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It’s a beautiful spring day — one that comes maybe twice a year, with pink flower petals floating lethargically through the air and a breeze that cuts through Suna’s half-unbuttoned uniform shirt. It’s been fucking freezing for the past two months, so this is enough to get even Suna fired up. They shouldn’t waste this day like they do with all the others. They should be playing volleyball at the tattered net by the tennis courts or ditching campus and shitty cafeteria food altogether to find something to eat in town, but no, they’re sitting in a circle like some kindergarteners, listening to Miya Atsumu wax poetic about love.
“God, he’s so fuckin’ cute.”
He’s mostly talking to himself, smiling down at his phone screen like it’s an adorable kitten, and they’ve been trying to ignore him, but it’s hard when he just — doesn’t stop. “He does this thing —”
“Tsumu!” Osamu snaps. “I’m gonna vomit on your fuckin’ shoes if ya don’t shut the hell up.”
“Leave him be,” Aran says idly, but Suna can tell even he is at his limit, and if the ever-patient, patented Miya twins handler Aran is losing his cool with how much Atsumu is gushing, then Suna and Osamu are both at risk of going catatonic.
"Thank you,” Atsumu huffs. “Why is Aran the only one of y’all that appreciates love? Just the other day, I was tellin’ Omi —”
“— Ya don’t need to say his name in every other sentence, though,” Aran continues, and there it is. The man can only take so much.
“You’re not in love anyway, Tsumu,” Suna sighs, because his peaceful afternoon is already ruined, may as well rile up one of the Miyas to make up for it. “Nobody is in love at sixteen.”
“Okay, since you’re the expert,” Atsumu snorts. “‘Nobody is in love at sixteen’ — talkin’ like you're forty damn years old.”
“I’m wise beyond my years.”
“I taught ya to wash rice just last month,” Aran muses, smirking. Suna knew he should’ve asked Kita — at least he can keep things discreet.
Suna glares. “That’s neither here nor there. I don’t need to be a master chef to know love is a scam. It’s a capitalist trick.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Osamu laughs. “Tsumu’s already spent half his college tuition fund on sendin’ his Omi-kun sweets. He’s gonna have to get a part-time job.”
“I’m not goin’ to college, and Ma will deal with it,” Atsumu huffs. “Omi-kun likes sweet things, and since he’s the sweetest thing I know —”
He’s cut off by a chorus of groans and boos. Osamu throws his empty lunch bag at him.
“Heartless, all of ya! Especially you, Sunarin — you’re dyin’ alone, and I’m not gonna cry about it at your casket.”
“Not even a little bit?” Suna pretends to pout. “That’s a good thing — I’ll get some peace and quiet in the afterlife.”
Aran shoves him, because he probably worries about all of them dying alone and that’s why he still hangs around them when there are more mature third-years he could spend his time with.
“Tsumu, we’re all real happy for ya, but I think Rintaro would believe in love more if ya didn’t make him associate it with your constant yappin’.”
Osamu guffaws out an aggressive laugh, spraying half of the rice he was chewing into Atsumu’s face, and when Atsumu raises his fist, Suna finds he’s too busy fishing his phone out to think much more about love at all. But his stance is certain — waste of time, waste of money. There are better things he could be doing in life than dealing with something he’s not sure actually exists, and so he makes his decision in the midst of Osamu landing a punch in the center of Atsumu’s stomach — Suna isn’t going to fall in love.
-x-
Suna falls in love the moment he steps foot in EJP Raijin’s sleek, shiny professional gym.
In his defense, he held out for three years — three good years during which the only thing he was infatuated with was volleyball and the fried chicken place a couple of blocks from Inarizaki. Those years come to a screeching halt at nineteen, when he moves into a studio apartment meant for someone half his size and he thinks all of his brainpower will go to figuring out where he should buy socks now that his mom will no longer do it for him, and how he’ll feed himself when he’s never used a stove in his life. There’s a lot on his plate, and so he didn’t think that on top of that, he would fall in love at literal first sight. That doesn’t happen.
But it does happen, squashing everything Suna has ever known to be true under an offensively ugly yellow windbreaker worn by the cutest human being in the entire world.
Suna knows that — objectively, there is nobody cuter than the man across the gym from him, whose laugh is more like a shriek and whose grin could send Suna straight to the optometrist. He’s talking to their coach, who Suna hasn’t even registered yet, but the conversation must be finishing up because he turns and locks eyes.
