Archive of Our Own ^beta

Love, Osamu knows, is stored in the hands. 

Even when he’s young, he understands this fact, plain as day. It’s an undeniable reality, a universal truth. Love comes from the hands that squeeze those of another, a simple comfort. Love comes from the hands that reach up to slam a volleyball onto the other side of the court. Love comes from the hands that shape the perfect onigiri, molding the rice until it fits the perfect triangle.

And so, when the name of his first soulmate appears on the back of his hand, his first thought is that it makes perfect sense.

Where else would the love of the person he’s made most for be stored other than his hand?

He’s ten when he first notices the name on the back of his right hand. 

He and Atsumu are playing around in their backyard. It took them several months of pestering and pleading to convince their father to set up a net just for them, but since it’s been there, it’s witnessed countless hours of practice on their part. From the moment they return home from school to the last dredges of sunlight leaking from the sky, it watches their pathetic attempts to get better at the sport they’ve fallen into. 

Somehow, Atsumu is convinced that he wants to set, and Osamu obliges him—because he prefers spiking anyway, so it’s a win on all fronts. 

It isn’t until after the fifth spike that he notices the dark ink when his arm swings down at the high point of his palm hitting the volleyball. His power falters, and the spike doesn’t go where he originally intended. Atsumu, of course, doesn’t let him get away with this.

“C’mon,” he cries out as Osamu lands on unsteady feet. “You coulda hit that better. Let’s do it again.”

Osamu doesn’t move. His gaze is fixed on his hand, lifted up closer to his face, and he reads the writing there. Anticipation curls in his gut as the name settles into his mind, the sensation similar to arriving home after a particularly long day of classes.

Suna Rintarou.

“Huh,” Osamu muses.

It’s a nice name, he thinks. He can get used to its feeling on his tongue. He almost wants to test it out, but his desire to preserve the sanctity of the moment wins out, and his mouth stays sealed. 

“What?” Atsumu demands. “What are you lookin’ at?”

Atsumu trots over, his fingers wrapping around Osamu’s wrist, and Osamu’s first instinct is to pry himself out of Atsumu’s grip. Although he knows the name won’t disappear and that the moment won’t be any less real with Atsumu seeing , the thought that Atsumu might mock him is terrifying.

“C’mon,” Atsumu insists. “Lemme see.”

Atsumu pulls Osamu’s hand up close to his face, despite Osamu’s persistent attempts to yank his arm away. Atsumu’s eyes narrow as he reads the name there, and like that, any semblance of joy he received upon noticing the soul mark vanishes. 

“You’ve got yer first soul mark,” Atsumu cries out, his voice grating against Osamu’s eardrums. “I can’t believe it! Suna. Suna Rintarou. Hah. Sunarin. We can call him Sunarin!”

This time, Osamu manages to wrench his arm out of Atsumu’s tight hold. The force of it nearly sends him tumbling to the floor, but he catches himself at the last second. 

“You can’t just decide my soulmate’s nickname,” Osamu says. “Let him decide when I meet him.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Atsumu’s nose scrunches. “I can’t believe this. How have you gotten yer first soul mark before I’ve gotten one?”

“’Cause my soulmate is better than any of yours.” Osamu sticks his tongue out. It isn’t often that he gets a definitive victory over Atsumu, but when he does, he never forgets to rub it in. Atsumu never forgets either. 

His eyes drop to the mark on his hand again, and he drags his finger along the lines. The name looks like it’s been etched in dark ink, almost as if it’s a tattoo. It isn’t his first time seeing a soul mark, but it’s an entirely different experience spotting them on other people compared to seeing it against your own skin. 

He’s seen soul marks all his life. He’s seen them on his parents’ skin, their bodies dotted with the names of all of their current soulmates. He’s seen them on strangers, and he’s wondered whether they’ve found one of their soulmates. He’s seen them on classmates, and secretly, he’s hoped that his first one would come soon.

Because that’s the thing. You don’t merely have one soulmate. Everyone has multiple throughout the course of their lives, and the nature of their relationships vary. There are platonic soulmates and romantic soulmates and everything in between. Many people can have up to five names printed on their skin at any one time.

