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“Osamu.”
“Rin.”
“Sugar?”
“Your love is sweet enough.”
“Two tablespoons it is.”
———————❖———————
Suna awakes when the sun is still shrouded in shadows and silence behind misshapen clouds. The wooden floorboards creak under his weight and it reminds him of the rust lining his bones, seeping into every crevice like fool’s gold.
Flowers bought for the cheap price of his lover’s affection sit miserably in the cracked vase on the windowsill, withering away like his life. Sometimes Suna can afford to wonder if the sunlight streaming through the skylight is strong enough to burn him to ashes. Today is not such a day.
Kitchen utensils line every inch of the counter. Suna picks them up like he did the remnants of the porcelain bowl that fell from Osamu’s hands the first time Suna said he was leaving him.
A hand on Osamu's chest over his heart, words muttered in a tone barely above a whisper. "There is no place for volleyball here; nor is there a place for me."
Raindrops trail down the glass in rivulets while a god holds the hands of a mortal and whispers Heaven would punish them both for treachery. Like most stories end, the mortal loses because the gods are unable to sacrifice their pride. An eye for an eye; a broken heart for a shattered one.
The kettle is put on the stove as with so many other things in their place within this small shared space they call home. The water comes to a boil sooner rather than later and suddenly the wailing is too loud and everything is too loud until Suna reaches out to turn it off and the banshee fades away into dust.
He pours water into the nearest floral adorned teacup he finds in the cupboard and fills it with the dwindling contents of the coffee container. When the world is in disarray, order keeps things going. The teacup burns his hand when he goes to take it and a sharp hiss escapes his lips involuntarily.
Gods don’t feel pain; they can’t afford to.
The cup was a gift from a boy who used to love Suna and whispered in his ear that he and Osamu would ruin each other. Suna disagreed. Then he bared his teeth and Suna was sure he saw envy tattooed across the rows of ivory blocks. Maybe he had been wrong about both things in the way he had ruined them and mistaken worry for jealousy.
A pair of hands wrap around his shoulders and he chokes down the bitter taste of bile lodged in his throat. Maybe it’s the coffee, it’s hard to tell these days.
“Morning, Sunarin.”
Gods can’t feel love either.
“Good morning, my love.”
———————❖———————
“What’s on your mind?” Washio asks two minutes into practice, ball tucked under his arm like a mother suffocating her child. Two hours have felt like two years in this liminal space of blood, sweat and tears where time bleeds away into blocking drills and elaborate commentaries. Repetition leads to perfection and Suna Rintarou is a little less than perfect right now on this battlefield where dreams die if you move a little too slow in the game of life.
Suna stares at his teammate who shares his position and his mind wanders for a brief moment to evaluate whether Tatsuki Washio would have been a better lover. The way he’s glaring at Suna like the latter killed his dog suggests otherwise.
Lies bleed out through the crook of your tongue easier when you’ve been practicing saying them for years. Rome was not built in a day and neither was this city where love goes to die.
“It’s empty.”
Suna reaches for his right shoe, scowling when Komori takes it and skips away merrily, whispering a jaunty tune under his breath.
Maybe Komori would have been a better choice considering his ability to smile even when the world is falling apart under his feet. At this point Suna is starting to think anyone would have been a better choice than the silver-haired spiker he fell for all those years ago.
“Try again,” Washio flings the ball abruptly in his direction and Suna catches it with deadly precision, the spherical mass a tangible memory of love lost and words unspoken. Whoever said they didn’t need memories lied. Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it; there is no exception for boys who drink coffee out of teacups and wish to be Icarus.
Komori snatches away his left shoe too and Suna contemplates asphyxiation in a public manner. Playing judge, jury and executioner ever since he was sentenced to take care of two boys (one of which he loves a little more) has taught him patience. He breathes through his nose shallowly and tosses the ball back to Washio. It flies past him and hits the wall.
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
———————❖———————
“Rin.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“Atsumu called to tell me the cat we used to keep passed away.”
“Life goes on.”
“Can we adopt one?”
“Hurt and grieve; then we’ll talk.”
———————❖———————
“Thirty three orders today!” Osamu exclaims excitedly, the receipt in danger of flying out the window which is open wide to accommodate the migration of mosquitos buzzing secrets and flies carrying burdens. Maybe this also applies to boys who think avoiding their feelings will help them overcome it too.
Suna musters up some semblance of a smile at his boyfriend while simultaneously trying to peer at the match on television. His eyes fixate on the middle blocker instantaneously and he knows old habits die hard and routines are easy to get accustomed to. He also knows he’s nowhere near as good as this boy who’s shorter than him yet manages to drive his team down the golden path of triumph.
Osamu settles down beside him on the couch amidst the static hum of electricity and for a split second, the world stops spinning on its axis as two boys who always loved something else more than each other finally come to terms with how it feels like to be truly alone despite being seated adjacently.
“I’m happy for you.”
Applause in the distance, it doesn’t belong to either of them.
“I wish I could say the same.”
