Archive of Our Own

“Yer’ goin’ soft,” Atsumu says, voice sounding like the inside of a cheese grater. Osamu’s ear, and by extension, his brain, are the unfortunate metaphorical cheese. 

“‘Tsumu, go fuck yourself. I’m running a business here.”

“Yeah, well you can run a business and run a lap every once in a while. I heard your knees crack the other day. I give it a week before ya start callin’ me and complainin’ about yer hip or somethin’.” 

Deep breaths, Osamu, deep breaths. You’re an adult now. Killing your shit stain twin brother would do nothing except get you sent to prison.

Osamu pinches the bridge of his nose. “I run five miles every day. But fine, I’ll come to the gym with you. For fuck’s sake.” 

“Great,” Atsumu chirps through the phone. “I’ll be there to pick you up at 6 a.m. sharp.” 

“No, ‘Tsumu, wait—”

But it’s too late. Atsumu has already hung up. And Osamu knows that once Atsumu has made up his mind about roping him into something, he will break his door down before he lets Osamu back out of it. 

That night, Osamu sets his alarm for ass o’clock in the morning and punches his pillow a few times, imaging it’s Atsumu’s face, before tucking into bed. 

~

“Morning, Osamu-san,” Hinata says, turning a bright grin and big brown eyes at Osamu. 

“Hinata, turn that off,” Sakusa gripes, shoving a palm into Hinata’s face. 

Hinata pouts. “Don’t be mean, Omi-san. We slept at the same time. It’s not my fault you’re not a morning person.” 

“That means they fucked last night,” Bokuto translates, voice still sleep-thick. His unstyled hair is pulled back with a headband, dark circles pressed into otherwise flawless skin. 

Osamu shudders. “I could’ve lived without knowing that.”

The Jackals, Osamu gleans, seem to fall into two distinct camps regarding morning workouts. In one corner, they have Atsumu and Hinata, overly chipper and already running their mouths, despite the ungodly hour. In the other corner—the corner Osamu easily slots into—are Bokuto and Sakusa, who look half dead and in need of at least four more hours in a bed before they can face the day. Or at least a large cup of coffee. 

“What’d Tsum-tsum say to drag you here anyways?” Bokuto asks, stifling a yawn. 

“Told him he was gonna need hip replacement soon if he didn’t get his ass back into the gym,” Atsumu says, slinging an arm around Osamu’s shoulder. 

“Get the fuck off of me,” Osamu says, but he can’t be bothered to shove Atsumu’s arm off of him. 

“Nah, gotta look after you today. Yer scrub ass is gonna be fucking embarrased working out with Olympic athletes.”

At that, Osamu does shove Atsumu off. He gets his elbow around Atsumu’s neck and squeezes until Atsumu starts tapping against his arm. 

“That’s what I fucking thought,” Osamu says. 

Sure, he hasn’t actually been inside a gym in a while. But that doesn’t mean he’s out of shape. He goes on a five mile run at least six times a week and spends all day hauling twenty pound sacks of rice around. Just because he isn’t on an Olympic volleyball player training regimen, doesn’t mean shit. 

Atsumu is just a cock-sucker. 

Literally, Osamu thinks, eyeing Bokuto's arm, which has migrated to Atsumu's waist. 

The sliding doors to the gym open with a hiss that sounds loud in the quiet of the morning. A cool blast of air hits them on their way in, and Osamu shivers. 

“Yer nippin’,” Atsumu says, walking past him. 

“Yer fuckin’ weird,” Osamu says. 

Atsumu chooses to ignore that, moving towards the check-in desk. “Hurry up, Aran is waiting for us.” 

Osamu is prepared to retort, his lips already curled around an insult that dies on his tongue, because in that instant, he spots him.

Sitting at the check-in desk is the most beautiful man Osamu has ever seen, all sweeping brown hair and bored eyes. 

Osamu has Atsumu’s arm in a vice-grip before he can take another step forward. 

“‘Tsumu, who the fuck is that?”  he asks, voice caught somewhere between a whisper and choking on his own tongue. 

“Huh?” Atsumu’s eyes search until they land on Sexy Desk Man. 

“ Oh,” he says, smirk pulling into place. “ Him?”  

Atsumu sidles up to the desk and drapes himself over it. “Mornin’ Suna,” he says, voice dripping. 

It was in the name of love, Osamu imagines himself telling the cops when they haul him away for fratricide. 

Sexy Desk Man—Suna—looks up at Atsumu and blinks. 

“Hey, Atsumu. What’s up?” 

His voice is deep and smooth, and his words, when they leave his mouth, are unharried. His lips form around every consonant and vowel, and Osamu finds that he can’t look away. 

“I brought my scrub twin to the gym today,” Atsumu says, looking back at Osamu and grinning that shit eating grin Osamu should’ve knocked off his face in the womb. 

Suna’s eyes flit over to him, looking him up and down. In a bored and uninterested way. In a way that makes Osamu feel like he is boring and uninteresting. Not in an I-want-to-tear-your-clothes-off-and-have-you-rail-me-at-six-in-the-morning kind of way. Which is the look Osamu knows he must be giving Sexy Desk Man.

Osamu takes inventory of what’s wearing. Grey shirt, one that he knows makes his chest and arms look huge. Navy mid-thigh shorts, that show off his legs. Black Onigiri Miya hat, to keep his bangs out of his face. 

Good. He looks good. 

He’d gotten dressed that morning with the intention of making Atsumu eat shit, because he wasn’t about to sit around and let himself be insulted. But now he’s thankful for the constant need to outdo his brother. 

Because, well, holy fuck. 

Osamu realizes he’s been staring too long when Atsumu elbows him in the side. 

“Uh, hey,” he says, raising a hand and letting it flop pathetically back down. Scrub twin, indeed.

Atsumu snorts and turns back to Suna, who does not bother to wave back. 

“Anyways, Sunarin, can he get a guest pass?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Suna says. Then, to Osamu, “Can I get your ID?” 

Osamu fumbles in his pockets for his wallet until he remembers that he slipped his ID in the back of his phone case. 

“Yeah, here,” he says, handing Suna the card. 

When their hands touch, Osamu nearly yelps. 

“Yer hands are fucking cold,” he hisses. 

“Because they have the AC blasting at negative a million degrees,” Suna says, not looking up from his computer. 

“Aren’t ya anemic, Sunarin?” Atsumu asks, like this is a perfectly normal thing to know about the man working the desk at the gym. 

“That too,” he says, typing a few words. 

Even the way he types is sexy. He hits each key with a satisfying ‘click.’ 

Suna hands him his ID and a printed guest pass back with little fanfare. 

“Enjoy your workout,” he says. 

“Thanks,” Osamu says. “You too.” 

He goes stock still when he realizes what he’s said. “I mean…”

“I gotchu.” Suna’s lips quirks up. 

Which Osamu is going to count as a win. Maybe.

“Did you lose all your game the second you graduated high school?” Sakusa asks, coming up to Osamu’s side. 