Yet, as people grow and change and develop as human beings, those names change too. The person you are at ten isn’t going to be the same person you are at thirty or at sixty. So why would your soulmate not change too? 

As people change and grow and develop, the names fade and disappear, and new ones form to fill their place—to connect with the person you’ve become. 

It’s possible that Suna Rintarou might not be Osamu’s soulmate in a few years. It’s possible that Osamu will wake up one day to find the mark on his hand has disappeared. In fact, it’s a very high possibility. It’s rare for people to match with their first soulmates. 

Yet, as Osamu studies the smooth skin, he finds he doesn’t want to imagine what it’ll be like to wake up and find that Suna’s name is no longer there. That might devastate him.

He’ll gain soulmates over time, their names emerging on his skin, and that’s fine. But he hopes that Suna’s mark never disappears. 

“Do ya think you’ll get another one soon?” Atsumu asks. Osamu almost forgot he was there. He’s quiet for once, and Osamu thinks that his jealousy has tipped into sadness that Osamu has a soulmate before he does. It’ll be fine. Everyone has a soulmate. Everyone has multiple soulmates. It’s only a matter of time before Atsumu gets his first mark, too.

“I dunno,” Osamu says, dropping his arm. “We’ll see. It kinda looks like a tattoo, doesn’t it?”

Atsumu nods. “It does. It takes up the whole back of yer hand too.”

The hint of sadness hasn’t left Atsumu’s voice, and part of Osamu feels that it’s his fault. It’s not the result of something he’s directly done, but he does have some part to play in it. He feels the need to make some sort of amends. “You’ll get yer first one,” he says. “Soon. Everyone’s gettin’ theirs now. It’s a matter of time.”

Atsumu perks up at that. “’Course I will. I’m gonna wind up with more soulmates—and they’re all gonna be cooler than Sunarin. You’ll see!”

In hindsight, Atsumu is right about one thing. He winds up with more soulmates than Osamu.

In fact, Suna’s name is the only one to ever appear on Osamu’s skin.

Atsumu gets his first soul mark a month later.

As expected, he brags about it to everyone willing to listen. It rests along his ankle, and Osamu thinks it’s fitting. As Atsumu starts trying to set more, and he falls deeper into volleyball, the ankle is a crucial part of the body for him. 

Osamu doesn’t expect a second soul mark to appear on Atsumu’s left forearm a few months later. 

The boasts intensify as Atsumu notes this victory in his favor. Osamu might have received his first mark before Atsumu, but Atsumu has a second soulmate before Osamu. That is as much of a win as anything else. 

As the months tick by, Osamu gets into the habit of inspecting every inch of his body when he goes to shower. Suna’s name still stands out against his hand, but other than that, every time, he comes back disappointed to find nothing new has appeared. 

Every time, the desperation starts to build up until it becomes a tight coil around his stomach. He’s convinced there’s something wrong—that this is some sort of cruel punishment for receiving his mark before Atsumu. 

It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t fair. Many of his classmates have more than one mark by now, and some have even lost their first. It’s not that he wants to lose Suna. He doesn’t.

In fact, the lack of another mark only strengthens his wish to cling to Suna. Every day, he tumbles out of his covers and drags himself over to the window first thing in the morning. He pushes the curtains back enough to let a sliver of sunlight through the crack, and his heart races until he confirms that the mark is still there. That he hasn’t lost Suna yet. 

It becomes a habit to look at the mark in those moments filled with uncertainty. Whenever he’s nervous or scared, it’s his first instinct. Suna’s name becomes a tether of sorts, and now Osamu understands that, if Suna’s name were to fade, it would devastate him for sure. 

Lunch time tends to be Osamu’s favorite part of school. 

He’s not unintelligent by any means, but when it comes to working on assignments or focusing on his teacher’s droning lectures, his brain refuses to cooperate. He can work his way out of a problem, but he doesn’t like being forced to do so in a classroom setting. Thus, lunch is his saving grace. 

