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“'Samu, do you think you’d notice if someone had a crush on you?”
Osamu Miya doesn’t think about romance often. Or ever. He’s never felt a particular need to. He knows everything he wants to know about his own needs and desires, for the most part beginning and ending at the words delicious food, a roof over my head, and Atsumu shutting the hell up. Romantic inclinations have never really been a part of the future he imagines when he tries to picture happiness.
Not that he has anything against the concept. He’s just never understood it on a level any deeper than the average puddle. Love is kind of like water. It’s everywhere, it’s in everything. Because you’re always sensing it whether you realize it or not, it tastes like nothing. Osamu wouldn’t really notice a trickle from the sky on an overcast day the same way he’d notice a bucket dumped over his head from a balcony. And he’s got quick reflexes.
“I probably wouldn’t, no. But I wouldn’t want to, either.” He responds, somewhat failing to keep the disinterest out of his voice, and somewhat not trying to.
Palpably, from the bottom bunk, although Osamu can’t see him, Atsumu’s little huff of breath radiates discomforted energy. For several moments, Osamu hears nothing. It’s out of character enough for Atsumu to unsettle him deeply.
There’s soft chiming from his phone, clutched loose in his fist, still perched on his chest. Another voice note from Suna, undoubtedly a recounting of some random story he’s heard at school again. It’s accompanied by a text.
This is only half of what happened. Apparently there’s more. I’ll tell you later.
It almost hurts to squash the interest that the words ignite in his chest. Osamu usually devours the gossip Suna sends him, the other boy managing to put his own sarcastic spin on every rumor that reaches him. But Osamu doesn’t have his earbuds within reach, and his brother’s behavior is beginning to tick him off, just a little bit. He sighs.
He has to leave Suna hanging for now. Peeking out over the edge of the top bunk, Osamu drops his head down into his brother's vision and arches a single, unamused brow.
“‘Tsumu.”
But the prompting doesn’t call forth anything else. Atsumu only gives him a look filled with resigned regret, and breaks eye contact. For the first time in seventeen years, Osamu utterly fails to understand what his brother is getting at.
“You’re the one that asked!” he squawks. “What the hell is up with you?”
Atsumu’s glare has an edge of humiliation to it, but Osamu’s too alarmed to even mock him for it. Hesitation isn’t like him. It’s creepy.
Luckily, the silent treatment can only last so long. Especially from Atsumu. So he retreats back into his previous position, hunches over his phone. Keeping his ears perked, he types out, one-handed: Tsumu has a crush, I think.
Just as he presses send, the silence splits down the middle. First, through a strange huffing noise. And only after that, through words.
Atsumu starts: “So, you’re the most oblivious person I know, right–”
What? What the hell does that mean?
“And no, shut up, let me finish.” Atsumu interrupts the indignation beginning to manifest itself on Osamu’s tongue before he can even begin to vocalize it.
Still out of sight, Atsumu pauses a bit nervously as he speaks. It’s as though he’s still chasing his own point down mentally as he’s verbalizing it. “Okay, so, theoretically. If you could observe somebody, and see them displaying feelings of…uh, affection,” a throat clears loudly, “Then that would mean that those feelings really do exist. With one hundred– no, one thousand percent certainty! Because you’re an idiot, and you noticed anyways.”
Osamu chances a glance back over the edge. Atsumu’s phone has been haphazardly tossed on his bed in his tirade. Osamu tries to peer at the screen. It’s open on a text conversation, as suspected, but he can’t make out any of the words from this distance.
“You’re proposing using me as some kind of romance detector?” he inquires.
Damn, if only he could stretch his neck out a bit further without being too obvious, maybe he could catch a bit of the name at the top of the text chain. As is, he can only really discern that, whoever his twin has been talking to doesn’t respond with much. Their messages are only about a third of the length on average compared to the ones Atsumu’s been sending. Yikes.
“Exactly,” Atsumu confirms, self satisfied with his nonsensical theory. He looks pretty proud of himself for whatever this half-baked plan seems to me. That is, until he looks up again. Atsumu’s eyes go wide as he tracks his brother’s line of sight.
Osamu has time to blink once, and then Atsumu’s phone has already flown across the room and hit the wall with a smack. Neither of them say anything for several painful seconds, as the device lands on the floor with a dull thump.