“Omi-kun,” Osamu groans. “Why would ya say that?” 

“Omi’s got a point,” Bokuto says, flanking Osamu’s other side. “Complaining about how cold his hands are? Really? You know he's anemic” 

“Not you too, Bokkun.” 

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad,” Hinata says, taking up the rear. “What was weak was that you didn’t offer to warm them up for him.” 

“I swear only yer brain is workin’ that fast right now, Shoyo-kun,” Osamu gripes. 

Atsumu waves at Aran, who’s waiting for them by the treadmills. “Poor ‘Samu, sexy Suna’s never gonna want him.” 

“‘You can’t ever let me have an off day, can you?” Osamu says, shoving Atsumu’s shoulder. 

Atsumu grunts, but sticks a leg out and trips Osamu. He almost wipes out, but Aran catches him at the last second. 

“You guys are already fighting?” he asks, smiling down at Osamu a little helplessly. 

“Not fightin’, just trippin’ and fallin’ into your arms, good mornin’ baby,” Osamu says, fluttering his lashes at Aran. 

Aran drops him. 

Osamu groans and sits up, and when he looks over, it’s to find that Suna is watching them, laughing into his hand. He scrambles to stand and his knee actually does pop. Which makes Atsumu snicker. Which in turn earns Atsumu a punch to the shoulder. Hard.

For the duration of their workout, Osamu steals furtive glances at the front desk, but he doesn’t catch Suna looking back at him, even once. 

Which, all things considered, isn’t the worst possible outcome. Osamu didn’t realize how low he’d sunken until he’s working out with Olympians. Not that he’d ever admit this to Atsumu, because Atsumu’d never let him live it down. 

By the time they’re leaving the gym, he’s walking like he has a stick up his ass. 

He should've seen this coming, given that today was leg day, and nothing is holier to Atsumu and Bokuto than leg day. 

“So, same time tomorrow?” Atsumu asks on their way out, an obscene amount of pep in his step. 

“Why the fuck would I come back?” Osamu asks, lifting his hat to wipe the sweat off his brow. 

“Sexy Suna works the desk five days a week,” Sakusa whispers into his ear. 

Osamu whips around to look at him, but Sakusa just stalks forward like he never said anything, mask obscuring his face. 

Coming back to the gym means getting his ass handed to him. Again. But it could also mean getting his hands on some ass.

This is a delicate equation, one that Osamu would be able to balance if he wasn’t so shit at chemistry. 

“Fine,” he finally says, hobbling to the passenger side of Atsumu’s car. 

~ 

Getting out of bed the next morning is a feat more impressive than the erection of the Pyramids. 

Speaking of erections, Osamu watches as Aran says something to Suna. He points to his own bicep, then to Suna’s. Suna flexes and Osamu gets an eyeful of some of the nicest arms he’s seen on a man. At six in the morning. 

“It’s too early to be this horny,” Sakusa whispers into his ear. 

This time, Osamu tries to swat at him, but misses completely. 

“I’m not horny,” he hisses. 

“What was that?” Sakusa asks. 

“I’m not horny.” 

Sakusa shakes his head and points to his ear. 

“I said I’m not horny!” 

Osamu doesn’t realize how loud he’s spoken until everyone around him goes silent. 

Suna looks up from his conversation and just raises an eyebrow at him. 

His cheeks feel like they’re on fire. He’s burning up so hot he imagines the fire alarms turning on and putting him out, steam rising off his skin and dissolving into the stratosphere. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he mumbles. Sakusa starts laughing and Atsumu daps him up, which Osamu takes as his cue to run to the bathrooms. 

When he emerges, minutes later, he spots their group by the free weights and stalks over. 

“You three set me up,” he says, pointing a finger at Atsumu, Aran, and Sakusa in turn. 

“No idea what yer talkin’ about,” Atsumu says, hauling two thirty pound dumbbells up and claiming a bench for himself. 

“I think the increased blood flow to his brain is causing some sort of adverse reaction,” Sakusa says, standing behind Atsumu to spot him. 

“Ooh, big words, Omi-kun.” 

“That’s what happens when you go to college,” Sakusa says. 

“I fuckin’ hate that the two of you became friends,” Osamu grumbles, grabbing the bench next to Atsumu’s. 

Today’s workout goes infinitely better. 

He sends his thanks up to Kita Shinsuke, guardian deity of twenty pound sacks of rice, as he breezes through bicep curls, flies, and dips. 

When they move over to the cables, Osamu looks up and finds Suna looking in his direction. 

Shoot your shot, shoot your fucking shot, his brain screams at him. 

Osamu looks around to make sure Atsumu isn’t looking, then he raises a hand and waves. 

Suna smiles and waves back. 

He’s definitely counting that one as a win. 

~

The next day, Atsumu waits till after Osamu’s alarm has gone off and he’s sitting in his car outside of the gym to inform him that they will not be working out today, on account of National Team training.

Which you could’ve been a part of if you went pro

Scrub

Atsumu texts him. 

Osamu imagines himself wringing Atsumu’s neck, snuffing him out under bags of rice, denying him onigiri privileges for a year. The last one feels just a little too cruel, so he puts his phone down and flops onto his steering wheel.

He could go home. He imagines his bed, cold and empty, waiting for him to return to its loving embrace. 

Then he thinks of Suna, who he is now on a first wave basis with. Besides, he’s already here. And it’s ab day. And because he is a masochist, he has always loved ab day.  

Osamu is feeling good about his decision until he gets to the front desk and Suna looks up from his phone and pins him with his stare.

“Hey,” he says. “No entourage this time?” 

“No,” he says. “They’re all doing National Team Olympic training bullshit today and ‘Tsumu didn’t tell me until after I got here.” 

“That blows,” Suna says. 

So do I, Osamu thinks. But he keeps his mouth tightly shut because today is not the morning to embarrass himself. That was yesterday’s Osamu. He is a new man, reborn, capable of nothing but suave and finesse. 

“You can’t get in if you don’t have a membership,” Suna says, bringing Osamu crashing down to reality. 

“I’m gonna murder ‘Tsumu.”

Suna raises his hands up and Osamu has the misfortune of noticing that when he isn’t slouched over, Suna’s shoulders are broad enough to land a fucking plane on. 

“I don’t wanna be culpable for murder,” he says. “Keep your plans to yourself.”

“If I’m going down, you’re comin’ too,” Osamu says. 

Suna raises an eyebrow at that and Osamu mentally backtracks, wishing for once that he had Sakusa’s flexibility so he could kick his own ass. 

“Fuck, sorry, that’s not what I meant.” 

The eyebrow only raises higher, mocking him. 

This morning is not the morning of suave and finesse, it seems. It is the morning of blushing so hard he’s putting the color red out of business. 

“You know what, I’m just gonna go home then,” Osamu says, cutting his losses and turning around. He hears Suna tittering at his walk of shame. 