He looks forward to the chime of the bell that announces the break in between classes when he pulls out his carefully crafted bento box and takes his time eating. However, this time, there isn’t much to look forward to. Because in the whirlwind of getting ready this morning—as their alarm clock had refused to wake them up at the right time—he forgot his lunch at home. 

His stomach already feels like it’s eating itself from the inside out. With the familiar chime of the bell, his hands itch to reach for his backpack, though he knows there’s nothing there to grab. 

It was stupid of him to get caught up in Atsumu’s insistent rush. They had made it to school with five minutes to spare. Surely, he could have spent those five minutes grabbing his lunch—and then had some time left over. 

But no, he allowed Atsumu to control their pace. And he’s paying the price for it now. The sight of everyone taking out their bento boxes and shoving their chairs closer together to eat is enough to worsen his mood. Their food looks even more appetizing than usual, considering he has none of his own, and his tongue starts salivating. It’s pathetic, really. 

With a groan, Osamu crosses his arms on his desk and buries his face in them, trying his best to lose himself in the chatter surrounding him and ignore the ache in his belly. 

A finger pokes him in the shoulder. “Hey. Stupid. Sit up.”

Osamu peels one eye open to find Atsumu pushing his chair next to Osamu’s desk. Osamu’s jaw slackens as he watches Atsumu bring over his bento box. He’s put up with a lot from Atsumu. But this feels like a stretch too far. Is Atsumu really taunting him with the fact that he remembered his own lunch while Osamu starves beside him?

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Osamu demands. He returns to his previous position: his face pushed into the crook of his arms.

“Oi.” There’s the sound of something being set down, and Osamu’s desk shakes. “Look up, will ya?”

Osamu lifts his head to find a pair of chopsticks extended towards him. Atsumu doesn’t look him in the eye as he offers them. For once, any teasing remark has left Osamu’s tongue, and his fingers grip the chopsticks. Atsumu shoves the bento box closer, and Osamu’s eyes widen even more.

Atsumu—is actually offering to share.

They haven’t shared anything since they were kids, and their mother forced them to. It’s not in their nature. Their competitive spirits keep them from ever allowing the other to take part at an equal pace. It’s always a race to the finish—always a rush to beat the other. 

They share a volleyball court—and that’s about it.

“Oh,” Osamu says. “Thanks.”

Atsumu makes a noncommittal noise before digging in. As expected, he goes for the rice first, leaving the fruit for last. He’s going through a phase where he avoids fruit at all costs—which drives their mother up the walls. In retaliation, Osamu looked up a bunch of fruit-based recipes and shared them with his mother. 

But this time, he decides to be nice in return. Osamu picks up one of the apple slices, and the crunch it makes between his teeth is enough to make him smile. 

“You’re so annoyin’,” Atsumu mutters, jamming another clump of rice in his mouth. “You’re here lookin’ all sad ‘cause you forgot yer lunch at home. It’s pathetic.”

Osamu hums. He can’t bring himself to make any snide remark. He’s too happy to have something to eat. His mood has turned right side up in a matter of minutes. Even if it’s not enough to leave him completely satisfied, it’s enough to get him through the rest of the day. Then, when he gets home, he can help himself to a proper meal.

It isn’t until he reaches over for another apple slice that he realizes the skin on Atsumu’s left forearm is bare. His eyebrows furrow, and he gestures towards it with his chopsticks.

“What happened to yer mark there?”

“Hm?” Atsumu glances at his forearm before shrugging. “It disappeared. Yesterday, actually. I dunno what happened. It was only there for, like, a week.”

“Mmm.” Osamu thinks that having a name for one single week would feel like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t know how Atsumu can manage to talk about it with such nonchalance. “Wadaya think was the dealbreaker? The fact that you said last week how much ya hate peaches?”

“Oh, shut yer trap,” Atsumu snaps. He opens his mouth to say something else, but his lips press together before he can do so. It looks like it takes a tremendous amount of restraint on Atsumu’s part to hold back his sincere insult, but somehow, he manages. 

Osamu is certain he knows what Atsumu was going to say, anyway. At least I have had more than one soulmate.