After which, Atsumu belatedly lowers his outstretched arm with blazing cheeks, and insists “You saw nothing.”
Osamu contemplates his chances of jumping the edge fast enough to reach Atsumu’s phone before the other could, and comes to the disappointing conclusion that he’d probably lose.
“...Sure,” he says.
Something in his face must give his thought process away, because Atsumu sends him a sharp glare. “I will kick you through the mattress if you don’t stop thinking whatever you’re thinking right now.”
Okay, fine. Osamu just has to resign himself to not knowing. That’s fine. It’s not like Atsumu will be able to hide this secret for long, considering his self-preservational instincts are the same ones that might have just earned him a cracked IPhone screen.
He can’t help but try just the one time, though. “Y’know, if you want my help with detecting feelings, it might help to tell me whose.” Still no response. Oh, well.
“Unless I’m meant to just, trail after you and score everybody you interact with on a scale of one to ten, based on how much they want to show you affection. And, for the record, I’d rather chew and swallow broken glass.”
Rather than allow more of this wheedling, Atsumu hops out of bed, tossing his blanket aside, and goes to retrieve his phone. There’s an audible relief in his breath when he discovers it unharmed, and a tension in his shoulders, possibly unrelated. With a click of a button, the light of the screen goes out.
In the late evening darkness, the only light left in their bedroom is Osamu’s own text conversation with Suna, now sitting open on his pillow. A bright beacon at his side. Suna has responded to his last message.
Is he being secretive about it? If yes, bully him for me.
Osamu takes a second to text him back. Offensive that you think I needed to be asked.
“Actually, let’s forget I said anything,” Atsumu tries, fake-cheery. “Go back to your own unaddressed problems, I’m going to go get a snack.”
“Mhm,” Osamu doesn’t bother looking away from the screen, where three dots are popping up to signal Suna’s incoming response. “I don’t have any problems.”
“Hah,” Atsumu snickers, suddenly smug.
A quick glance down at his brother reveals some of that signature winner’s grin crawling its way back onto his face. Osamu’s blooming interest at the thought of some late night snacks is smothered by an eerie sense of being watched. The silence seems weighted differently, tilting the dim room more and more off kilter the longer they maintain it.
Ding!
Shrugging off the strangeness, Osamu reads the latest text.
Of course, my bad. You’re the cruelest guy I know, after all, it says. It’s like he can hear Suna’s deadpan delivery, even though he isn’t here. The thought has him chuckling quietly.
An uncomfortable tightness in his stomach. Now that he’s gotten to thinking about it, he is hungry. “Get me a bag of those cheese crackers,” Osamu mumbles, eyes still on his screen.
“Get your own food, fatass.” Their bedroom door creaks obnoxiously as Atsumu creeps through it. “And say hi to Suna for me.”
Despite his need to maintain superiority over Atsumu in every conversation, Osamu can’t help the open, confused tilt of his words.
“Fuck off. How’d ya even know I was texting him?”
Atsumu’s already gone. His response is a shout that echoes from down the hall, somehow even more smug than before.
“From that stupid face you make!”
Bringing his free hand up to his mouth, Osamu gears up to yell back, late hour be damned, only to be taken aback by what he feels as his fingers skim his cheek.
He hadn’t even noticed himself beginning to smile until Atsumu had pointed it out. There’s the remnants of a giddy grin stuck on his face.
Something in his gut clenches. He thinks he might've been hungrier than he thought. He glances down at the screen. No new messages. Just Suna’s name, unmoving and bright blue.
With a grumble, he tosses back the covers. He really needs some cheese snacks now, and he can’t trust Atsumu not to hog them all out of spite.
_______
For the next couple days, he keeps a lookout for any unusual behavior from Atsumu. Notes that the roster of people Atsumu talks to on a daily basis hasn’t changed. Tells himself he isn’t entertaining this whole “romance detector” idea one bit. Wonders what he’d even be looking for if he was.
“I don’t know if you know this, but you’re not going to find the name of his crush written in marker on the back of his head, no matter how hard you stare.”
Suna’s amusement is evident, not in his voice or gestures, but rather the subtle glint in his eye. He’s the most inexpressive asshole in the world, but he always loves a story. Osamu doesn’t know exactly how much he minds being part of one, but he doesn’t really get a choice in the matter.