“You know,” Suna says, loud and overdramatized. “I also have a membership to this gym.”

Osamu turns around in slow motion and stares at Suna. 

Suna throws a hand over his forehead and leans back into his seat, huffing like the star of a fifties movie. “Whatever am I to do? If only I had a guest to bring with me.” 

Osamu tucks his tail between his legs and heads back to the front desk. 

“You’d really sign me in?” 

“Course I would,” Suna says, holding out a hand for Osamu’s ID. 

This time, he doesn’t fumble it. He remembers exactly where it is and hands it to Suna with flawless execution. 

Even though Atsumu is the Olympian in the family, that small victory leaves Osamu feeling like he’s won gold, which is something Atsumu can never say he’s won. 

“Enjoy your workout,” Suna says, sliding his ID and the guest pass to Osamu. 

Before he can stop himself he blurts the one thing that has been on his mind this whole time. “Your shoulders.”

“What about them?” 

Osamu does not say, I have resigned myself to thinking about them on my drive home or, I was likely going to spend my night imagining holding onto said shoulders while you pounded me into next Tuesday. 

What he says instead is, “Do you have any favorite moves to target them? I’m tryin’ to work on mine.” 

He gestures at his own shoulders lamely. 

“I like to do drop set lateral raises.”

“Gotcha, thanks,” Osamu says, ready to walk off once again. 

And once again, Suna’s words stop him in his tracks. 

“I’m doing shoulders tomorrow if you don’t mind changing your schedule.”

Osamu wonders if he’s imagining the flush on Suna’s face, or if it’s a trick of the light. 

“And if you don’t mind waiting till the evening.”

“I close the restaurant at nine,” Osamu says. “Is that too late?”

Suna shakes his head, and Osamu watches, mesmerized, as the silky strands move back and forth with the movement. 

“No, that’s perfect. I’ll be done studying by then.” 

“What are you studying?” Osamu asks. 

“I’m in med school.” 

Osamu whistles. “That’s some brain you got.” 

Suna grins at him. “I’m smarter than I look.”

“Never said ya didn’t look smart.” 

This time, he’s sure he isn’t imagining the way Suna sits up straighter, the way his eyes sparkle. 

“What kind of restaurant do you work at?” 

“An onigiri shop,” Osamu says, pointing at his hat. 

Suna squints at it, and Osamu leans in a little so he can read it. 

“Onigiri Miya? Is it a family business?”

“No,” Osamu says, grinning wide. “It’s my business.” 

“You mean you own the restaurant?” Suna raises an eyebrow like he’s impressed. Like something Osamu said was impressive. It isn’t quite the take-me-to-bed-and-ravish-me eyes he’s hoping to inspire, but Osamu will take what he can get.

Before he can say more, another guest walks in and falls into line behind him. 

Suna waves him off. “Enjoy your workout.”

Osamu waves back.

He’s thankful Atsumu isn’t here for this workout, because he’d certainly have something to say about the number of times Osamu catches himself smiling at nothing in the floor length mirrors that cover every wall of the gym. 

~

He wakes up the next morning with a flutter in his stomach. Not even texting Atsumu to tell him that he’s switching to an evening workout can kill his good mood, despite the many needling questions and dozens of frowny faces he sends Osamu. 

When he finally gets Atsumu off his back, he sifts through his workout gear to find the pieces that show off his best assets. 

It’s not even a date and yer actin’ like a clown, the part of his brain that sounds like Atsumu says. 

But it could turn into a date, especially if you show him what he’s missin’ out on, the part of his brain that sounds like Aran counters. 

And because he’d sell Atsumu’s soul to be Aran’s brother, Osamu picks out a black shirt, purposely purchased one size too small, and a pair of grey shorts that show off the muscles of his thighs and make his ass look fat. 

He wasn’t a volleyball player for nothing, after all. 

Osamu opens the shop up with an extra spring in his step. He gives every customer a megawatt smile, like they are the reason Suna Rintarou will be working out with him tonight. 

A few kids come by for breakfast on their way to school, and he sneaks them a few extra pieces.

During the afternoon lull, a mother comes in with her baby. When she sits down to eat, the toddler starts to cry. Osamu offers to hold the child, and she quiets down immediately in his arms. The mother looks at him with what can only be described as heart eyes. 

As he’s getting ready to close, a study group from the nearby college comes in, all of them looking bleary eyed and lugging giant backpacks. When they try to pay, Osamu waves them off and sends them out with all of the onigiri that didn’t sell that day. He thinks he hears one boy actually start crying as he bites into one. 

But it’s as he’s mopping the floors that the reality of the situation hits him. It is currently 7:57 p.m.. In precisely one hour and three minutes, he will have the opportunity to either impress the man of his dreams or embarrass himself like a fool. And given how the last week has been trending, he prays to every higher power out there that it won’t be the latter. 

Loathe as he is to admit it, Sakusa is right. Osamu has not always not had game like this. In high school, he was a hot catch. Everyone was clamoring for a date with the “nicer” Miya twin. Atsumu always laughed when he heard that, because Osamu was as mean to Atsumu as Atsumu was to everyone else. 

Whatever. They’d both grown out of it. Kind of. 

But there’s something about Suna Rintarou, about the sweep of his hair and the curve of his eyes, golden and smouldering, that makes Osamu feel like his tongue is knotted up.

None of the easy confidence that won him countless confessions from boys and girls and everyone in between is anywhere to be found around Suna Rintarou. 

He sighs and puts the mop away, before heading to the bathroom to change into his workout clothes. 

On the train, he attracts many stares. One woman, with beautiful auburn hair and lush eyelashes even gives him her phone number and a smile that he will likely spend forever thinking about if this thing with Suna goes horribly, dreadfully wrong. 

For the time being though, he takes it as a much needed confidence boost and smiles back at her, taking a picture of the scrap of paper she’d handed him, before slipping them both into his pocket. 

That pleases her, because when she gets off at her stop she gives him a parting wave and a wink. 

Two stops away from the gym, his palms start to sweat and his mind conjures up all the worst possible outcomes. What if Suna only offered to work out with him to get Osamu to leave him alone? What if Suna wasn’t going to show? It’s not like Osamu has his number to text him.

What if Suna was in a relationship? Or, what if he wasn’t attracted to men at all? Osamu has no way of knowing, and people have made enough assumptions about his sexuality based on his physical appearance that he doesn’t want to do the same to anyone else. 

When the train hurtles into the station, Osamu wipes his palms off on his shorts, takes a deep breath, and makes way for the building. 

All of his worries dissolve when he walks into the nearly empty gym and finds Suna, in a cut-off tank top displaying the name of his university, and basketball shorts, headphones around his neck. 

His shorts show off the curve of Suna’s calves, and Osamu has yet to come to terms with how whipped he must really be, if calves are doing it for him. Suna’s choice of shirt, and on shoulder day, no less, means that Osamu is going to get more than just a flash of nipple. 

