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there’s a tiny eiffel tower perched on the corner shelf of onigiri miya; it’s a cheap relic rintarou purchased during his layover in paris last summer for an international volleyball summit. it really wasn’t much, much osamu had insisted rintarou buy a souvenir on his way, something about making the onigiri shop look more 'internationally welcome’, whatever the hell that meant for a restaurant menu with only rice and seafood.
there are all sorts of other gifts and trinkets in the restaurant, besides rintarou’s, lined across shelves or counters or walls, most of them from their friends: a hollywood-themed cutlery set from aran, back from an off-season in the states; a woven thai tapestry from heisuke, who was studying abroad; komori’s russian dolls, from when he visited lev’s country with yaku, next to the cash register. and of course, there are atsumu’s multitude of gifts, from all over the world (for he is the most well-traveled of all of them, with all those foreign friends and sports deals), from brazil to the netherlands to indonesia—statues, prints, frames, fabrics, whether dinky or expensive, small or large—all in osamu’s shop, placed like trophies (and also, the miya’s actual trophies, from back in the day).
although atsumu hasn’t been back in hyogo for months, rintarou is bombarded with his lingering presence every moment longer he sits on the bar stool. he really means to visit osamu with all the good intentions of childhood friendship but leaves every time thinking of him . it’s probably fucked up, especially for a grown-ass adult, but still, rintarou can’t shake off that feeling, that atsumu is here, waiting for him.
another thing about onigiri miya—the television is always turned to the sports channel because osamu is still an athlete by heart. at night, though, onigiri miya makeshifts itself into a club scene of adult men raging with a beer in their hands, all their eyes on the screen, watching the game.
“atsumu’s playing today,” osamu informs rintarou from the other end of the countertop, like it’s his obligation to. like rintarou cares. (...he does.) “msby, i mean.”
“is that so,” rintarou tries to sound as disinterested as possible, pushing away his food, but his gaze doesn’t divert from the television. it’s the last day of a regional tournament, the channel airing the finals live. the crowd cheers as the two teams enter the stadium and onto the sleek court. ejp raijin failed to make it to the playoffs by two points, though rintarou isn’t too concerned about the team. once komori’s knee fully heals, they’re bound to make a comeback in the next run.
“have ya talked to him?”
“what?” rintarou asks. “as of recent?” osamu nods. he scoffs, “oh, c’mon, you know we’re both not like that.”
osamu frowns, wiping down rintarou’s space on the table as he clears the empty plate. “hey, what d’ya mean? ya talk to me and shinsuke and aran all the time, but not him? i thought ya got close after high school—” rintarou suppresses a snort— “and ya both’ve played one another at least a dozen times now. didn’t you see each other a few days back?”
the shop owner nods to the game on the screen. for a moment, they watch: the camera panning to msby, replaying atsumu’s terrifying serve. the screen is small, but the setter’s power radiates past it, from the spring of his calves to the strike of his palm. something boils at the pit of rintarou’s stomach at the sight of something he has seen for years up close, now so far away.
“we were on opposite ends of the brackets, so no,” rintarou says, turning away from the television. “i really didn’t get to see them. it’s... probably been months since we’ve talked.”
he doesn’t say that it’s almost been exactly four months, afraid to admit that he’s been counting, after all.
“well,” osamu slings the hand towel over his shoulder, with a one-shouldered shrug, “i’m sure he’d like to hear from ya, anyway.”
it’s a little bit strange, hearing that from osamu. it clicks for a brief moment that osamu might’ve figured their relationship out. rintarou chalks it up to the twin empathy thing, though to be frank, he’s not totally uncomfortable about the idea that osamu knows that he and atsumu are fuck buddies even if it should. and if osamu does catch on it, he doesn’t give a hint.
rintarou quickly turns the focus onto osamu. “you should take your own advice with aran, then,” he drawls.
“suna!”
“what?”
“please, i’m not—we—he’s straight, that’s all there is to it,” osamu firmly replies, although his ears begin to redden. he still likes their former upperclassmen a great deal, that he does a terrible job at hiding it. rintarou pities him, and it’s hard to pity any person of miya descent.