With Suna.
Oh God, he’s even cuter in his direct vision. His eyebrows — what the hell is going on there? They’re like two fat caterpillars. Adorable. Devastating.
He’s heading right for Suna, and Suna has been rendered paralyzed. He’s lost every remaining brain cell he had, including those responsible for basic joint movement. When the man skids to a halt in front of him, Suna notes that he has shiny, brown eyes. Does Suna like brown eyes? Fuck yeah, he does. Now he does.
“Hey! You’re new too!”
Suna hasn’t ever given much thought to voices — it’s hard enough to pay attention to the words his friends speak, much less how they sound saying them, but this: it’s the voice of an angel.
It’s like gravity leaves Suna then. His stomach flutters, and it’s the most uncomfortable feeling he’s ever experienced — like a mixture of the stomach flu and the nervous flutters he would get before a big test. Suna may have forgotten coherent speech altogether — all he can do is stare, dumbstruck.
“Yo,” he manages. Play it cool. Suna is calm; Suna is collected. He’s having a small out-of-body experience, maybe a miniature crisis, but he can at least greet this stranger, damn it.
“Yo!” Sunshine Stranger mirrors him, still grinning. “I’m Komori Motoya — you can call me Motoya, though. Less stuffy, right? I’m the rookie libero on the team, just joined last week. We probably just missed each other at tryouts!”
Oh no. This is bad. Whatever hurricane that’s brewing inside of Suna has just increased tenfold, and he recognizes a familiar emotion — Suna likes Motoya. On impact, instantly. He’s obsessed, probably.
But it’s not like a friendship thing. There’s a clear difference between how Suna felt when he first saw Osamu drop-kick Atsumu in the Inarizaki gym on his first day at practice and — whatever the fuck this is. This is not the subtle relief of not being the loner on a team; it’s something else entirely.
This is a revelation.
“Probably,” Suna says finally, like an idiot. God, is he actually worrying about what comes out of his mouth right now? That’s unlike him. He’s falling ill. “Uh, I’m a middle blocker.”
“I thought so,” Motoya says with a twinkle. “You’ve got the middle blocker look — speaking of looks, have we met? That’s such a lame line, but, like, really! You seem so familiar.” He squints at him and Suna tries not to flush under the attention like a complete loser. “Inarizaki?!”
“Yeah,” Suna lets a little surprise show on his face. “But I don’t remember you, and I definitely would if we played you.”
Suna remembers anyone who makes an impression on him and Motoya would’ve knocked him off his fucking feet in high school — probably would’ve changed his entire philosophy on life with a smile.
“No, we didn’t play each other, I’m just a stalker,” Motoya says, very seriously. Suna must make a face because he bursts into laughter a second later. “I’m kidding — well, half kidding. I’m not a stalker, but my cousin was, like, obsessed with your team. I figured out afterwards it was because he had a crush on your setter, but you should’ve seen him — he had enough stats on you all to do some serious sabotage and he just used it to try and impress a boy. Ah, cute.”
“Wait,” Suna says, doing a puzzle in his head at a rapid pace. “Are you from Itachiyama?”
“Yeah!” Motoya cries. “What gave it away? Look, I know the yellow is, like, objectively horrendous, but I’ve been conditioned. I actually like it now. I have this disgusting yellow rain jacket that I wear all the time. I look like a character in a children’s book.”
Motoya talks like he doesn’t need to breathe, and while Suna never gave much thought to what his ideal type would be, he’s pretty sure it was never this.
He’s one hundred percent sure he doesn’t care.
What was it Atsumu once said about that — ‘love doesn’t care about what you think you like?’ Man, Suna had made fun of him then — who wouldn’t? — but maybe he was ahead of his time, and actually…wise. A horrifying concept.
Speaking of Atsumu —
“I think your cousin is dating my best friend.”
Motoya’s eyes threaten to bug out of his head. “No!”
“Unfortunately, it’s true.” Suna nods grimly. Sakusa Kiyoomi has been the object of Atsumu’s affections since he was sixteen — damn him for never telling Suna he had a cousin, especially this cousin.
“No, no, there is nothing unfortunate about this,” Motoya insists, and he bursts into that peal of laughter again. It’s a goofy, ridiculous — a completely unattractive sound, but Suna’s heart starts thundering like he just ran a marathon and his hands feel clammy where they rest against his sides. “This is fantastic — do you know how much we can mess with them? And the gossip? We’re gonna bond so much over this.”