By this point, the entirety of Inarizaki’s volleyball club has clued into the fact that something’s off about Atsumu, and by extension, Osamu as well. The locker room is bustling with movement and noise as everyone changes for the upcoming practice match. There’s a distinct, unsubtle mundanity to the way they’re all going about it. Skirting around an open fire, pretending it isn’t warm. Everyone is on the move, except for Osamu.
He’d simply taken a seat in order to start pulling his sneakers on, and found himself observing his brother again. A dangerous trap to fall into, considering how much of a mess Atsumu is. Atsumu, who’d usually be single-mindedly, near obsessively lost in the analysis of his game and his opponents, was just…normal, today. Quieter. Calmer.
“What’s up with you?” He’d asked his twin, only to receive a shrug in response. No words. Just, a bland, vacant look. Wrong, in a million different ways.
Osamu’s still taken aback, minutes later, and it’s nearly time for them to go. The team has begun filing out of the room and out into the gym, including Atsumu, leaving Osamu stuck sitting in his own bewilderment. He can’t figure out what it was about the other that has him so on edge. There had been a presence, or more like an absence, hanging over the room when Atsumu had occupied it.
Is that what a crush does to you? That can’t be it. He hadn’t looked like that yesterday, or the day before. Love isn’t supposed to cut you like a cake and throw out the part with the most frosting. Is it? Is this normal?
Osamu doesn’t know. He can’t even tell, and it pisses him off.
Thankfully, Suna’s still here. The other boy places himself square into Osamu’s line of sight. He stays there, disrupting his view of everything else. He’s fully changed already, already sporting his uniform. Osamu stares at the number 10, obscured partially by the other’s crossed arms, for probably an awkward amount of time, before he manages to organize his thoughts into speech.
“What do you think love is like?” he asks, and immediately he’s glad that the last remaining member of the team still in the locker room besides the two of them is Kita, who won’t care that Osamu’s just said the weirdest possible thing.
Suna doesn’t react visibly, but he does take a long moment to answer. “What do you think it’s like?” he parrots, monotone.
Osamu thinks the kick he gives Suna’s knee is perfectly deserved, for being so unhelpful, but the other boy disagrees, evidently. “Stop that,” he says.
“Answer the question, and maybe I will.” Osamu tries to kick him again. He feels childish doing it, but whatever.
Narrowing his eyes, Suna takes a step backwards and out of range. He still doesn’t answer, because he’s a dick, but the irritation does finally get Osamu moving again, and that’s something. He finishes tying his laces purely on enraged autopilot, and as he gets up, Suna backs up some more, his steps anticipating their shared exit.
Finally ready to go? Suna’s green-gray eyes prompt.
Just to be contradictory, Osamu stays put. The locker room is quiet, the only noise the squeaking of sneakers and distant shouting from far away in the gym. Kita left sometime during their weird staring contest, and now they’re alone. Stand-off. Suna wont just leave him here. It’s the only thing all day that he’s been certain of.
In a contest of stubbornness, Osamu will eventually win, and by a mile. They both know this. He tilts his head back, chin up, defiant. For some reason, he feels like he needs this answer, and he needs it from Suna, because Suna understands. He has to. It doesn’t matter how dumb he looks, holding him hostage like this. He needs to know. For Atsumu’s sake, he reminds himself.
Finally, Suna’s arms drop back down to his sides. He’s turning to leave. The surge of foreign panic in Osamu’s chest doesn’t get the time to fully take shape, because Suna speaks as he goes.
He mutters, “Being in love kind of sucks. I don’t recommend it.”
Osamu follows him to the doorway unthinkingly. Fumblingly. His throat feels dry, and he swallows the first few sentences that come to mind. Being in love? You? You’ve been– You are?
He doesn’t have time to think about that part. It’s not relevant. Not supposed to be. But the thought slams into him harder than he’d anticipated. Suna’s words run circles in his mind, and they don’t seem to ever run out of stamina.
The response he ends up mustering comes out as an uncertain croak.
“So, then what do I do about ‘Tsumu?”
He narrowly avoids walking straight into Suna’s back when he abruptly stops walking. The harsh white lighting from the gym floods into the hallway, playing with the shadows on Suna’s pale face. He’s all harsh lines, symmetrical angles. In this light he looks important. He looks like a star.
Suna sucks on his teeth, pondering. “He’ll be fine, I think,” he concludes. A relief that rings true, and yet does nothing to lift the oppressive weight that settles itself over Osamu now.