“now, do ya want me to put this on yer tab, too?”
by the time rintarou exits the shop, there’s still a few hours of daylight left to hit the treadmill. maybe he’s ought to rest, on one of his few days off before heading back to nagano, but rintarou feels too jittery today. maybe it’s because he’s in hyogo after what has felt like years or the conversation with osamu bothered him slightly or even the thought of atsumu is clouding his line of focus. maybe he just needs to stop thinking about atsumu in general. miya atsumu is the root of everything bad, after all, rintarou silently mourns as he enters the gym.
he tries to let off the steam on the mill, he really does try. rintarou runs with his arms tense at his sides and without any air to breathe, lets his overthinking take up all the oxygen and releases. motory sensors kick in, that all rintarou focuses on is his feet, his steps keeping up a quickening rhythm. right left right left right left. rintarou runs like a fucking monster today. the more the thought of atsumu pops up into his mind, the faster he goes. rightleftrightleftrightleft. he runs until his lungs feel like bursting and his calves nearly give out at the very end and until he’s holding his cramped stomach with purpled hands when it’s all over, as if his heart fell from his chest and shattered inside his gut.
“you good, man?” another treadmiller slows down to take a closer look at him. rintarou waves him off and takes his leave without a word. how do you tell someone you feel like shit but it’s what you wanted?
still, when he gets back home from the gym, rintarou remains pent up. following a long cold shower and convenience store dinner, he enters the living room and flings himself on the couch, positively beat. until the tv flickers on.
he bitterly realizes what channel faces him. it’s atsumu again, now a subject of discussion on the sports panel. rintarou’s screen replays a slow-mo clip of his play from earlier that day.
“...would you look at that—what grace, what power! that’s truly a move done like no other setter in the league…”
rintarou reaches for the remote, irked by the sudden presence of atsumu once again, but before he can turn the television off, the screen cuts to another clip: atsumu tossing to number 15—rintarou recognizes him, sakusa kiyoomi—a graceful fling of fingers on atsumu’s end to sakusa’s insanely precise spike (jeez, rintarou still shudders watching it, wondering as to how he ever got to blocking it), which the crowd roars afterward. and then another cut to the two of them, close-up, heads drawn together in deep discussion. he’s never seen number 15 this up close before, rintarou notes. sakusa kiyoomi is taller than he remembers, slightly looms over atsumu, and unexpectedly, sort of pretty. he’s bluffing— really pretty: curly-haired, smooth-skinned, broad-shouldered.
before they part, atsumu rests his hand on sakusa’s waist for a brief fleeting moment, but rintarou catches it by surprise. sakusa kiyoomi seems unbothered by the touch, if not leaning to it, and even gives a hint of smile (after huffing incredulously) at atsumu cracking a joke.
ah, rintarou watches the exchange, sinking a little into the couch. maybe they’re…
something burns in his chest, even when the sports panel is no longer talking about the ‘unstoppable duo’ and has moved on to tennis instead. it’s ugly, this feeling, and rintarou is ashamed of himself for feeling so because he doesn’t deserve to be jealous. he doesn’t even deserve to make assumptions about atsumu or sakusa or anything else. he and atsumu haven’t talked for months anyway, so it really shouldn’t matter, and it’s none of rintarou’s business whoever else miya atsumu frolics with during his free time because it’s not like they’re actually together , so—
“—why do i feel like shit,” rintarou says aloud to his empty living room. the room gives him nothing.
but after he turns off the tv and he closes his eyes he can’t get the image out of his mind, atsumu’s sweat and muscle and caress. his brilliance, his brazenness, atsumu’s body swift across the bright-lit court, a predator in his territory. then, the image of atsumu outside the lines, of him next to his teammates, laughing and joshing hugging, wearing the grin of something not calculated, or hungry, or arrogant, but genuinely happy. radiantly so.
and then some sick part of rintarou imagines he is sakusa, in that moment; imagines that it’s himself atsumu is touching. that atsumu is beside him, his hands hot on rintarou’s back. it’s almost too vivid, this image: atsumu leaning to his neck, breathing at his ear; one hand snaking down under rintarou’s waistband, curling fingers over his…
“fuck,” rintarou hisses, realizing he’s half-hard. now, this is just embarrassing, getting off by his imagination , of all things.