Oh my God. Motoya is perfect. He’s — wow. This really is falling in love, and somehow, Suna is fully on-board with it.
“I’m Suna Rintaro, by the way.”
“Rin,” Motoya tests out the word on his tongue. He smiles around it, and Suna has never felt so undeniably fucked in his life. “I like it! Rin, this is great. We’re going to be great friends.”
Oh yeah. Love is real.
-x-
So, Suna is in love. That’s a fantastic revelation, one that only solidifies further as he gets to know Motoya. Soulmates? Suna scoffed at the mere mention of them, back before he met his in the flesh. Motoya is perfect for him — he checks all his boxes and adds his own that Suna didn’t even know he wanted.
And he’s everywhere. Motoya meant it when he said he and Suna would be good friends. They have everything in common. Motoya has the face of an angel, but he’s an endless wealth of gossip and shit-talking. They sit together on the bench and point out flaws that players from the other teams have; they share trash celebrity news; they both watch an obscene amount of TikTok and subscribe to every single Twitter meme account. Motoya talks a mile-a-minute, and Suna will just sit and listen, for hours — at practice, at team outings (which Suna goes to willingly because he just gets to fuck around with Motoya), on the bus, and after Suna moves out of his shitty studio, his apartment.
Motoya has a roommate, so he spends ninety-nine percent of his free time holed up at Suna’s, complaining about said roommate. The proximity is both wonderful and devastating, because the more time alone they’re together, the more Suna starts to go insane.
Today is one of those days. Motoya is having a small nervous breakdown over a dish left in the sink that looked like it may have been coated in mold.
“I’m, like, not even a stingy person, but I hear Kiyo’s voice in my head whenever he does shit like this, and then suddenly I can’t bear it. I’m probably ruined for life. How can I be a normal roommate when I’ve been brainwashed into carrying disinfectant wipes in my pocket?”
Suna has a spotless, organized apartment. It’s so clean that it’s suspicious because cleaning takes a lot of effort and outside of volleyball, Suna hasn’t been the fondest of effort, but apparently, being in love will change aspects of your personality. Maybe. Suna isn’t sure how it works.
He is certain that it turns him into an idiot, though. He says dumb things when Motoya talks, things like, “Move in with me. I’m clean.”
Motoya laughs because he laughs at everything Suna says. It makes his chest tight, even after a near year of this.
“When my lease is up,” Motoya promises. “I’d be such a good roommate, it would really be like doing charity work. You could use it to get in the public’s good graces.”
“I’m already in the public’s good graces,” Suna argues. Well. “I’m not in their bad graces.”
“You’re on thin ice. You don’t smile enough in interviews. Need I remind you of the fan that tweeted ‘I want to give Suna Rintaro a hug but I’m afraid he would scoff and walk away’?”
“I feel that’s an unfair assessment. I would walk away, but I wouldn’t scoff. I’m not a monster.” Suna rolls his eyes. “Besides — most of them think I’m unapproachable in a sexy way.”
There was an article about it. When it came out, Motoya invited himself over with a bottle of wine and they celebrated by scouring the Internet for commentary on both of them, their teammates, and Atsumu and Sakusa. Motoya ended up passing out on the couch somewhere around their tenth article.
Motoya giggles. “But you could be sexy and approachable! Think about the potential for that — your fanbase would double! I would have to start sharing you.”
“I wouldn’t inconvenience you like that. Who would answer your two AM phone calls when you wake up in the middle of the night and need to detail every single aspect of your dreams?”
“Okay, that was one time, and it needed to be analyzed. You were speaking English in it and dyed your hair blonde. I had to make sure you hadn’t created a new identity and fled the country while I slept. I wouldn’t know how to survive if you were suddenly an American.”
Sometimes — and Suna is no expert, but sometimes — Suna thinks Motoya is flirting. He disguises statements that show objective affection with jokes, rolled eyes, raised eyebrows, but sometimes…it seems like something is going on.
There’s always the possibility that Motoya might just be like that — he’s overly friendly, and overly-friendly people tend to flirt on accident, right? Suna doesn’t know any friendly people outside of Motoya — all of his friends are pieces of shit — but he’s heard that.