“You think?”
The amused glint in Suna’s eye is back. Mocking, directed in equal measure at Osamu and at himself, for reasons beyond him. “It’s not all that bad,” Suna admits. Love, he means.
Again the feeling that should be relief tightens around Osamu like a vice. He forces himself to unclench his jaw. He doesn’t ask who Suna’s in love with. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t matter. At all. Irrelevant.
“Did I scare you?” Suna asks, voice too sickly sweet to be earnest, a teasing rumble. Amused. Osamu’s stomach turns. Half nausea, half heat.
Osamu smacks him on the shoulder, sidesteps him, jogs on ahead into the gym for practice. He doesn’t say yes.
God, love. What a hassle.
_______
It’s too cold for the beach. And yet. The wind nips at his ears and nose, digs itself under the scarf he’s got wrapped around his neck, sends a shiver through him. His bookbag hangs heavy on his shoulder. Sand is getting into his shoes. Every single aspect of his surroundings is a nightmare. Including the company.
“Shit, I can’t get the angle right. ‘Samu, take a picture of me.”
Especially the company.
“No.”
“Just do it!” Atsumu whines, bratty, voice gratingly loud on purpose. Even over the howling of the early spring wind, which is an impressive feat, admittedly. He runs to Osamu with his phone outstretched in one hand, the other gesturing wildly. This new habit of Atsumu’s was interesting at first, but it has rapidly lost its novelty. Osamu pities whoever Atsumu’s always texting, nowadays. Nobody deserves to see that many pictures of his brother’s face a day. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been blocked.
Osamu remains unmoved by the other’s nagging, having dealt with Atsumu his entire life. Impatience burns in his lungs, however, and he goes to yell at Atsumu to hurry up so they can go. Just then, the other boy’s approach manages to kick up a cloud of sand, which the wind then carries with it. Towards Osamu.
He’s halfway through “We’re already late,” when he chokes on a mouthful of sand. Atsumu, one of the top teenage athletes in the country, trips over nothing and falls over, cackling.
So, when Suna finally finds the twins, fifteen minutes after their agreed upon meeting time, he finds them down at the beach, covered in sand, Osamu chasing his brother down, wielding a bookbag as a weapon. All in all, not surprising, if you know them. And Suna does.
“Kita will be very disappointed, you know.”
The words freeze Atsumu in his tracks, because he was too busy running for his life to notice Suna’s arrival. And also, presumably, because Kita is terrifying. Osamu is more committed, so the pause only allows him to close the gap, and swing his bookbag with precision. Atsumu goes down with a pained wheeze.
Finally satisfied, Osamu turns to meet Suna’s gaze, intending to say sorry for the tardiness. The apology sticks to the inside of his throat, though.
Suna’s been filming their fight from a distance, which is nothing new. He does that sometimes, particularly when Osamu’s winning. Part of him considers whether it’d be possible to send some of that footage to Atsumu’s crush in place of the usual selfies, and whether they’d appreciate it.
Another part of him, that is, most of him, is halted in astonishment. Behind his camera, Suna is smiling. Not the sarcastic, self-congratulatory smirk he might put on when he finds something funny. He’s just smiling. Softly. Osamu almost never gets to see him look like this. It feels like getting socked in the jaw, a little bit. He realizes his mouth is hanging open when he tastes sea water in the air. Closes it.
In his distraction, he forgets all about Atsumu, which is a mistake.
Still filming, Suna captures the sneak attack, the handful of sand, the disaster. And Because he’s an asshole, he never stops smiling.
_________
He’s exhausted, but it’s not too unpleasant. The hustle and bustle of the restaurant and the rowdy conversation around him creates a buzzing background noise, easy for his sleepy mind to fall into.
Nationals are over. His body hasn’t quite gotten the memo yet. He’s still wired, anxiously analyzing his surroundings like someone’s gonna come out from under the table and toss a ball at him. It shouldn’t be possible to be so awake and so tired at once.
He’s using one hand to devour his plateful of chicken wings, the other sprawled over the back of the booth. He feels animalistic. He wonders how many of the other volleyball players sitting here would share in his sentiment. Inarizaki? Sure. He knows his teammates well enough to guess. The Itachiyama team, though, he’s less confident about. It’s weird to sit here in camaraderie with the guys you were trying to run into the ground mere hours ago.