still… he’s getting hard.
a moral decision presents itself in rintarou’s head. he could think about something depressing like old people eating alone or morbid like his fingers being chopped off and get his boner down like a rational being, or he could take the easier route and jack himself off to the thought of his potentially taken fuck buddy he hasn’t talked to in months and hates with all his gut, but also kind of misses said fuck buddy’s dick.
rintarou grabs the hand lotion from the coffee table.
christ. this is how sex-deprived he’s been. rintarou palms himself through his shorts, sinking further into the sofa. it’s a rough tug at his clothed length, frisky and desperate; his chest, which was burning at the sight of atsumu and sakusa, is now kindling at his suggestive thoughts: how would atsumu touch him? if atsumu could see him, right now, touching himself? would atsumu pounce first thing?—no, he wouldn’t, he would watch, like the sick bastard he is. he’d know how to play it, how to get rintarou to a breaking point. with his arms crossed, hovering over him with slit eyes, smiling without teeth.
“getting ready without me?” atsumu would say. “ya couldn’t even wait. what a whore.”
rintarou groans, kicking off his shorts. the fantasies are maybe getting a little too dangerous, because he’s almost rock-hard now. his cock becomes slick with the continuous motion: his hands running down to the girth and back up, thumbing at the head, the veins, and back down. he can’t help but wonder how atsumu would do this, too, if atsumu would start slow, if he would drag the pleasure out so long that rintarou would be begging, sobbing to continue, or if atsumu would roughen him up until he was on the edge, and turn rintarou’s cheek to face him:
“not ‘ere. not yet.”
“you, shit, you fucker,” rintarou would be shaking, wiggling as atsumu’s fingers squeezed his flushed cock.
“why should i reward ya when we ain’t even at t’ best part?” atsumu’s hands, then, would slide past his back and down to his ass.
“oh my god ,” rintarou nearly screams into the couch pillow, his entire body trembling with the thought of it. he can feel himself, his own hole, throbbing now the fantasy had been conjured: the slender tough fingers of japan’s favorite and world-famous setter shoved up his ass.
he scrambles for a few more pumps of lotion and sits up against the couch. slowly, hesitantly, rintarou spread his legs. begins to lather the lotion. it’s cool against his skin. too cool, rintarou feels his skin prickling and the hairs on his thighs rising up. rintarou is… nervous, although he shouldn’t be. atsumu has fingered him countless times before, but now, rintarou is almost hesitant to do it to himself. it’s ridiculous—atsumu doesn’t own his body, yet the feeling, somewhat akin to guilt, lingers.
“ya weren’t guilty when ya were touching yourself before, but ya are now?” the imaginary atsumu appears once again in his mind, scoffing. “sunarin, d’ya want my fingers that badly? is it obvious that ya can’t even satisfy yerself as i do?”
“fuck, fuck off,” rintarou gasps aloud into the empty living room. go fuck yourself, miya atsumu, he thinks, and slides the first finger in.
“ oh… ” oh… is absolutely off, because it’s not even half of what rintarou feels right now. somehow the shame of his own finger in his ass makes him squirm even more at the feeling, the feeling of the cold, the slick, and his hole clenching, sucking his finger. he adds another. the movement begins to quicken a little from there, and rintarou changes his position to spread himself even wider across the cushions, choking against the leather of the sofa. not long after, two fingers are coming in way too easily. more, he thinks, i could do more.
“we both know that ain’t enough for ya,” atsumu would say, circling around the couch. his head, tilted to one side, a domineering gaze. “yer too much of a slut for just fingers, anyway.”
god, even the imaginary atsumu degrades him like no tomorrow. rintarou doesn’t know if he should commend himself for depicting atsumu so accurately or be in total, irrevocable shame by his mind. you’re too much of a slut for just fingers, really?
suddenly, as the words echo in his head, rintarou remembers the box.
the box is—it really is a box, at the foot of his closet. rintarou meant to throw it away, months ago, since the last time he and atsumu ever spoke to one another, but he couldn’t bring himself to, no matter how nasty the contents of the box inside were.