But also — what if he’s not? The casual touches have been bordering on deliberate — like, nobody needs to touch anybody’s shoulder as much as Motoya touches Suna’s at practice, and he can definitely pass behind Suna in the kitchen without needing to put his hands on Suna’s waist.
If Motoya is flirting, then there’s nothing stopping Suna from going for it. Well, nothing but the crushing chance that Motoya isn’t into Suna and the prospect of being rejected by the world’s nicest man — he’d have to leave the country. Suna isn’t staying on a team after that.
He thinks it’s leaning towards a positive outcome, though — he does; he just has no idea how to broach the subject. Potential catastrophe aside, Suna doesn’t know how to form the words to express his feelings.
Does he just say it — ‘I love you’? No, that’s insane. They haven’t gone on a date yet. Well, last week’s trip to the amusement park was suspiciously romantic, but that’s probably because Suna watched a K-drama on FaceTime with Atsumu and Osamu the night before and he was stuck in delusions. ‘I love you’ is out, but ‘I like you’ is lame. Suna isn’t in middle school. He’s not going to hand Motoya flowers and a personalized card and blush like a schoolgirl — seriously, how the fuck do people do this? Suna hates thinking this much; he’s going to have a brain aneurysm.
Maybe — maybe he shouldn’t think. Inarizaki’s high school motto is ‘We don’t need memories’ but Gin used to play on the words and make it, ‘We don’t need to know anything’ — it made him feel better when he bombed chemistry tests. Suna still likes to live by that motto. Who needs to know things when you can act?
Suna knows just the person who will encourage this, so he takes out his phone, types a quick message, and sets up a lunch date that’s going to take a month of energy out of him. He’ll just have to make sure it’s worth it.
-x-
“Hey, scrub.”
Atsumu always acts like he’s too cool to be excited to see Suna when he’s in public, even though he’s been sending him eight heart emojis an hour ever since Suna asked to meet. Suna sticks his tongue out at him, mocking, before he slides into the metal chair and picks up his menu.
“Better have set this up to ask me about my life, since I haven’t heard shit from ya in over a week.”
“Don’t be needy. You have a boyfriend to talk to.” Suna zeroes in on a cocktail. It’s noon, but it’s a necessity when Atsumu is involved. “Surprised you didn’t try to bring him to this.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Atsumu sputters, but in true Atsumu fashion, he tells on himself immediately after. “He’s got an away game this weekend, so I can’t visit. You’ll do as a backup, I guess.”
“I won’t kiss you.”
“You're no good at it anyway.”
Suna huffs out a breath. It’s mortifying, what he’s about to say — in the top ten most embarrassing moments of his life, for sure. If Osamu ever gets wind of this — God, if Aran does — he’s being clowned until his fifties, and that’s being generous. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Us kissin’? Look, we were fifteen and ya had that weird crush on Samu and got us confused, we don’t gotta talk about —”
“I should’ve called Samu,” Suna mutters, already rubbing his temple. When the waitress approaches them, Suna orders two drinks.
“Buyin’ me a drink?”
“They’re both for me,” Suna deadpans. “And no, I don’t want to talk about kissing — especially not you, my God — I want to talk about…about…love…”
There’s silence. Too much silence. The list of things that can make Atsumu shut up is incredibly short, and one of the top reasons is that he’s about to —
“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’!”
Ah, there it is. The Miya laugh — it haunts Suna’s nightmares. He lets Atsumu get it out of his system, lets him giggle and snort and wheeze for a solid forty-five seconds before he loses his patience and grips the sides of his chair to get up and abandon this plan altogether.
“Wait, wait!” Atsumu cries. “No, I’m sorry — I’m sorry for laughin’. God, it’s just so funny. You’re the last person I ever expected to ask about this, but damn right you’re askin’. I am the expert.”
“You’re literally just the only one of us who actually has been in a relationship.”
Aran is afraid of commitment, allegedly, and that’s why he only flirts with the pretty bartender at the Falcon’s favorite spot in the city and never asks for her number; Osamu is barely keeping himself alive at culinary school, and if he had to give even a modicum of attention to another human being outside of Atsumu, he’d probably have a mental breakdown. There’s Kita, who’s engaged, but Kita probably used courting methods from the eighteenth century to make that happen, and Suna just isn’t cut out for it.