Atsumu seems okay, at a cursory glance. He’s talkative, which is good, and there’s a bitter hatred of losing clouding his expression even as he laughs, which is expected. But there’s something else there. A nervousness. Osamu’s been having difficulty picking out the root cause of it.
Like he often does, he looks to Suna for clarity. Finds him already looking back. Green-gray. Pretty.
“Something on my face?” Osamu asks, clunkily, without swallowing his food first.
Suna says, “Yeah.” and he’s lying. That’s fine. Osamu turns back to shovel more chicken into his mouth. He doesn’t begrudge Suna the accidental staring, God knows he zones out enough himself to know what that’s like.
The other boy leans back in his seat, his hair tickling Osamu’s forearm where it rests.
In a low tone, Suna comments: “It’s kind of fascinating, watching them.”
Osamu hums into his food. “Watching who?”
“Them,” Suna gestures in Atsumu’s direction. The table they’re at is huge, it had to be, to fit two volleyball teams around it, and Atsumu’s sitting all the way across from them. He’s talking to Itachiyama’s ace. Sakusa Kiyoomi, Osamu recalls his name with little effort. Sakusa’s a unique sort of guy, and a formidable opponent on the court. He’s also intensely opposed to any human interaction beyond what’s mandatory.
He’s also talking with Atsumu. This fact registers on a delay in Osamu’s brain, and with no small amount of shock. He blinks at the sight before him, wants to rub his eyes, thinks better of it with the amount of grease on his fingers.
Atsumu and Sakusa seem to be immersed in some kind of discussion. Possibly volleyball related. And they seem, miraculously, to both be equally invested. Which is insane. Atsumu, articulating his point with vigor, and Sakusa, gaze intently focused. They look… almost close. Osamu struggles to reconcile this image of Sakusa with the one he’s used to seeing. The dark shape huddled in the corner, as far away as possible.
“What am I looking at?” he asks Suna, and he’s dead serious, but Suna doesn’t take it that way.
Suna rolls his eyes and says: “Young love.”
Love. That cursed word. It seems as though any time Osamu finds himself annoyed, caught off guard, or out of his depth, that word is to blame.
“Don’t mock me. Seriously, what’s up with Sakusa?” He tries to be tactful about it. He even leans a bit closer to Suna so his voice has less chance of carrying.
His concern only grows as Suna turns back to him, and just stares again. There’s bewilderment in that look, or Suna’s deadpan version of it, anyway.
“What’s up with Sakusa,” Suna articulates slowly, as though surprised at himself for explaining at all. “Is that he’s been texting your brother.” He doesn’t say obviously, but Osamu hears it.
“...Huh?”
His head whips back to Atsumu’s side of the table, slack-jawed. His hand flops lifelessly into his plate. He might look crazy. Doesn’t matter. He’s in shock. He gets to look however he wants.
Atsumu, still engrossed in conversation, smiling, tense with nerves and emotion, pokes a finger into Sakusa’s shoulder as he illustrates some point Osamu’s not listening to. And Sakusa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react to the touch. He’s too busy paying attention to Atsumu to remember he hates people, apparently.
The realization is ice water, poured over his head.
“...Holy shit. That’s the crush! His crush!” Osamu whisper-yells into Suna’s face, still half-watching the sheer horror unfolding mere feet away from him.
“I thought you knew this already,” Suna mumbles.
Fucking love. Cursed topic. Osamu groans. “I don’t know anything, ever!”
And that gets the other boy to huff a quiet laugh. He’s leaning back further into the booth now, the back of his neck making contact with Osamu’s arm. Smooth skin.
“I mean, it’s pretty obvious just from looking at them,” Suna continues, presumably just to rub salt in the wound.
“It is not.”
“It is.”
Osamu throws one more look in his brother’s direction. Sakusa’s not wearing his mask, even though he doesn’t seem to be eating anymore. Actually, he’s definitely not eating anymore, because he’s pushing his leftovers in Atsumu’s direction, in a silent offering. Atsumu accepts, and is he blushing? Okay, maybe it is obvious.
“Gross.”
“You’re a terrible romance detector,” Suna says.
Osamu wishes the other would take the easy opportunity to make fun of Atsumu instead of focusing on him. He considers pinching Suna’s neck, perfectly in reach as it is, but ultimately decides against it, and removes his arm for good measure, so he won’t be tempted.