“what the hell is this?” rintarou had said, when they were sitting at the edge of his bed, the morning after a home game in hyogo, and atsumu had taken something out from his duffel and, with no explanation whatsoever, deposited a bright pink, mid-sized box into his hands. the lid came off the box, revealing its contents. rintarou’s breath caught in his throat, and then his voice immediately dropped.
“who the fuck do you think i am? is this a joke?”
“what? why would it be a joke?” but atsumu was smiling, that same fucking annoying smile like he just got away with something and he was so very pleased. “it’s a partin’ gift. y’know what those are, right?”
“it’s a…” rintarou bristled, humiliated to even say the words, “sex toy kit, atsumu, what the fuck? if you think you can mess with me like this, you’re really in for it now—”
“it’s very considerate,” atsumu said, tapping the side of the box, “since you’ll be lonely without me, when i’m in the states for trainin’.”
“... lonely ?” he spat out, as if he’d eaten something rotten, and slammed the lid shut. his face was turning red, whether it was from the embarrassment or the sheer ridiculousness of it, he didn’t know. but how could atsumu, even if he didn’t know how rintarou really felt, do something like this? maybe the reason why he felt as if his chest was about to explode was the pain—the pain of someone you had secretly liked for so long treating you like a dog , throwing him a toy to say goodbye, it was fun, see you later? what the fuck, what the actual fuck?
rintarou managed to inhale one long breath. “take this fucking box back, atsumu, you—fucking listen, bastard. we’re not friends, what we have right now, whatever you want to call it. i don’t care. but we’re not friends, so don’t treat me like one, because that’s not what either of us wants—don’t try to act a fool.”
his voice caught in his throat, but he tried not to let it waver. “...you know that better than anyone, what i wanted.”
atsumu could only stare at him, could only leave rintarou alone without a word. truly, an asshole. he didn’t take back the box, of course, because rintarou still has it collecting dust in the corner of his closet. yet now, he still can’t bring himself the even take it out, despite seeing it nearly every day, but since atsumu gave the box to him, he hasn’t opened it since, either.
except for now.
the vibrator has remained in its packaging, like everything else in the box. rintarou rips it out of the plastic, his hand closing around the thickness of the toy: the pink color is repulsive, but its curve is smooth and sturdy. its silicone finish makes it seem to shimmer under the fluorescent lights. it comes with a small remote as well, with five settings—more than enough, he thinks. the lube bottle, covered in a cheesy heart design, also is in the box. rintarou takes that, too, this time with a little less humiliation and more desperation.
hurriedly returning to his couch, butt-naked and lotion sticking to the inside of his thighs, he lays himself back down and pops the bottle open. the lube has a sickly, sweet smell to it, like a woman’s perfume, but it seems a lot better than lotion when rintarou covers his fingers with it. his empty hole gapes as he stretches himself wide again, making room for the vibrator.
rintarou throws his head back and rumbles a deep moan.
after more stretching, his quivering fingers close over the vibrator’s remote, moving his thumb to the first setting. the toy comes to life, and rintarou’s entire body responds to the sudden vibrations inside him: the first shocking stutters climbing to growing waves of stimulus, riding throughout his body, tingling and twitching and teasing, jesus—
“ christ ,” he gasps, curling into himself and back out, unable to keep his position on the cushions. he grabs a pillow to get a hold of his trembling self. for the next ten minutes, rintarou rocks his hips against the sofa, jutting his lower body into the air, exposing his insides to the working mechanics of the vibrator as much as he flexibly can. maybe he should’ve taken komori up on the yoga class after all, because he’s already feeling a soreness creeping up between his hipbones.
soon enough, the vibrations grow dull. rintarou finds himself scrambling for the remote once again, and slams the third setting with his left thumb, before letting out a silent scream.
holy fuck. this thing isn’t just vibrating, it’s growing . fucking enlarging . the pulsing toy shoves itself against his inner walls, convulsing convulsing convulsing and leaving no room to breathe. rintarou writhes, moans, crawls to all fours and gives up halfway because it feels so good he can’t even move , for fuck’s sake.
rintarou shoves his face into the pillow under him, letting the vibrator take over his body, engorging it from behind. it’s getting so big now rintarou doesn’t even think it could get out of him if he tried.