“And that makes me the expert! Also — what the fuck, who are ya suddenly in love with? I swear, if ya told Samu and not me…”
“I haven’t told anyone,” Suna admits. It’s not unheard of. Actually, he makes a conscious effort not to tell neither Atsumu nor Osamu anything because they cannot be trusted. One drop of alcohol in them (or in Atsumu’s case, stone-cold sober) and they make every single secret public knowledge. “I’m only telling you because I’m desperate, and I swear to God, Tsumu, if you run your mouth about this —”
“I only gossip to people who don’t know anythin’ about ya,” Atsumu scoffs. “So, Omi — he likes to know what you’re up to.”
“I have never met that man in my life.” Suna frowns. “And you can’t tell him.”
“But Omi —”
“No, I don’t care. Agree or I’m leaving you hanging and you’ll have to wonder forever.”
Atsumu will absolutely agree to those terms because now that he knows there’s something Suna hasn’t told him, it will bother him endlessly until he gets it out of him. Back in high school, Suna used to pretend he had a secret just to watch Atsumu get increasingly frustrated about not knowing what it was. Telling him that there was nothing in the first place was one of his greatest teenage joys.
“Fine, but know it’s a cruelty to force me to introduce deception into my perfect relationship.”
“Aw, has Sakusa-kun been reading you his smart books again? Deception is a big word for you.”
Atsumu gives him a flat, unimpressed stare, so Suna knows he’s right. He had to level the playing field — revenge for Atsumu’s earlier laughter. “Okay, I’m serious. Fuck. I — have a huge crush on Motoya. Yes, Komori Motoya, Sakusa’s cousin. I know.”
“Oh my fuckin’ God.”
“Remember what you said — if you tell him, I’ll kill you. I know where you live and all of your weaknesses.”
“Are ya tryin’ to get into my family?” Atsumu grins. “Well, it’s better than marryin’ Samu, but Motoya? That’s so cute, Sunarin.”
“It’s devastating,” Suna grumbles. “I have no idea how to handle it.”
“Ya know, I should’ve figured,” Atsumu muses. “It makes sense.”
“How? How does it make sense?”
Suna racks his brain for anything incriminating he may have said, but he hasn’t brought Motoya up other than to talk about practices and games. It’s a defense mechanism, because once he gets started, he doesn’t stop, and he would give himself away immediately. Atsumu doesn’t have enough emotional intelligence to figure out Suna’s feelings from a few offhand comments about Motoya’s digs.
“Omi-kun says Motoya is obsessed with ya. Mentioned that he’s always over at your apartment when he tries to call him.”
Sakusa fucking Kiyoomi — of all people, he’s the gossip. “And you didn’t immediately come to torment me upon finding out that information?”
Atsumu shrugs. “Nah, Omi-kun told me not to. Didn’t even tell Samu. See — fuck, have some faith in me.”
“Wait.” Suna’s brain catches up to the rest of him. “Motoya is obsessed with me?”
“Accordin’ to Omi, yeah,” Atsumu snorts. “He told me y’all were real close, so what’s the advice ya need? Sounds like you’re already in there.”
“I’m not in there. I’m outside the door without a key.” Their drinks arrive and Suna sucks down half of his first one before their waitress can even ask if they’re ready to order. When she’s gone again, Suna takes a breath. “I think he might like me.”
“Obsessed with ya,” Atsumu reminds him.
“So Sakusa says.” Suna waves that away. “He might — he probably does, but I don’t know how to tell him. How do you — oh my God, no, I can’t do this, hold on.”
He chugs the rest of his drink and slides the glass away. Atsumu levels him with an amused stare.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says, faux-polite — the asshole.
“How do you know. When you’re in love with someone.”
It’s like pulling a tooth out without anesthesia. Suna feels the pain of the words as soon as they’re out, double as much when Atsumu’s grin turns from entertained to absolutely gleeful.
“If teenage Atsumu could see me now,” he says, preening. “Well, well, Sunarin — lemme tell ya all about how ya know. Ya stop wantin’ to sleep because ya don’t wanna stop talkin’ to ‘em. Ya start doin’ shit with them in mind — ya buy a shirt ya think they’d like on ya; ya pick up little souvenirs whenever ya go somewhere ‘cause they remind ya of them. Ya watch their favorite shows so ya can discuss them — and most importantly, ya feel comfortable around them. Like slippin’ into a bubble. Ya instantly relax.”
Every time Motoya walks through the door of Suna’s apartment, it feels fully like home. Without him there, it’s empty, but when he’s on his couch, in his kitchen, using his shower, stealing his clothes, poking around his video-game collection — yeah, that’s when Suna is at ease.