He’s tired down to his bones. After a while, he finds himself tilting sideways into Suna’s shoulder. The world is blurry, and he never knows what’s going on anymore and love sucks.
“Hey. Hey, Suna? Love sucks.”
The hum he receives in response vibrates down his side. Oh, yeah, because he’s about to fall asleep on Suna. After the day he’s had, in his hollowed out head, it doesn’t sound like the bad idea that it is.
______
The weather has steadily been growing warmer. Sunlight beams down on Osamu’s back, humidity sneaking its way under his uniform blazer. Just dancing along the edge of too hot. He blows hair out of his eyes, and faces Suna.
“I’ll still text you,” Suna says. Osamu’s trying hard to listen, to hear silver linings instead of excuses, excuses.
“I know. You better.”
It’s not the end of the world. Logically, he knows this. It’s graduation. That happens to everyone, as a regular part of life. He knows there are people whose families have moved across the globe from them, who still manage to talk to them every day. He also knew this was going to happen beforehand. The real kicker is that it hasn't even happened yet.
Suna’s still going to be here for a few more weeks. It feels like nothing at all. His remaining days flow like water, and Osamu knows they’ll taste like water. Nothing at all.
The school bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. They should get going. Neither of them move. It’s stiflingly hot on the roof. Neither of them move.
Osamu mumbles, “You’re my best friend,” just because he’s never said that before. And because he should’ve said it earlier.
Suna sucks in a sharp breath. Pained. The sound makes Osamu look over at him. He’s almost glad to find Suna sporting no expression in particular, looking out over the edge of the rooftop. A blank-faced Suna is a Suna he knows.
I’m gonna miss you, he thinks, but doesn’t say. It seems cruel to say it now. Since, technically, they still have time.
Osamu kicks his feet out over the edge. They shouldn't be on the roof, since it’s against school rules, but this spot is really the only tranquil place Inarizaki Academy offers. Suna always comes here, and Osamu follows him more often than not. They’re always following each other.
And now Suna’s going on ahead. He’s going where Osamu will not follow.
He’s having a hard time admitting it will hurt. It’s abnormal, how much it already hurts.
“I have to tell you something.”
It’s the quietest he’s ever heard Suna speak. He’s barely close enough for Osamu to hear. He leans in further, and so does Suna. They’ve told each other secrets before, but this feels different. They tell other people’s secrets, they crack jokes, they poke fun together. They don’t do this. Whatever this is.
He looks out at the courtyard one more time. Sunlight and the incessant noise of people. He focuses on those things, instead of the warmth of Suna’s hand in his.
Instinctively, he knows that he will hate whatever comes next.
“What is it?”
Suna doesn’t look at him. “I’m in love with you,” he says. “Thought you should know.”
Love is water. It’s in everything. It makes up 70% of the human body. Love is water. When you fail to swallow it, you drown.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” Suna imitates, a weak, faltering note of teasing in his voice. “It’s weird, I know.”
That damn sardonic grin. Green-gray irises with flecks of gold. Suna sounds…disappointed? In himself, maybe. Maybe in Osamu. This is the worst confession of all time. He was right. He hates it. His gut is doing backflips. He’s drowning. It’s still far too hot out here.
Suna tries to turn away, to get up and leave. Too bad Osamu’s still holding his hand. In a contest of stubbornness, Osamu will win, and by a mile.
“You’re the weirdest guy I know, after all,” Osamu says. Then, “I love you.”
The hand he’s holding seizes up. He feels the shiver run through Suna, an echo of his own trembling heart. The other boy’s eyes have gone wide, his lips parted.
“What?”
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Is that what a crush does to you? Make you say things you mean more than anything, even though you never wanted to?
“I said I love you. ‘Cause I do. Shut up.”
It takes a minute, but eventually Suna relaxes again. Their sweaty hands fit together perfectly, pulses pressed to one another, beats in tandem. The boy he loves exhales at his side, then smiles his pretty, honest smile.
“I was right to think you would be terrible at this,” he says.
Osamu doesn’t bother holding back his ugly guffaw. “We’re both terrible. You said it sucks to be in love with me.”
“Well,” Suna hums, cheeks reddening. He squeezes Osamu’s hand. “It isn’t all that bad.”