungs.
“Now! The cameras are blind.”
Ginjima doesn’t even need to finish his sentence before Osamu is running down the hall with Atsumu at his heels, to where Kita Yumie’s wheelchair now sits, abandoned.
As the hissing grows louder, the painting seems almost fuzzy as Osamu takes a look around the room, floor spinning as he fumbles for the oxygen tank attached to the wheelchair.
Atsumu passes him a mask before putting on his own and then the floor stops spinning as Osamu puts it on, taking a deep breath of pure oxygen.
Suddenly, everything is clear again.
While Osamu walks up to examine the paintings up close, Atsumu carefully reaches under the wheelchair and unscrews the metal attachments, tipping them into his palms to reveal an assortment of small tools.
One false move and they’re done. Everything they’ve worked so hard on for Kita would have disappeared and everything was banking on this one moment.
“Five minutes, guys,” Ginjima warns.
Atsumu sets the timer and they get to work.
Osamu runs his gloved hands steadily along the top of the ornate frame for the sensor. Nodding to his brother, Atsumu passes him a small chunk of slime candy that Osamu then presses against the small button behind the frame.
They may have Gin and spider like drones in the arsenal, but at the end of the day, it really just comes down to a good pair of needle nose pliers and a stack of dollar store DIY candy kits.
Then it’s a quick spritz of air across the back of the frame and a second scan for additional sensors later, the paintings lift cleanly off the wall.
“Beta team in position.” Ginjima says in his ear.
The moment of truth arrives quickly as Osamu lifts the frame and peels back the canvas to reveal another. One of the very paintings he’s spent hours looking at in photos and on blueprints. In the flesh.
Beside him, Atsumu lets out a breath they didn’t know they’ve been holding.
They are all here.
It’s easy after that.
“Two minutes,” Gin warns as Osamu puts the painting back onto the wall carefully, removing any trace of slime. Several feet away, Atsumu is packing up, tucking everything back into the wheelchair. “Beta team on standby.”
Adrenaline rushes through his body as a whoosh of air suddenly cascades through the vents and Osamu looks up to see Sakusa Kiyoomi, hanging upside down and dangling from an air duct ten feet above ground. “Beta team here.”
Atsumu cracks a grin. “Omi-kun!” He waves up at the boy, who pointedly ignores him, opting to look at the paintings instead.
“They really were here,” Kiyoomi says after a second.
The twins rip off their oxygen mask as fresh air seeps into the room and fills the gallery. They drag the paintings up by cable easing it into the duct carefully, watching as they disappear up into the duct with Kiyoomi. Atsumu wraps his hand around the wires with his right hand while Osamu wraps the wires with his left and then they are both flying, rising through the air into the vent.
Osamu crawls towards the sound of sirens, body hunched as he focuses on heading towards the light in the distance. When he finally reaches the other side, he can see Kiyoomi shrugging out of his yellow jumpsuit, revealing a blazer matching the ones Atsumu and Osamu currently have on. Atsumu is helping him with his tie, muttering something into his ear that Osamu couldn’t quite hear. His cousin is here too, stuffing Kiyoomi’s discarded coveralls and his laptop into his backpack.
Blue lights turn red.
The sound of footsteps.
The room is spinning, laser grids screaming at them as he lowers himself to the floor. Last minute panic courses through him as he thinks of all the things he might’ve accidentally left behind—a pinch of slime candy or maybe a pair of gloves ... but there is no use holding onto the memories of moments before—it is already too late.
“Security!” he hears a voice yell as doors are pushed open and guards rush inside.
He lets himself fall.
“Over here!” Osamu hears one of the guards yell as the footsteps get louder. “Bring help! They’re kids!”
Osamu groans, blinking through the haze as one of the guards leans over to help him up. “Are you okay?” They ask, voice thick with concern.
Next to him, Atsumu coughs, rolling onto his side. He looks scared, eyes wide and glassy. “There was a fire. The museum…” he trails off as someone hands him a mask and he breathes into it gratefully. “The museum was on fire.”
The sound of coughs and whimpers fills the room as Osamu glances around. Ginjima is lying on the floor beside an easel, hugging his backpack for support. Nearby, guards are coaxing a mask onto Kiyoomi’s mouth as he clutches a blank canvas.
“What’s going on here?” A voice cuts through the crowd as the museum director pushes past the paramedics and guards. Kurosu Norimune is a middle aged man with short light coloured hair and dark rimmed glasses. Permanent frown lines etched themselves onto his forehead—a benefit that came with working for a non-profit arts organization. “Who are these children?” he demands.
“We’re from…” Osamu starts.
“Inarizaki Academy.” Atsumu manages to finish, pointing to the fox crest embroidered on his tan coloured blazer.