Suna smiles when he sees him and raises a hand up to wave at him. 

“Hey,” he says, when Osamu is in hearing distance. “I was gonna text you to ask if you were still down to workout, but then I realized I didn’t have your number, which was stupid of me.”

He holds his phone out to Osamu, like it’s no big deal, like asking Osamu for his number is the most casual thing in the world, and not the thing that is currently making Osamu’s heart etch distress signals into his ribcage. 

“I realized the same thing,” Osamu says, and thanks the gods that his voice comes out smooth and easy. He takes Suna’s phone and creates a contact for himself. 

When he hands it back to Suna, Suna smiles again. 

“Lemme text you now,” he says, firing off a quick message to Osamu. “I’ll forget if I do it later.” 

Osamu’s phone buzzes in his pocket and pulls it out, adding a name to Suna’s number. He feels like he’s typing in a winning lotto combination.

“Alright, ready?” Suna asks, leading them towards the treadmills. 

“Sure thing,” Osamu says. 

Suna makes them do sixty second sprint intervals for a warm-up, and Osamu sends a shoutout to himself for keeping up with his running, because otherwise, he’d be bent over double and wheezing for air. 

“You’re good,” Suna says, stepping off the machine effortlessly. The only things that indicate to Osamu that he too was even running are the pink flush to his cheeks and the bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. 

Osamu has the mental image of licking it off. 

But it’s the actual image he gets that makes Osamu finally understand what people mean when they say reality will always surpass imagination. 

Suna lifts the hem of his shirt up to wipe his forehead, exposing a trim waist and a six pack. 

He catches Osamu staring and gives him a grin that makes Osamu feel like he’s about to become someone’s dinner. He lowers his shirt back down slowly, never breaking eye contact. 

Osamu swallows, and he swears Suna’s eyes zero in on the bob of his throat. 

Wordlessly, Suna leads them to the benches. Osamu can do little more than follow after him. 

“Grab a lighter weight,” Suna instructs, raising the bench into a seated position. He pulls a set of twenty pound weights off the rack and sits down on a bench. Osamu does the same. 

Neither of them speak during their workout. Suna keeps his headphones on and pauses only to change the song or explain the set to Osamu. 

Osamu has always preferred to workout without music, focusing instead on the sound of his own breathing and his form in the mirror. 

Also in the mirror is Suna, who looks stupid good leading him through shoulder presses and lateral raises and front raises, and who won’t make eye contact with anyone but his own reflection. Osamu can hardly blame him. 

By the end of the fourth set of their fifth move, Osamu’s shoulders feel like they’re going to fall off his body. 

He can barely even focus on how good Suna looks, how his arms flex, and his back contracts and extends with each movement, how his chest rises and falls with each heavy breath. 

Instead, he’s trying to focus on how to keep his arms firmly attached to their sockets, so he won’t have to go home and look up how to make onigiri with his feet. 

Twenty minutes later, the torture ends. 

Suna pulls off his headphones and seems to return to himself. 

“What’d you think?” he asks, smiling at Osamu. 

“I think yer crazy,” he says, trying not to pay attention to Suna’s flushed face, to the way he’s panting. The schtick is up when Suna pulls his shirt up to wipe at his sweat again. 

“You could carry a towel y’know.” 

“Why, is my stomach offending your delicate sensibilities?” 

His stomach is not offending your delicate sensibilities, and therein lies the problem, the part of his brain that sounds like Kita, which has until now, remained dormant, finally decides to speak up. 

“As if I care about that,” Osamu says, pulling the brim of his hat down over his face to hide his blush. 

He can tell it doesn’t work, because Suna smiles wider. 

“You did good though,” Suna tells him. 

Osamu snorts, because that is poor consolation for the reality that faces him. “I’m getting a rice shipment in tomorrow and I’m not even gonna be able to move my arms.”

“That’s rough,” Suna says, the teasing glint in his eyes making him look like he doesn’t mean it all. “Want me to kiss it better?” 

And oh, that’s a line Osamu didn’t think they were crossing today. 

Because his brain is the definition of give an inch, take a mile, images of their wedding instantly flood his mind. Where would they cater their food from? Would he be better off making it himself? Just how angry would Atsumu be if he told him he wanted Aran to be his best man instead?

He doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything until Suna’s face falls back to neutral. “I was just joking.” 

“No, wait,” Osamu all but screams. “Of course I want you to kiss it better. No, fuck, I mean, not unless you want to? Um, except that I’m really sweaty right now, but I guess you are too but I mean I guess you can kiss it better if you really want but also maybe wait till after I’ve showered—”

“Oh my god,” Suna says, holding a hand up. Osamu clamps his jaw shut and imagines smothering himself under twenty pound bags of rice. Then, thankfully, thankfully, Suna laughs. And laughs and laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, accompanied by a beautiful sight. Suna’s eyes crinkle shut, smile lighting up his face. Even his hair looks like it’s smiling, for fuck’s sake. 

After he’s had his fill of laughing at Osamu’s misery, Suna slaps him on the shoulder and says, “Same time tomorrow?”

~

Tomorrow is hell. 

Osamu quickly learns this when he puts an arm out trying to find his phone. His shoulder protests the movement, while his phone continues to blare with the godforsaken sound of his alarm. 

He buries his face in his pillow and resists the urge to scream. 

If Kita could see him now, he’d tell him this is what happens when you don’t take care of yourself properly, when you abandon routine and skip having a concrete workout schedule.

Slowly, so, so slowly, he manages to sit up in bed. Every muscle group is on fire and every move takes a year off his life. 

Showering helps. So does stepping out of the shower and seeing a text from Suna. 

hey, i’m gonna have to stay late at lab tonight. is it cool if we push our workout to tomorrow?

His good mood instantly vanishes when he sees the message. But Osamu understands. He’s a busy man as well, and he can’t imagine the stress of being in medical school. 

of course! do you have dinner plans? bc if not, you should come to the shop and i’ll feed you

Osamu almost throws his phone across the room when he reads Suna’s reply. 

it’s a date

~

“Osamu-san, if you don’t stop pacing I’m kicking you out of the store.”

“Sorry, Saori, I’m just kinda nervous.”

“Because your boyfriend is coming later?” 

“He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“But you want him to be,” Saori says with a small grin.

“I control your paycheck,” Osamu reminds her, flicking the bill of her hat. 

“Right, sorry boss, how could I forget?” 

Saori walks to the supply closet and grabs a broom, pretending to be busy by sweeping over the same spots she’s swept over all day. 

Osamu hates to admit it, but she’s right. He doesn’t know much about Suna Rintarou, but the little glimpses of his personality that he’s seen make him want to know more. 

He sends Saori home early after stuffing all the tips into an envelope and forcing her to take them. She smiles at him knowingly, but makes no further comment. 

Then, he flips the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and heads to the back.

the door isn’t locked, just walk in when u get here,  he texts Suna.