“fuck, fuck, s-so big ,” he lets his voice be made, rough and angry and needy. the toy seems to respond to him with another jolt of sensations. rintarou can almost imagine it: atsumu, pinning him down against the couch, fucking him senseless. wild animals and their bodies clashing to match the roar leaving their mouths.
“look at ya, all desperate over a little plastic toy,” the atsumu in his mind taunts, teeth raking from his nape to his shoulder. red marks like rintarou’s about to be eaten. “aren’t ya ashamed of gettin’ it off like this?”
“god, atsumu,” rintarou cries, and repeats the phrase over and over, until it becomes one word—”god atsumu god atsumu , good god—”
a buzz obnoxiously erupts from the coffee table. rintarou cuts himself off, raises his head from the couch. what the hell?
his phone is ringing.
“fuck,” rintarou groans, throwing his head back. really, now, of all times?
the toy’s still in his ass. he’s got other things to worry about. until he sees the screen light up with the only name that could only make rintarou’s heart stutter, nearly throw itself into the nearest fire pit, as it does.
miya atsumu. speak of the fucking devil.
let it go, he tells himself. let the fucking bastard who ghosted you for months and that you totally haven’t been thinking about every day since, the man you are now jerking off to, go.
but he can’t—rintarou’s mind, already hazed as it is, and his dick already wet as it is, naturally accelerates into another bad decision.
with one hand handling the remote, his free one grabs the cell off the table and slides to answer.
“h-hello,” he breathes out, can barely finish the word. for a moment, a wave of panic swells deep inside him, within a few seconds of silence, which feel like an eternity. but then, to his relief:
“suna, hey,” and god, fuck, hearing atsumu’s voice in so long nearly rips him apart, “...i, uh, samu mentioned you came over to the shop today, and i thought i should give ya a call. see what yer up to, ‘s all.”
“ ‘m good,” rintarou clips, trying to muffle a moan into the couch pillow as a particular vibration sends another violent wave across his body. fucking miya osamu . after a beat, trying to recover: “how… are you?”
“good, good,” atsumu says, and rintarou has no clue why he’s trying to sound civil , all of a sudden, after all this time, “just finished a game today, so i’m beat. dunno if ya saw it—i mean, osamu said ya both watched it, so i guess ya did—we won, and we’ll advance to semis…”
atsumu keeps on going, about that damned tournament, but rintarou’s not paying attention. he’s trembling, with sweat, the droplets running over his thighs as he continues to squeeze over the toy. he feels wet, and hot, and even hornier with the thought of being on call with atsumu, that pleasure and anxiety seem to culminate into something so visceral he’s almost at the edge.
with another intense row of tremors traveling up his stomach, rintarou can’t help but let out a whine and—before he can stop it—it comes out, strangled and dry.
“...in two weeks, probably—are ya good, suna?” atsumu’s voice suddenly clears the fog in rintarou’s head.
“...yeah, no, i’m… fine,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “i, uh… stubbed my toe on somethin’.” please don’t say anything please don’t say anything please don’t
“are you… busy right now?”
“what?”
“you can’t fool me.” and atsumu’s voice switches, just like that: now it’s something almost rageful, something in his tone that sends rintarou into frenzy, as if he’s been caught. it’s supposed to be something playful, but there’s a danger, a real anger. “yer fuckin’ voice can’t fool me. yer in bed with someone right now, ain’t ya? who’s got their dick in ya?”
rintarou doesn’t say a word, only whimpers.
“fuck,” atsumu realizes, “ fuck . fuck, you fucking bastard. how many fingers?”
“i-i have to go, atsumu—”
“don’t you dare fucking hang up and tell me ,” rintarou hears him growl. “two? three? four ?”
“n-none,” rintarou gasps, clutching at the cushions. “it’s yours. your gift.”
atsumu breathes through his nose, and the line becomes muffled. it’s a shuffling of unzipping pants, and something about that sound makes rintarou a little braver, lets his moans get louder.
“fuck you, sunarin, you fucking slut. you missed my dick so much you’d pick up my call with my toy in you? god, you’re a real tease, aren’t ya?”