“You should’ve been evacuated,” Kurosu says sharply, as he looks down at the teens accusingly.
“We had a class.” Osamu explains, coughing, fingers shaking as he points.
Brushes and paints are strewn all over the floor. Wooden easels stood facing the art. Four easels, four blank canvases.
No one notices that three of the four are slightly bulkier than the other.
“We tried to leave,” Ginjima starts to say before dissolving into a fit of coughs, wheezing into his mask. “But the doors were already locked.”
“What class is this? No one told me there was a class.”
Atsumu straightens up properly, clinging onto a guard for support as he points to the sign next to the door. The sign that read: Gallery Closed for Private Programming (brought to you by The Suna Foundation for Artistic Excellence).
The museum director can only open and close his mouth. “But there was a fire…” Kurosu grasps for words. “There was no oxygen…they should’ve died...”
“Sir,” one of the guards interrupts, “the fire was in another exhibit. The preventive measures would’ve never kicked in here.”
“But-”
“With all due respect, sir,” another guard pips up, “but they’re just kids .”
Just kids. Osamu watches from the corner of his eye as Atsumu’s lips curl up into a small smile.
Before the director can reply, Kiyoomi sits up.
“Mister,” Kiyoomi's voice shakes as his eyes well up with fake tears. “Can I call my mom? I feel kinda sick.”
And then Sakusa Kiyoomi, the Sakusa Kiyoomi—who never batted an eye during team bonding horror movie nights or ever looked even the slightest bit queasy when Motoya accidentally bled all over their uniforms due to an unfortunate scissor incident—promptly passes out.
At the end of the day, there are no dramatic badass exits. Those are only found in movies. One by one, the teens collect their paintbrushes and put the blank canvases back into their portfolio cases.
Osamu is in the middle of helping his brother clean up Kiyoomi’s set of paints when a worker from the foundation rushes into the room towards the museum director.
“The bracelet. It’s gone.”
Suddenly, the four teens that were found in the museum during a fire are no longer a security issue.
Not when the million dollar auction item for a billionaire corporation just went missing. And so, the children are quickly forgotten and ushered out towards the door.
There are five official exits at the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Art and that day, Osamu is a bit proud of him himself for being able to walk out the main doors (or any door to be honest).
The teens file quietly into their bus with three paintings in their portfolios, covered with blank canvas and disappear into the day, fading along with the smoke.
Waseda University, 10:30AM
1 day before the deadline
Less than twenty-four hours have passed. Osamu finds himself standing under a tree, watching from the distance as Kita Shinsuke disappears into the apartment building across the street.
“Do ya think we need to do anythin’?” Atsumu asks, biting his lip with worry.
“Nah.” Osamu squints. “Kita-san is smart. And Rin promised that he’ll be placed in some sort of witness protection. ”
He watches an older man—one he had seen in photos and CCTV footage surrounding the village—dart into the building a couple minutes after Kita goes in.
Osamu knows what will happen next. Although he isn’t in the apartment, he knows what’s in the room. Three priceless paintings, as promised. And as an added bonus: one Cartier bracelet set worth millions.
A set up, for a set up.
He can hear the sirens in the distance, closing in as police surround the building.
He wonders if the man knows what is coming.
“Kita-san just texted,” Atsumu says, “he’s fine. They got him in a police car, but it’s for show—he’ll be released soon.” He taps his reply into his phone before getting up and stretching. “Imma go pick him up, ya comin’?”
Osamu casts one last look behind him, someone catching his eye.
“You go on ahead,” Osamu says. ”There’s someone I wanna talk to.”
Atsumu’s expression is unreadable, but he nods in understanding. “Hey, ‘Samu?”
“Yeah, ‘Tsumu?”
“Sunarin’s alright.”
Osamu smiles. “Thanks.”
Suna Rintarou is waiting for him across the street. He’s dressed casually again, in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. He’s never looked better.
“So that old grandpa is the one who stole from my family’s charity, huh.” Rintarou says nonchalantly, nodding at the police car as it passes.
“It seems so.” Osamu replies lightly. “I guess you can never judge a book by its cover.”
An uncomfortable silence stretches between them.
“I’m sorry,” Rintarou says finally, “about the other night.”
“Oh.”
“You caught me off guard.” Rintarou turns to look at him, eyes wide and nervous. “I wanted to kiss you back.”
Osamu looks at his hands, twisting them anxiously. “Well, then, why didn’t ya?”
Rintarou stares at him flatly. “You ran away before I could.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Osamu, I like you.” Rintarou shifts uncomfortably. “I know I’m not a part of your family, but I would love to be.” He swallows. “That is, if you’ll have me.”