Some time later, the sound of the bell chiming alerts him to someone’s presence in the store. He drops the clipboard he’s using to take inventory and tries not to seem like he’s too eager when he walks to the front of the store. 

Suna is lingering near the entrance, gripping the straps of his backpack. He brightens when he sees Osamu. 

“Hey,” Osamu calls, walking out from behind the counter. 

“Hey,” Suna says, meeting Osamu half way. 

They stop when there’s a few inches between them, neither of them really sure what to do with themselves. Suna said it was a date, but how serious of a statement that is, neither of them actually know.

Osamu gives an awkward smile and gestures to the stools in front of the counter. 

Suna drops his bag to the floor and takes a seat, turning to watch Osamu walk behind the counter again. 

“Is this okay? You’re closed, aren’t you?” 

“I wouldn’t have told ya to come if it wasn’t,” Osamu says, tying his apron on. “What can I make you?” 

“What’s the best thing on the menu?” 

“It’s all good,” Osamu says, pushing his sleeves up. He feels like his usual self, proud of his craft and assured the knowledge that everything he makes is as good as he says it is. When he smiles at Suna, it’s oozing with confidence. 

“Okay then, chef’s choice,” Suna says, matching his smile. 

Osamu sets a cup of hot tea in front of Suna, then gets to work, preparing a fresh batch of rice. 

“How was lab?” he asks, moving around the kitchen and pulling out the ingredients he needs to make a variety of fillings. 

Suna slumps forward, resting his head in his arms. “Lab was, and will always be, hell.” 

“Yeah? What were you doing?”

“Today we were dissecting the human hand.”

He looks at his own hands, currently holding salmon. Osamu tries to imagine Suna peeling them apart, layer by layer and shudders. 

“Exactly,” Suna says. 

“Well, I’m sorry you had to endure that.”

Suna waves a hand. “It’s for the betterment of humanity or something like that.”

Osamu snorts. “Or something like that.” He mixes together the first filling and moves onto the next one. “What made ya want to be a doctor?” 

Suna leans forward to watch Osamu work. 

“My little sister had leukemia when she was younger. The pediatric oncologist who worked with her was amazing, and I’ve wanted to be like her ever since, I guess.” 

He finishes his sentence with a small shrug, and Osamu wonders if Suna is used to people belittling his ambitions. If shrugging them off is second nature to him.

“I’m glad your sister is better,” Osamu says. “And I think it’s amazing that you’re going into the field. I’m sure all the kids are gonna love you.” 

“Thanks,” Suna says, with a small laugh, ruffling the hair at the top of his head. “I’m glad my sister is better too. She’s my best friend.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, ‘Tsumu’s my best friend too, so I get that part, at least.” 

At the mention of Atsumu, Suna perks up. “Speaking of. How did your brother end up an Olympic athlete and you ended up owning your own restaurant?” 

He doesn’t say it with any judgement or malice, doesn’t say like one route is better than the other. 

So Osamu smiles, shaping one of the onigiri with deft hands. “‘Tsumu and I compete in everything. When we were still in high school, ‘Tsumu started getting invited to all of these volleyball training camps, and scouted by coaches. I didn’t. And I realized I was angier about the fact that I wasn’t angry than the fact that he was the only one getting scouted. 

“That’s when I figured out that there was something else I should be doing with my life.” 

“So how’d you settle on onigiri?”

“It’s what I used to make ‘Tsumu and I for lunch. It just kinda made sense to go back to the basics.”

“That’s really sweet,” Suna says, blowing on his tea. 

“Don’t tell him I said anythin’ nice about him. It’ll go straight to his big fat head.” 

Suna laughs in earnest. “I get the feeling you’re both equally as bad.”

Osamu gasps. “Suna, how could ya say that? I could poison your meal.” 

“I doubt you’d do that,” Suna says, finally taking a sip of his tea. 

“Yeah, how do you know that?” 

“Because,” Suna says, leaning in again, sharing a conspiratory smile with Osamu. “I think you like me.”

Osamu drops the onigiri and stares wide-eyed at Suna. 

Suna smiles wider. “Am I wrong?” 

“I mean, yer definitely not not wrong,” Osamu chokes out, and immediately wishes he was small enough to drown himself in Suna’s cup of tea. 

“Not not wrong,” Suna repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Two negatives certainly make a positive.” 

“I’d like to make a positive with you.” Osamu speaks before his brain can even process the thought, then groans at his own words. “Fuck that was so bad . I swear I used to have mad game. It all just conveniently vanishes the minute I’m around you.” 

“Now, I’m not a doctor,” Suna says, giggling at his own bad joke. And oh, Osamu really wants to kiss the laughter off his face. “But it sounds to me like you’re love sick.”

“L-love?” Osamu wheezes. “Who said anything about love?”

Suna laughs harder, gripping at his cup of tea. “I think I broke you.”

“Shut up and eat yer onigiri,” Osamu grumbles, placing a plate with half a dozen onigiri onto the counter in front of Suna. 

“You’re not gonna eat with me?” he asks, eyeing the plate with a gleam in his eyes. He takes his phone out and snaps pictures from a few different angles. 

Osamu takes off his apron, hangs it on its hook, and walks around the counter to sit on the stool next to Suna’s. “Promise ya there won’t be anything left for me to eat after you try them.” 

“The way you talk about me and the way you talk about food is giving me emotional whiplash.” 

He leans his head on his palm and smiles, slow and lazy. “Yer gonna be the one talking about love after you try these.” 

The most delightful shade of pink takes center stage on the apples of Suna’s cheeks. Finally, finally, Osamu feels like he’s gotten a little of his mojo back. 

Suna reaches for one of the onigiri and Osamu watches closely for his reaction. 

He takes his first bite, and his eyes immediately close shut. 

“Holy fuck,” he groans around his mouthful. Suna swallows the bite and turns to Osamu. “How the fuck did you do this”

Osamu’s smile widens. “And that’s the story of how I became an onigiri chef, while my brother became an Olympic athlete.” 

“Fuck being an Olypmic athlete,” Suna says. “This is amazing. I think I’m gonna think about this onigiri for the rest of my life. It’s so fucking good.” 

Suna sounds near tears as he speaks and Osamu adds another person to the list of people he’s successfully converted. 

After he works his way through the line of onigiri, Suna turns to him, eyes wide and desperate. “Can we please skip all the beginning stuff and just go straight to marriage?” 

Osamu laughs, but Suna grabs his shoulder and shakes. 

“I’m not joking. I’m so serious. I can’t offer much now but I swear you’ll get a return on investment after I graduate med school.” 

“I’m really glad you like it,” Osamu says, voice warm. Equally warm is Suna’s hand, five fingers pressing into the curve of his shoulder. Which reminds him. “My shoulders fucking kill, by the way.” 

Suna squeezes and Osamu grunts. “Don’t do that, it hurts.”

The grip on his shoulder changes. Suna’s hand creeps down his back and his voice pitches lower when he leans into Osamu’s space and asks, “Want me to kiss it better?” 