———————❖———————
“You and Osamu are falling apart.”
It doesn’t take much for Atsumu to start running his mouth in a desperate attempt to play therapist. Suna jots down the brand of alcohol, how the bottle looks like and keys in a note on his phone to load his fridge with the exact same type when someone familiar comes to visit.
“I know.”
Atsumu reaches for the last piece of Yakiniku in his bowl and Suna suppresses the urge to take the knife and stab it through his jugular to escape this misery called the mortal plane. He looks at Atsumu whose hands are scrolling through his phone and notices those fingers were crafted for volleyball unlike his twin brother whose fingers were crafted for folding sharp edges into soft corners so as to not prick anybody. Suna always thought roses had too many thorns and golden boys never belonged in golden light, they would just blind everyone who set eyes on them.
“Do something about it.”
Someone starts singing a distorted rendition of a tune about love lost and found in the background and two girls kiss each other in the doorway of the shop. Suna reaches up to rub at his eyes and suddenly there’s a ghost of a chef standing there with a knife in his hand and a middle blocker who’s staring at the stranger before him. He rubs his eyes again and the chef is gone but the knife is in the middle blocker’s hand now and it’s stained crimson. He glances up and stares a bit too long at the stray piece of ribbon dangling from one of the fan blades above him.
“I can’t.”
———————❖———————
“I choose Heaven.”
“Hell for me.”
“C’mon Rin, you’re growing up.”
“Maybe you already did and left me behind.”
———————❖———————
Yellow has always been the colour of sunshine and stardust but not moonrust which lays under Suna’s tongue and he struggles to not choke on the celestial dust he has no use for. When you’re trained not to touch fragile things in fear of breaking them, you’ll understand soon enough your ego is one of those things too.
“God doesn’t give you what you can’t use.”
Komori is in his memento mori mood for the fifteenth time that day and Suna has memorised every Latin insult available yet somehow the only thing he manages to recite by heart off the top of his head is Osamu’s phone number. The hauntings have been getting worse, maybe he should call him.
“I need sleep.”
The whistle blows, they rush onto the court and two sets later, victory is malleable like the trophy they hold in their hands. Suna smiles, waving to his mother who has always taught him about small giants surviving the death throes of ambition. He is a god, he will not fall. Later when he’s locked in the bathroom, only then does he notice all the bruises scattered across his bare anatomy in places Osamu has not yet touched and slams the door shut when he realises maybe he’s been the mortal all along.
———————❖———————
“Why did you leave me?”
“I didn’t leave because of you, Rin. I left for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”
———————❖———————
“This one is good,” Suna manages to exclaim rather animatedly between fervent bites, gaze fixated on a small sparrow perched on their windowsill. Today he basks in the glory of domesticity and lets his boyfriend feed him while the world outside collapses into chaos. He does not care about the people who revere him and kneel at his feet; he cares only about grey eyes which look at him with kindness he has never felt before.
“Tuna mayo,” Osamu smiles. “You still like it.”
The gods always remember.
The bird starts to chirp a lilting melody before their new cat jumps up and bangs at the windowpane with a white paw. Lily - the epitome of purity and rebirth; a reminder of the beginning of the end. Osamu merely laughs and tosses a piece of tuna to her as the bird flies away. Prey escapes predator for another day. The next day Lily will catch another bird and Osamu will still feed her. The cycle of life continues and the serpent devours its own tail while Suna continues surviving.
———————❖———————
“You remember how Kita-san and Aran used to laugh at us when we said we were in love?”
“Yeah.”
“I used to think it was a lapse of judgement.”
“What, falling in love?”
“No, falling out.”
———————❖———————
The night draws to a close with the restaurant shutters and shoulders brush against shoulders shared with tentative gazes and hands close enough to touch yet kept at a safe distance. Suna picks up a cloth and starts wiping at a blemish on the nearest table while biting his bottom lip in fear of not being able to swallow the remaining regrets.
“Rin,” Osamu’s hands are wrapped tightly around his apron, knuckles painted ivory. “Why won’t you love me back?”
So many questions, so few answers.
Suna chews on the inside of his cheek and thinks about his sister who told him about love and its many types. He mulls over Philia when he sees Osamu as a teammate and the best wing spiker he has had the chance of knowing. He gnaws on Storge like chewing on the end of a straw when he remembers they have grown up together. He remembers the part she mentioned about it being a burden to someone if halfway down the line, one of them stops carrying it.
He looks at Osamu and cradles Pragma in the palms of his hands to see if he can bear the weight. To only say his name for the rest of his life and etch his initials onto naked skin and whisper confessions and steal kisses. Suna realises in the abyss of midnight with the deafening silence ringing in his ears that he wants to be standing in love and not be stuck in the middle of a revolving door falling out and in.
“I never said I didn’t.”
———————❖———————
“Atsumu said we were falling apart.”
“My brother is an idiot, ignore him.”
“Do you think we can fix whatever this is?”
“If we try, yes.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then I’ll love you even more.”