In the beginning, Atsumu used to tease Osamu about it all the time. But as the days went on, and Osamu’s skin remained empty, it became a sore subject. Atsumu realized that Osamu was no longer throwing insults back in equal force, and he knew that, despite all of Osamu’s bravado, the lack of new soul marks hit a nerve for him. The absence of new soulmates filled Osamu with deep sadness. 

From then on, Atsumu never brought up the act of gaining new soul marks. Osamu only ever found out that Atsumu had new ones if he noticed them with his own eyes. His usual habit of bragging had lessened, and if he ever talked about his soulmates, it wasn’t with Osamu. 

But—every once in a while, Atsumu asked about Suna. He let Osamu wonder what Suna might be like. Because Atsumu understood that there was an invisible boundary drawn around the topic of Suna, and therefore, he never pushed that boundary beyond its limit. He never teased Osamu—not about that. 

Everything else was fair game. Not Suna.

“Sorry,” Atsumu mumbles.

“It’s fine,” Osamu says. He wants to brush past it as quickly as possible. It’s already awkward enough. He notices the questioning looks that linger when he mentions that he has only ever had one soulmate. The idea of not having another is unheard of. He doesn’t need this from Atsumu, too. 

“Maybe it’s better like this.”

Osamu jams another apple slice into his mouth. “Hm?”

“I dunno.” Atsumu shrugs. With a sigh, he takes an apple slice for himself and crushes it between his teeth. “Like, I might have more soulmates than you, but most of them fade over time. You’ve had Suna on yer hand for a year now. Doesn’t that make it kinda special?”

His eyes flit to the name on the back of his right hand. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d say it makes Suna special.”

“So maybe you don’t ever need another soulmate ‘cause you and Sunarin are changin’ and growin’ at the same time. So you’re gonna be perfect for each other regardless.” He ducks his head, as if he’s hit his quota for the amount of nice things he’s allowed to say about Osamu in a day. “I dunno.”

“Hm.” Osamu considers that more. If he and Suna are keeping pace with each other, that doesn’t sound so bad. Perhaps finding your soulmates is all about who is able to run beside you. “I guess so.”

Atsumu makes a face as he reaches for a slice of orange. 

Osamu swats his hand away. “I’ll eat the fruit. You can have the rest. It’s fine.”

Atsumu perks up. “Really?” Without waiting for further confirmation, Atsumu starts digging into the rice again. 

Atsumu might have a point. And having a twin is kind of like having a soulmate, Osamu decides. It’s about having someone to race beside you from the moment your feet hit the ground. 

Volleyball is something he’s made for. 

The more Osamu practices, the better he gets. And the more Atsumu challenges him, the more Osamu wants to get better. As his afternoons are consumed by the sport, Osamu spends less time thinking about soulmates and whether he’ll ever get another mark. Although he does get the occasional nosy comment about it, they’re easier to brush off his shoulders. Of course, his morning routine doesn’t change: he wakes up, goes to his window, and checks to see if Suna’s name is still there.

And one day, as Osamu is hitting a perfectly timed set from Atsumu, a thought slices into his brain. I hope Suna likes volleyball.

It catches him off guard, so much so that he nearly fumbles his landing, earning a weird look from Atsumu. His gaze flickers over to his hand on instinct, and the name is still there, as prominent as ever. It’s not like he never thinks about Suna. On the contrary, he thinks about Suna all the time.

He wonders what Suna likes to do with his time. He wonders if Suna has any siblings. He wonders what is Suna’s favorite thing to eat. He has so many questions, and they’re all left unanswered. That only makes his curiosity grow, but he’s never thought about Suna having the same interests as him.

And he’s not sure why that is. Surely, if they’re soulmates, they must have something in common. 

“Samu! C’mon!”

Osamu’s head snaps up. “Sorry!”

Although he pushes the thought from his brain for the time being, it doesn’t leave him. It stays, and it festers. 

Osamu has said Suna Rintarou’s name multiple times over the years. His tongue curls around the syllables as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Those first few months, he said it to himself while lying awake in bed, almost in disbelief. After a year, with no other soul mark to appear, he said it as a reassurance that he wasn’t alone. Not yet. After several years, he says it as a promise. 