Osamu doesn’t trust his mouth to speak, so he reaches out and grabs the front of Suna’s shirt, pulling him into a kiss. 

A hand, as warm as the one on his shoulder, finds its way to Osamu’s face, cupping his cheek. Osamu melts into the feeling and allows himself to do the one thing he’s wanted to since he laid eyes on Suna. He runs his hands through Suna’s hair and is pleased to find it’s as silky as he thought it would be. 

The hand on Osamu’s face climbs higher and pulls his hat off his head, setting it on the counter. Then, Suna runs his hands through Osamu’s hair and down his neck. Osamu shivers at that and wraps his arms around Suna’s broad shoulders—the shoulders he’s been thinking about every second of every day for nearly a week—and pulls Suna even closer to him.

Suna runs his tongue against Osamu’s lower lip, and he groans, opening his mouth. Suna slips his tongue in. The hands at his back are digging in now, and Osamu wishes there wasn’t a shirt separating his skin from Suna’s hands. 

When oxygen becomes an unavoidable necessity, Osamu pulls away, pressing his forehead against Suna’s. 

Suna’s breath comes in hot breaths against his lips. His lips, which Suna’s lips were just kissing. His lips, which he wants Suna to keep kissing, 

“I think you might have to kiss it again,” he says. When Suna just stares at him, he grins. “Doctor’s orders.” 

This time, when Suna leans back in, his lips find Osamu’s jaw, the curve of his neck. Osamu gasps when he feels Suna’s teeth graze his skin. 

“Do you buy all of your shirts ten sizes too small?” Suna says, trying and failing to push the collar of Osamu’s shirt aside to get to his shoulders.

“Are you really complainin’ about that right now?” 

“Of course not,” Suna says, squeezing one of Osamu’s pecs. “They make your chest look great.”

Osamu laughs.

“You could just take it off,” he says, swatting Suna’s hand away.

“You’d let me your dephile your fine family establishment like that?”

“I’m the only one who checks the cameras anyways,” Osamu says, running his hands down Suna’s sides and circling his waist. 

“Are you suggesting we make a sex tape?”

Osamu slips a hand under Suna’s shirt and presses greedy fingers to his bare skin, marveling at how smooth it is. “You’re the one who said it, not me.”

Suna laughs into his neck and the sensation sends shivers down his spine. He squirms away, but Suna gets a look in his eye. 

“You’re ticklish.”

“ No,” Osamu says. “Absolutely not.” 

He narrows his eyes, and Osamu feels a little like a mouse cornered by a cat, caught in Suna’s golden gaze. 

“If you tickle me I’ll never feed you onigiri again,” he says, trying to wriggle out of Suna’s grasp. 

Suna pulls him in closer and puts his lips back on Osamu’s. 

When he pulls away, he says, “That would be a real shame.” 

Osamu moves his hand further up Suna’s torso, spreading his palm wide and feeling the rise and fall of Suna’s chest. 

Before any of the things that Osamu has been thinking about can happen, an alarm blares, making them both jump.

“Shit.” Suna scrambles for his phone and turns the alarm off. He drops his head on Osamu’s shoulder and huffs a breath. 

“I have to go,” he says sullenly.

Osamu traces along Suna’s spine, savoring the goosebumps that break out in his wake. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Suna says, pulling away. “I have to take a quiz tomorrow morning and that was my alarm to go to bed.” 

“I understand,” Osamu says. “I don’t wanna keep ya from that. Even though a Saturday morning quiz sounds like a different breed of torture” 

“It is a different breed of torture.” 

Osamu stands from the stool and holds a hand out to Suna. Suna takes it and weaves their fingers together. 

“Thanks for dinner tonight. I can’t even explain how nice it was to eat something that isn’t yogurt for the fifth night in a row.” 

Osamu’s face twists up. “Awful.” 

He drops Suna’s hand and goes behind the counter to the display case. He crouches down, and stands back up with a box in hands. “Sorry if this is jumping the gun, but I made these for you. I figured even if we didn’t you know, work out?” He says it like a question. “Well, I figured you could eat these, regardless. School’s rough.”

Osamu finishes with a lame shrug, but when he meets Suna’s eyes, Suna is smiling at him, a small, shy thing that looks so sweet on his face. 

“Thanks, ‘Samu.” He takes the box, and on his way out, he turns back to Osamu. “Gym tomorrow?” 

~

Suna doesn’t text him at all. Which is fine and normal, because he’s busy. And even if he wasn’t, it would still be fine and normal, because space is a thing human beings need. 

Except that Osamu spends the whole day feeling like he’s in limbo. He has no idea if yesterday was actually a date, or if Suna would like to go on another date, or if he’d like to pick up where last night left off. 

For all he knows, Suna makes out with all his workout buddies. 

Which, technically, is what half of MSBY is currently doing, and it seems to be working out for them. If Aran wasn’t dating Kita, Osamu wouldn’t mind making out with him. And by wouldn’t mind, he means Aran was his first love and first heartbreak. Though Osamu isn’t special in that regard, Aran was everyone’s first love. But alas. 

He has no idea how Suna operates though. So he pulls out his phone and asks the only person with sound relationship advice who’ll usually keep his mouth shut.

hey omi-kun

what does it mean if ur workout buddy makes out with you?

The reply comes minutes later.

I’m sorry? Can you clarify what idiocy I’m being subjected to today?

Osamu thinks about what exactly it is he’s trying to ask. Sakusa usually has valuable insights once you get past his, well, everything.  

yknow like, if ur workout buddy makes out with you and then asks you to workout the next day? do you think he’s into you? as more than a workout buddy?

A few moments pass.

I think you should just ask Suna if he wants to go out with you.

Osamu splutters at his phone screen. 

how do u know its suna???

This time, the reply is almost instant.

Sometimes, I’m convinced that you are, in fact, the stupider twin. And that your mother gave birth to both of your brain cells separately 

Instead of throwing his phone across the room, Osamu sends Sakusa a middle finger, and then opens up his conversation with Suna. 

i hope your quiz went well!

That is a fine and normal thing to send to someone. A fine and normal thing indeed. Nothing about it gives away the fact that Osamu is practically vibrating on his couch, hoping that whatever it is he might have with Suna includes things like hoping his exam went well. 

Suna doesn’t respond for a long time, but when he does, it’s a series of messages that makes Osamu cheer in the quiet of his Saturday morning apartment. 

thanks! I got a 100 :) 

and your onigiri was breakfast this morning 

best breakfast i’ve had in so long

excited to see you tn 

A few hours later, Osamu gets a text that says:

bring a change of clothes

He spends the rest of the day thinking about that. 

~

That evening, Osamu wears the joggers he stole from Atsumu that Atsumu still thinks Bokuto accidentally gave to Akaashi. It continues to be a point of tension in their relation, but it’s a point of tension that makes his ass look great, so he’s not about to correct them. 