“toy does better than you,” rintarou bites. atsumu laughs, so cruel it makes him quake:
“c’mon, baby, we both know that thing can’t replace me.”
rintarou can hear it, can almost imagine it perfectly: atsumu, pants to his ankles, stroking himself ruggedly, teeth clamped over his bottom lip. on the couch, rintarou gets himself up into a sitting position, slowly riding out the vibrator, shivering as he does so. he lets out a string of moans, feeling it slip deeper inside him.
“louder, suna.” and then, “ya better not be touching yerself—i want you to come untouched.”
“fuck off,” rintarou snarks, but he doesn’t touch himself, lets his member stand throbbing, leaking. “i hate you i hate you i hate you !”
and he does, too, get louder and louder, knows it’ll piss atsumu off, that he can’t touch him, that he can’t see him in this debauched state:
“ ah, atsumu— need you, please, fuck, please ohmygod —”
atsumu grunts faster and faster, and rintarou can hear it, his strokes getting sloppier and sloppier, its wetness permeating the receiver. the vibrator remote is long gone, probably under the couch, but rintarou can’t even bring himself to find it, is too preoccupied with the thing drilling his ass harder and harder.
“fuck, rin, you fuckin’ whore , couldn’t wait for me to get home—”
“—shut u- up , fuck, fuck off —” he’s almost there, can feel it now, that flare of fire at the pit of his stomach, growing with each mangled noise that leaves his throat, deep and hot. it’s tearing him apart, it must be, the way he’s nearly screaming at this point, reaching higher and higher and—
“—and ya don’t, fucking, hate me, ya prick—” atsumu’s words getting more scrambled, more dizzying, maybe even as fucked up as rintarou is— “ya want me, fuck, god rin, ya drive me crazy !”
and rintarou lets out the longest cry, eyes welling up, it’s nearly a howl. he’s convulsing around the toy, can feel the pulse of the vibrator reap him alive, and he won’t stop coming, can’t stop, is unable to stop himself from leaking all over until the cushion beneath him is sopping wet.
atsumu’s not far off, and rintarou can hear him swearing, muttering absolute nonsense, as he comes too, his shouts sizzling against rintarou’s ear.
after a few minutes of panting, shivering, on both ends, rintarou weakly slides the toy out of himself, still trembling.
“god, rin, yer a fuckin’ maniac…” atsumu finally says, still a little tight, sort of laughing in disbelief. his voice crackles, but it makes rintarou’s chest clench all the same.
in the haze passing over, the post-orgasm clarity makes rintarou’s cheeks flush. he can’t fucking believe it either, whatever the hell they just did.
“i…” he swallows, suddenly feeling cold in the living room, curling in on himself. “i didn’t expect a call.”
“why’d ya answer, then?”
rintarou bites his lip. his throat burns before he says it: “you know why.”
has the line cut off? rintarou checks to see if the call is still going. atsumu’s pauses seem to become more and more delayed.
“i….” and for a moment, it sounds like atsumu is going to say something, something he means , but there’s a breath of hesitation. of drawback. “i’ll be home in two weeks.”
“and what do you expect me to do with that information?”
“to not miss me too much.”
“i don’t have anything to miss.” the tips of rintarou’s ears are scorching. “anyway, you’re a real class act, miya atsumu.”
“suna—”
he hangs up. the couch is wet and smells like sex but he’ll deal with it later. rintarou grabs the vibrator and the remote and the box and tosses them into the trash bin.
he feels gross, so he takes a shower. sulks a little longer under the water than he should and tries his best not to think about—atsumu, about his face or his body or, god forbid, his dick. about his stupid snarks and his presence on the court and the last time he saw him. rintarou always feels like at the cusp of understanding miya atsumu, or getting there, atsumu always cuts in front of him first and throws him back to the starting line.
we’re not friends, rintarou reminds himself, stepping out of the steam of the bathroom. just bodies.
there’s a text waiting for him on his nightstand before he goes to bed. it’s from atsumu. rintarou breathes heavily through his nose, unsure if he’ll be able to sleep well depending on whatever atsumu has to say.
well, he won't be able to sleep either way. rintarou opens the notification.
i’ll see you in two weeks
two weeks. two weeks. he almost texts back but stops himself. turns off the phone. the bastard can wait two weeks for a response.