Still, nothing prepares him for the way his stomach clenches when the name Suna Rintarou is dropped in casual conversation. 

His head snaps in the direction of the person speaking. The voice comes from someone within a group of boys on their team, and they’re all huddled around a copy of this month’s Monthly Volleyball. His ears strain to pick up on what they’re saying, but they’re too far away, and Osamu is too flustered to go over and demand an explanation.

Instead, he runs over to Atsumu. He’s sitting on the floor stretching on his own, several feet away from anyone else. He takes particular care in tending to each muscle, giving each part of his body ample attention, and this kind of deliberate precision has only been seen in Atsumu recently, as the coach of the local high school, Inarizaki, has started dropping in on their practices more.

Osamu isn’t clueless. He sees how Kurosu Norimune’s eyes gleam whenever they hit a perfect spike. Osamu knows he and Atsumu make the perfect pair. It’s only a matter of time before Inarizaki offers them a position on their team—and that prospect makes him hum with anticipation. 

“Where’s yer copy of Monthly Volleyball, Tsumu?”

Atsumu tilts his head back. “Huh? I dunno. In my bag? Why?”

Without answering, Osamu rushes over to Atsumu’s duffel bag. He almost rips the zipper off in his hurry to open it, and when it finally gives, his hands rummage through in a frenzy until they wrap around the magazine. 

“Oi. Don’t touch my stuff, you scrub.”

Osamu ignores him. Instead, he flips furiously through the pages in search of one name and one name only. It isn’t until the fortieth page that Osamu finds it. 

MIDDLE SCHOOL BLOCKER SUNA RINTAROU WOWS THE AUDIENCE WITH A FULL UPPER BODY SPIKE

There’s a whole page dedicated to Suna. Most of it is covered in a description of his team and his recent performance at his middle school tournament, but the rest of the page is covered in a glossy photograph.

It must be Suna. It has to be. Osamu doesn’t even know if it’s his Suna, but there’s a tug around his center as he stares at the picture, and something inside him whispers. It’s the culmination of all those late nights and early mornings spent looking at the name inked on his hand. 

It isn’t the best of pictures, and it isn’t taken from the most generous of angles. Suna is frozen in midair, his right arm wheeling up for the spike, and his dark hair flies away from his face, sticky with sweat and parted down the middle. There’s something about his expression that unnerves Osamu. Although he looks bored at first glance, there’s an intensity to his eyes that tells Osamu that he knows precisely where he’s aiming the shot and that he’s going in for the kill. 

He might be getting his hopes up for nothing, but he knows he’s not. This is Suna. This is Suna Rintarou.

“Hey,” Atsumu says, scrambling to his feet and jogging over. “I said don’t touch my stuff.”

“Shut up,” Osamu snaps, and the seriousness in his tone comes across, because Atsumu falters. 

“Hey, Samu? You good?”

Osamu shoves the magazine under Atsumu’s nose. “Look.”

Atsumu’s gaze skims the title, and Osamu watches the exact moment his eyes widen. “Samu!” Atsumu cheers, slapping his arm. “Do you think it’s him? It’s gotta be him, right? I mean, he plays volleyball and everythin’. It’s gotta be Sunarin.”

Truthfully, Osamu feels like he’s in shock. The gymnasium has faded behind him, and the sounds of conversation and volleyballs smacking against the floor turn into white noise. It’s like his movements are slower, too. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s not sure he can play volleyball like this. 

“It says here he’s from Aichi,” Atsumu continues, oblivious to Osamu’s current breakdown. “Hm. It woulda been better if he was from Hyogo, too. Ah, well. He must be pretty good to get attention from Monthly Volleyball. I wonder what his full body spike looks like. Hey, we might wind up playin’ against him in the future!”

That thought hasn’t occurred to Osamu yet. Between the chaos of hearing Suna’s name and seeing his face for the first time, he hasn’t come to terms with the fact that his wish is true. Suna plays volleyball. Suna likes volleyball—and he’s good at it. 

Atsumu is right. If they continue along the path they’re on, there’s a good chance they’ll face off against Suna and his team at some point. But—Osamu doesn’t want to face off against Suna. 