The train ride to the gym is the longest and shortest one of his life. There are no women he never plans on texting to give him their phone number tonight. Instead, it’s just him and his gym bag, complete with the requested change of clothes, sitting in the train car, hoping that he doesn’t fuck tonight up, that he has an actual chance with Suna. 

Suna isn’t there yet when he gets to the gym, so he waits at the entrance, scrolling through his phone. Bokuto posted a new selfie of him kissing Atsumu, which makes Osamu want to retch. Hinata posted a new video of him doing some complicated yoga pose.

Osamu is trying to figure out how exactly Hinata is able to get his head between his legs like that and what the chances of him being able to replicate such a thing are when Suna walks through the door. Suna looks like a knockout in grey shorts and a black hoodie. It isn’t right, how effortlessly good looking he is, how attracted to him Osamu is. 

“Hey,” he says with a small wave of his hand. “Sorry I’m late.” 

Osamu’s pulse kicks up to one hundred. Play it cool, he reminds himself. 

“You’re good, I just got here a little early.” 

Suna smiles at him, but Osamu doesn’t miss the exhausted look on his face. Suna walks over to the woman sitting at the desk tonight, and fist bumps her when she waves them in without handing her their IDs. 

“What’d ya get up to today?” 

“I studied a shit ton.” Suna sighs deeply. “I’m doing my surgery clerkship right now, so I’m up to my eyes in that.” 

“What year of med school are you in?” 

“Second year,” Suna says. “I took some time off before I started and got a Master’s in Cancer Biology.”

Osamu’s jaw drops. “What the fuck, Suna?” 

Suna startles. “What?”

“You’re like, super fucking smart, what the fuck.”

He smiles and ruffles the hair at the top of his head, which Osamu quickly realizes is a nervous habit. Cute. “It’s nothing really. I just wanted to understand how cancer works from a research perspective before I started treating small humans with cancer, you know?”

Osamu’s mouth disconnects from his brain entirely, it seems, because when he opens his mouth to speak, sheer lunacy comes out. “It’s not nothing. It’s amazing. And sexy as fuck.” 

Suna’s eyes go wide, the widest Osamu’s seen them go. They really are the most beautiful shade, caught somewhere between yellow and grey. He blinks a few times, processing what Osamu just said, and then he laughs. Small at first, but growing bigger each passing moment. 

“I’m adding ‘sexy as fuck’ to my resume,” Suna says, blush high on his cheeks. “Right next to my Master’s degree. Also, you can call me Rin.”

He nudges Osamu with his shoulder and leads him to the locker room, where they both stuff their bags.

Then, they head to the lateral pulldown machine.

There’s nothing to stop him from watching the way Suna straddles the bench when he sits on it, nothing to stop him from staring at the way Suna’s muscles move beneath the fabric of his hoodie with each movement. 

His mind takes him right back to the mental image of Suna shoving him up against a wall, strong arms and shoulders flexing as he holds Osamu in place. 

Suna rises from the machine, and Osamu does his best to shake those thoughts away and focus on their workout. 

When he looks into the mirror to check his form, he meets Suna’s eyes. He visibly swallows and watches Suna’s eyes track the movement of his throat. Again. Meaning the first time wasn’t a fluke or a figment of Osamu’s imagination. 

Every time Osamu’s eyes flit over to look at Suna, he finds Suna already looking back. He catches Suna staring just as often as Suna catches him staring. 

At the cables, Suna shows him a move that requires hinging at the hips. Osamu catches Suna’s eye in the mirror again and makes a show of looking his reflection up and down. The only give away that it affects Suna is the flush that colors his cheeks and neck. 

By the end of the workout, Osamu is half-hard and desperate to feel Suna’s hands on him. 

Suna gives him a knowing smile and walks in the direction of the locker rooms. He leads them to the lockers, and after they grab their stuff, Suna puts his bag in front of one stall, Osamu’s in front of another.  

“In here,” Suna says, holding the curtain to the shower open for him. 

“Are you sure that’s okay? I don’t wanna get like, banned for life.” 

Suna snorts. “Osamu, I work here. I’m the one with banning authority.”

“Well,” Osamu says, stepping into the shower. “How do I know you won’t ban me?” 

Suna follows after him and closes the shower curtain. “Only way I’d ban you is if you don’t shut up and kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Osamu grabs hold of Suna’s shirt and makes to haul him in for a kiss. Just before their lips meet, he pauses and meets Suna’s gaze. 

“Was yesterday a date?” 

“You made me dinner while I complained about class.” Suna purses his lips, eyebrows pulling together. “That’s hardly a date.”

When Osamu’s face falls, Suna quickly amends. “What I mean is, I’d like to take you out on another date. If that’s okay with you. If you don’t mind sex first, date second.” 

“Thank god,” Osamu says. “Because I really fucking like you.” Then he crushes their lips together. Suna matches him with equal vigor, wrapping his arms around Osamu’s shoulders and letting himself be pressed against the wall. 

Osamu slips his hands under Suna’s hoodie, feeling Suna’s warm skin, covered in a thin sheet of sweat, under his fingers. 

Suna pushes Osamu away just enough to shrug his hoodie off. Osamu doesn’t even have time to appreciate the sight before Suna tugs at the hem of his shirt. Osamu pulls it off and throws it near Suna’s discarded hoodie. 

He groans at the feeling of Suna’s bare skin against his. 

“God, I want you so fucking bad.” Suna’s head lolls forward and he licks a stripe up Osamu’s neck. 

Goosebumps break out over his flesh, and Osamu crushes himself closer to Suna. 

“Ya sure didn’t make it obvious. I felt like I was being painfully obvious about how thirsty I was.” 

“You were. You still are,” Suna says, sucking lightly at Osamu’s throat. “Besides, I’m just as thirsty but you can’t tell because of my resting bitch face.” 

Osamu laughs at that and Suna laughs with him, and it completely transforms his face. But he likes every iteration of Suna’s face, so that’s hardly an issue. 

He kisses the smile right off of Suna’s lips and pushes his tongue into Suna’s mouth. It tastes sweet, like the watermelon pre-workout he sips on throughout their workouts. 

Suna digs his nails into Osamu’s shoulders and he groans into Suna’s mouth. Suna licks at the roof of his mouth, sucks on his tongue. He bites Osamu’s lower lip, hard enough that Osamu gasps. 

“You sound nice,” Suna says, tracing a hand down Osamu’s chest. His fingers settle near Osamu’s nipple. “Is this okay?”

Osamu nods. A thought occurs to him. “I’m clean, by the way. I got tested last month and I haven’t had sex since. I think I have a picture of the results if you wanna see.” 

“I believe you,” Suna says. “I got tested like last week. Also clean.”

Then he rubs a thumb around Osamu’s nipple and Osamu moans, dropping his head onto Suna’s shoulder. 

“Wow, I’ve never been with anyone who’s as into that as you are,” Suna says, pulling at his nipple. 