“You’re overthinkin’ the whole thing. By the look on your face, ya already know ya love him — so ya just gotta tell him.”
The irony of Atsumu telling him he’s overthinking is not lost on Suna. Atsumu is a walking anxiety attack. He changes his shoes four times before he goes anywhere and still works himself into a frenzy if someone so much as coughs during one of his serves, but here — he’s right. Suna just needs to do it.
“But how?”
Atsumu hums. “I shouted it at Omi the last day of our trainin’ camp — well, I screamed my phone number at him and he texted me a week later, but now we’re lookin’ at adoptin’ a fish so that worked out just fine.”
Atsumu and Sakusa are going to kill that fish. Suna is not getting involved. “I can’t shout it at him. That’s not me.”
“Then do it in your way,” Atsumu says, like that’s obvious — like Suna would be here humiliating himself if he knew ‘his way’. “Doesn’t have to be any sort of grand gesture; just tell him like ya’d tell him anythin’ else.”
Suna wants to complain but it’s not — it’s not the worst advice. Suna is working himself into a frenzy trying to think of the perfect words, the best scenario, but Motoya is at his house nearly every day of the week. He could just — say it.
“Well. Samu would’ve given me worse advice, at least.”
Atsumu huffs. “Samu would’ve ruined your fuckin’ life. Look, no matter how ya do it, Motoya’s gonna be happy ya did it, so maybe don’t keep him waitin’ for too long. And shout me out at your weddin’, since I made ya believe in love all those years ago.”
“On the contrary, every moment spent with you in that disgusting lovesick haze you were in made me more and more convinced I could be called to a life of celibacy.”
“You’re so fuckin’ annoyin’. I can’t wait to talk shit about ya with Omi later.”
“I’ll murder you, Miya Atsumu. Where was I not clear on that?”
“Yeah, yeah. Only kiddin’.” Atsumu sticks his tongue out, and Suna is too tired to fight him any further. If all goes well, then it won’t matter if Sakusa knows, because Motoya will know. Fuck it — he’s listening to Miya Atsumu’s love advice.
-x-
Thirty minutes before Motoya is due in his apartment, and Suna is giving himself a pep talk in the mirror. It’s just another mark on the most humiliating timeline of his life to date, but at this point — fuck it. It’ll be worth it if he can just do this.
Atsumu told him about words of affirmation, and Suna laughed in his face, but here he is.
He’s been a basket case since he woke up and decided he wouldn’t wait any longer. He didn’t need to plan anything, because Motoya only leaves Suna’s apartment to occasionally show face to his roommate so he knows he’s alive, and to sleep (though he has passed out on Suna’s couch before and Suna has fantasized about joining him — entirely lovestruck).
There’s been too much anxious energy throughout the day, so Suna channels it into cleaning. He and Sakusa would be friends. He knows that, which is why Atsumu keeps them away from each other. He bleaches his kitchen counters and empties out questionable leftovers from his fridge, as if Motoya might go poking around in there (it wouldn’t be the first time).
It’s an awful feeling, being in love. Suna hates it, wants to purge it from his body, but when Motoya knocks on the door, dressed in jeans and a bright yellow sweater, smiling and holding his Switch, Suna knows he’ll endure it for as long as he can.
No fancy language, no dates — Suna just needs to tell him. It’s a casual next step, a necessary one, because just because they haven’t slapped the title ‘relationship’ on themselves doesn’t mean there isn’t something going on here.
Yeah, no, Suna is ready. He’s confident. Suave.
“Are you blocking the doorway because you want me to, like, duck under your arms?” Motoya questions, giving Suna an odd smirk. “Or are you paralyzed out of fear because I’m going to kick your ass in Smash?”
Suna always has a snarky comment, but this time his throat dries up. “Uh, yeah. The Smash thing.”
The Smash Thing. Jesus Christ.
Motoya pushes past him, traipsing into the living room like he owns the place before plopping down on the couch and snatching Suna’s controllers.
“Do you want to play Kirby this time?” Motoya calls, already lounging. Now — Suna should say it now, before the confession is marred by the violence that comes with Nintendo Smash Brothers, but what the fuck, he’s short-circuiting.
“Yeah, Kirby is cool,” he manages. It’s a lame answer, and he hears that his own voice is coming out off, but Motoya just smiles and nods, picking his favorite character — Isabelle.