“Okay.” Osamu moves closer, letting his forehead rest on the other boy. “I don’t want to catch you off guard now, but I would very much like to kiss you now.”
Rintarou smiles, eyes crinkling. “Okay.”
He can’t help it. He leans in. Noses brushing gently as Osamu tilts his head and finally closes the gap between them.
This time though, Rintarou meets him halfway.
Komori household, 4PM — Tokyo
D-Day
They did not plan to hold a party. But when Osamu reemerges from the kitchen hours later with a cake, someone puts on some music and the mood changes.
Motoya and Ginjima both struggle to cut the cake. Akagi jumps onto the dining room table for an air guitar solo. Kiyoomi asks Atsumu to dance.
It’s almost comical when Suna Rintarou walks in through the front door.
Ginjima lunges for his laptop that sits open on the coffee table and Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu behind him protectively (much to his delight). Motoya looks like he’s about to fight Rintarou with nothing but a plastic cake lifter and some whipped cream.
“Excuse me, you’re trespassing,” Kiyoomi says sharply.
“It’s okay, you guys.” Atsumu steps out from behind Kiyoomi’s towering frame. “We invited him here.”
“But this is my house,” Motoya says faintly, while Kiyoomi looks on, eyebrows raised skeptically.
“Remember the time when we’re testing fake bombs and you said you wanted to befriend the guy who lent us the field?” Osamu turns to Gin.
Ginjima nods slowly.
Osamu takes a breath. “Well, this is my friend—er, boyfriend now I suppose.”
The room settles into an uncomfortable silence.
Rintarou snorts. “Geez, cold much? No ‘wow Rin, welcome to the team, thanks for helping us with the bracelet, how’s your pet cat?’”
“You have a cat?” Akagi asks interestedly.
Rintarou rolls his eyes. “No.”
“A couple days ago, we realized that Sunarin over here might have caught onto our little heist.” Atsumu turns towards the group, explaining. “And, well, the thing is, he’s caught Osamu before too, six months earlier.”
“In Nagano,” Gin breathes in realization.
Atsumu nods. “Exactly. In Nagano.”
“He also stole yer wallet, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu points out sourly and Atsumu’s expression darkens.
“Shut yer trap.” Atsumu sticks his tongue out before continuing. “Anyways, we figured since we needed an inside man, we might as well ask someone who looked like he really wanted to suck ‘Samu’s dick.”
“The only dick here is you, Atsumu,” Suna says blandly and Akagi bursts into laughter.
“That’s Akagi-san,” Osamu explains when Suna looks at him curiously. “You’ve met in the museum.”
Akagi lifts his head up and raises two fingers in a salute. “Yo.”
Atsumu looks at him thoughtfully. “Akagi… likes cars.” he says finally.
“Vroom.” Akagi whispers, fingers wiggling.
“Ookay.” Rintarou scoots closer to Osamu.
“I like him,” Akagi announces to no one in particular.
Atsumu coughs. “Anyways, before I was so rudely interrupted, we figured since we were so busy with the paintings, we needed help on securing something that would protect Kita-san for sure.”
It was genius, really. Suna was a quick learner. With his back turned to the camera and distracted staff hustling about, he was able to make the swap with a replica made of glass in less than thirty seconds. Then it just came to meeting up with the fence, Yumie. Slipping the bracelet into the large folds of her cardigan pocket was easy. He had stolen from Miya Atsumu before, after all.
“You stole your father’s jewels?” Ginjima asks now, both in horror and in amazement.
Suna looks almost bored. “Eat the rich.”
Ginjima stares. “Your father literally owns a multi-million dollar conglomerate company.”
Suna shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I won’t eat him.”
Kiyoomi stares at him appalled. He opens his mouth and shuts it. “You have a weird family, Miya,” he says finally, shaking his head.
Motoya laughs. The music resumes. Atsumu pulls Kiyoomi back towards the middle of the living room and tries to dip him (and fails miserably). Osamu pulls Rintarou aside.
“Are ya sure about this?” he asks. “I mean, what about school?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Rintarou waves him off. “My dad received a letter earlier this morning, ‘Tsumu helped me with it.” He clears his throat. “Inarizaki Academy has just accepted me on a sports scholarship.”
Osamu laughs. “Oh really? What sport?”
Rin curls his lips up in a crooked smile. “Volleyball.”
“Wow.”
“Mhmm. Your boyfriend is now a hotshot volleyball player.”
“That’s kinda hot.” Osamu teases, leaning in for a kiss. He wraps an arm around Rintarou’s shoulder and smiles. Rintarou smiles back, eyes shining with happiness. He’s home.
“Welcome to the family, Rin.”