“Again,” Osamu says, gripping at Suna’s hair, pressing their erections together when Suna pinches his nipple again. 

“Fuck,” Suna groans when Osamu presses a leg between Suna’s. 

Suna holds two fingers out, and Osamu opens his mouth, taking them in. He holds his jaw open, lets Suna push his fingers in and out, watches the way Suna’s eyes zero in on his lips. 

“Can I…,” Suna asks, gesturing at Osaumu’s pants. 

Osamu nods, mouth otherwise occupied. Suna pulls his fingers out and reaches down, rubbing Osamu’s bulge through his pants. He slips a hand in and Osamu moans when Suna finally gets a hand on his dick. His fingers are slick from Osamu’s spit and there are calluses on his hand from weightlifting. 

Suna sucks a bruise into one of Osamu’s pecs. 

His hips jerk forward. “Very considerate of you not to do it on my neck.” 

Suna snorts. “We’re both adults here. Although, I’ve seen your brother’s boyfriend’s neck. He treats that thing like a chew toy.”

Osamu groans. “Please don’t speak of him when you have a hand down my pants.” 

“Aye, aye captain.” 

Suna strokes him, just starting to reach a rhythm, when Osamu taps on his wrist. 

“Can I suck you off?”

“That’s not even a fucking question,” Suna says.

Osamu drops to his knees. He mouths at the bulge in Suna’s pants and grins at the way Suna’s hips buck. 

Hooking his fingers through the waistband of Suna’s shorts, he pulls them down and nearly moans at the sight of Suna’s erection. 

He licks a stripe from base to tip. Suna’s fingers find purchase in his hair, and when Osamu wraps his lips around the tip, Suna pulls hard. 

Osamu flattens his tongue and wraps his lips around his teeth, taking Suna in deeper. 

Suna makes quiet noises, small groans and half whispers of Osamu’s name that go straight to Osamu’s dick. He strokes what he can’t take into his mouth with one hand and grabs Suna’s balls with the other. 

“Fuck, just like that,” Suna whispers, running his hand through Osamu’s hair, blunt fingernails scratching against his scalp. 

When he meets Suna’s eyes, they’re glazed over, mouth forming around silent sounds. One hand is pressed to the wall in an attempt to steady himself. 

He relaxes his jaw, taking Suna in deeper. 

Suna moans, then clamps the hand that was pressed against the wall over his mouth. 

Osamu pulls off. “I wanna hear you.” 

“I don’t want anyone to come in,” Suna says, voice hoarse, chest heaving. 

“Turn the water on.” 

Suna reaches blindly for the handle and turns the water on to the hottest it will go when he finally finds it. After a few moments, steam begins to fill the air around them. 

Osamu takes Suna’s dick and brings it to his mouth again, tracing around his lips with the tip. 

“Holy shit,” Suna groans, watching Osamu with something like reverence. 

This time, when Osamu takes him in fully, the sound of the water hitting the tile drowns out Suna’s moan. 

He bobs his head, sucking at Suna with renewed vigor. Suna gasps, and Osamu can feel how hard he’s trying to hold himself back from thrusting his hips forward. 

Osamu swallows around Suna, basking in the way Suna is barely holding onto any semblance of self-control. 

“Osamu, Osamu,"  Suna gasps, tapping at Osamu’s shoulder. He pulls off just in time for Suna to cum on his chest. 

Suna pants hard, legs shaking. Osamu puts his hands against Suna’s thighs to hold him in place while he catches his breath. 

“Sorry about that,” Suna says, gesturing to the mess on Osamu’s chest. 

“We’re literally in a shower.”

“This is true.” Suna holds a hand out and Osamu takes it, letting himself be pulled up. Suna turns him around, so his back is to Suna’s chest. 

He’d known Suna was both taller and broader than him, but knowing is one thing. Being surrounded by Suna, caged in against his chest while he reaches down and wraps a hand around Osamu’s dick is a whole other. 

Hot water hits his chest, washing the mess off. Suna grips him tighter, stroking him from base to tip before digging his thumb into the slit. 

“Oh, fuck,” Osamu gasps, reaching a hand back and grabbing a handful of Suna’s ass. 

Suna snakes a hand up his chest and pinches a nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. 

Osamu moans and Suna lets go of his nipple to grab his chin, turning Osamu’s face and kissing him, all tongue and teeth. 

He strokes him harder, grip tight. Osamu fucks into Suna’s hand, meeting each stroke with a thrust of his hips. 

“Suna, faster, please,” Osamu groans, pushing into Suna’s fist. 

Suna picks up the pace, until Osamu is gasping into Suna’s mouth. 

Right as he feels himself about to tip over the edge, Suna pulls away entirely, his hand finding Osamu’s other nipple. 

“ Why,"  he asks, but it comes out a gasp. 

“I don’t want it to end so fast,” Suna says, against Osamu’s lips. 

Suna’s fingers dip lower, finding the skin of Osamu’s inner thigh. He massages the muscle there, then brings his hand back, trailing light fingers against Osamu’s dick. Suna makes a loose circle with his fingers and strokes Osamu, barely applying pressure. 

“ Suna , please. Hurry up.”

But Suna strokes him from base to tip and back again slowly, like they have all the time in the world. The hand that’s rubbing at his nipple is going at the same leisurely pace.  

Lips find the column of his throat. Suna grazes his teeth against Osamu’s neck, nipping at the warm skin there. 

He moves lower, and sinks his teeth into Osamu’s shoulder. 

Osamu cries out, and it’s only then that Suna picks up again, tightening his grasp around Osamu. 

Between the hand on his dick, the hand pinching at his nipple, and the mouth on his neck, Osamu comes with a stuttering moan, the steam from the shower hot in his lungs.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groans, leaning his weight back against Suna. He props him up, holding Osamu in place while he catches his breath. 

Suna grabs Osamu by the hips and turns him around to face him. “You sounded as good as I thought you would.” 

“Don’t fucking say shit like that.” Osamu drops his head onto Suna’s shoulder.  

“Why not?” He feels Suna’s shoulders shrug. “It’s the truth.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“So you’re the only who gets to embarrass yourself via thirst?”

Osamu whips his head up to stare Suna in the eye. “Don’t speak of that.”

“If you grab the bottle of shampoo out of my bag, I’ll tell you a secret.”

Osamu reaches his hand out of the shower and grabs Suna’s bottle of shampoo. 

“Come here.” Suna opens his arms up and Osamu returns to their earlier position, his back to Suna’s chest. 

The click of the shampoo cap is loud in the shower. Suna squeezes a dollop into his hand and rubs his hands together until the shampoo foams up. He runs it through Osamu’s hair, massaging it into his scalp.

He lets himself melt into Suna’s touch. 

“Wanna hear my secret now?” Suna asks, breath ghosting the curve of his ear.

“What’s up?”

“Sakusa told me you only came back to the gym on day two because you thought I was hot.” 

The scream Osamu lets out is loud enough that the woman from the front desk comes running into the bathroom.