Each round they play, Suna tries to make the words come out. He gets the living shit kicked out of him by Isabelle again and again, and he can barely find the will in him to shit-talk Motoya for it.
It’s getting to the point where Suna is sure it’s noticeable — his anxiety is palpable. How the fuck did Atsumu do something like this with absolutely no thought? It’s a blessing to have a brain like his. If Suna opens his mouth right now, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that vomit will come out instead of a confession. The words are so simple. There are only three of them, so the mental gymnastics —
“Hey, Rin,” Motoya says. Round six ends with poor Kirby once again meeting his doom by being drop-kicked into the stratosphere. Suna doesn’t look at Motoya because he’s a big fat coward, but he grunts to let him know he’s listening. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You look like you’re about to have a mental breakdown.”
“Yeah, it’s because you’re fucking me up in Smash.”
Motoya smiles then, and Suna sees it from his peripheral — all sunshine and warmth, even when Suna is acting like a freak. “Is it because you want to tell me something?”
Suna finally looks, and he’s sure his expression is comical, but he’s stunned. There’s no way. There’s no way Motoya could pick up on that just from Suna’s internal freakout, which means —
“He better fucking count his days,” Suna hisses and Motoya bursts into laughter, abandoning his controller to clutch at his side.
When he gets it out of his system, and Suna’s soul officially leaves his body, Motoya grins. “Ah, don’t be too hard on him. He texts Kiyo play-by-plays when couples fight on the subway. You expected him not to go to him with real-life gossip from someone he knows? And don’t get me started on Kiyo. I think he called me to tell me before Atsumu was even done telling him.”
“I knew going to him was a mistake. My God.” He sinks back into the couch, and then the reality of the situation slaps him in the face and he straightens his posture. “He told you. He told you and —”
And Motoya is here. Motoya showed up at his apartment, with as much sunshine as every other day. He’s here, on his couch, close enough that —
“Oh fuck.”
“It’s okay, take your time.” Motoya reaches out and rubs Suna’s arm, and the touch is searing. Holy shit. Holy shit.
“Well. I was supposed to confess. But.”
“You were doing a terrible job of it,” Motoya scoffs. “I’m not convinced you were going to get to it this year, much less today.”
“God, you’re so mean. I love you.”
Ah, well — there it is. Suna hadn’t exactly meant to say it like that, but it’s done, and relief floods his chest all at once; a breath of clean, beautiful air. A laugh escapes him. “I love you,” he repeats.
“You did it!” Motoya clutches his chest. “Someone tell the media! It finally happened!”
Suna’s heart feels full enough to explode out his chest. It’s not such a bad feeling. He smiles because he can never stop when he’s around Motoya. Comfort, ease, joy — all of the things Atsumu described about being in love.
“If you were so sure of yourself, why didn’t you do it?” Suna grumbles. It would’ve saved him a headache.
Motoya’s grin takes a feral turn, eyes turning evil. “Kiyo told me something once — way, way back when, when I first told him I had a crush on you. He said Atsumu told him you were a grump and didn’t believe in love, so I made it my goal to change that.”
“I think we should just not talk to Atsumu or Sakusa ever again.”
Motoya bursts into hysterical giggles and then picks himself up, plopping down on the couch right in front of Suna’s crossed legs. “You know, I’ve always believed in love — I bought into all of the romance movies. You know, everyone having a soulmate, finding someone who will accept you no matter what, the one who just fits.”
“Yeah?” Suna’s pulse is thrumming in his throat.
“Yeah,” Motoya leans in closer. “I never let myself get jaded, no matter how many rejected confessions there were.” His smile is just a small quirk of lips. “And then when I walked into practice on the first day at EJP, I decided — that’s the one, he’s gonna be my soulmate.”
“I felt the same way,” Suna admits.
“That’s so cheesy!”
“I know, I hate us.”
“I love you, though,” Motoya replies. “Wow, that’s nice to say out loud. I practiced saying it like eighty times in front of the mirror.”
“We truly are soulmates.”
Motoya giggles. “Hey, am I gonna have to initiate the first kiss too? Because your lips are right there, and —”
Suna cuts him off with a kiss, and it’s different from any kiss he’s ever had. It’s all warmth, a cocktail of electricity and complete peace. It’s a tangible love — Suna is a believer.