His stomach sinks at the implication of facing Suna from the other side of the net. Only one of them walks away the winner. He doesn’t want to compete against Suna. He wants to compete with him.

Osamu would never call himself devious. After all, if anyone is the terror of the twins, it has to be Atsumu. 

But the next time Kurosu comes over to talk to Osamu, he drops Suna’s name into the conversation as casually as he can. It’s almost embarrassing how quick he is to brag about his soulmate without even seeing a match of his beforehand. He keeps heaping praise onto Suna—onto his blocks and his spikes.

He keeps doing it every time Kurosu stops by, and as Suna gets better and gains more attention, Kurosu’s interest grows. 

Inarizaki High School announces that they’ve recruited Suna Rintarou as their newest middle blocker a few months later. 

The first time Osamu sets his eyes on Suna Rintarou in person feels like taking a sip of scalding tea after being outside in the cold for too long. 

The distance between them seems unbearable, several rows of desks blocking his path, and with all of the commotion that comes from the first day of high school, Osamu can’t formulate a reason to walk over and strike up a conversation. His seat is on the other side of the classroom, pushed against the wall, while Suna sits next to the windows, his chin propped up by his hand, peering out through the glass. 

That bored expression that he wore in that photograph looks more and more like a permanent feature. Even as their teacher reads out their names on the attendance list, his head stays turned towards the outdoors, as if there is nothing inside to capture his attention.

He’s dressed in an identical uniform to Osamu’s own: a brown jacket pulled over a white button-down tied together with a maroon necktie. This is real proof that Suna is here. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination. Inarizaki chose Suna, and Suna is here. 

Osamu doesn’t have to compete against Suna. He gets to compete with him. 

Osamu wonders where his name is on Suna’s skin. Love is stored in his hands, but maybe Suna stores his love somewhere else. Is his name large? Neat? Does Suna glance at Osamu’s name as much as Osamu looks at Suna’s?

His mind falls further into a daze, and Osamu becomes so distracted staring at the side of Suna’s head that the call of his name almost doesn’t reach him. 

It takes a second repeat from his teacher for him to realize. He sits up straight, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. “Here,” he says. 

There are a few lingering looks and a few breathy giggles, and Osamu resists the urge to hide his face to cover up his embarrassment. His entire body feels warm, and he directs his gaze downward at his desk. 

He doesn’t notice that—at the sound of his name—Suna started looking at him.

It doesn’t matter that they’re older now. Osamu still clings to Atsumu’s side at their first introduction to Inarizaki’s Volleyball Club. The two of them stand in a long line of fellow first-years, full of faces of anticipation and nervousness all at once. Their captain has been speaking to them for the past minute, and his speech is filled with reassurance that they’ve made it to Nationals for the past few years and that they plan to do so again. Osamu thinks he should be paying better attention, but his nerves win out, and whenever Osamu gets nervous, he wants to do the things he loves—volleyball and cooking. 

But for now, volleyball will do. 

Atsumu fidgets at his side, waiting for the exact moment when they’ll be released and allowed to get started. He’s been itching to prove himself from the day Inarizaki offered them a spot on their team. Osamu’s been waiting for this moment too, but for several reasons. 

Suna is two places down in the line, slouched over as he listens on in vague interest. He hasn’t ever glanced Osamu’s way or tried to start a conversation between them, but he must know who Osamu is. 

Throughout the entire day, as classes went on, Osamu thought about all the possible ways this can go. He wants to get to know Suna. He wants Suna to like him. He doesn’t know what kind of soulmates they are yet, but he wants to find out. 

“Okay,” their captain says, clapping his hands. The definitive sound makes Osamu snap his head up. “We’re gonna start off simple with some receivin’ drills. Just partner up with someone, and keep the ball in the air as long as possible. We’ll get into the more intensive stuff as the week gets on.”

That’s easy enough. He’s been doing receiving drills with Atsumu in their backyard since the beginning of time. He’s great at them. Once, he managed to nail Atsumu in the face with a nasty spike. It’s why his first instinct is to turn to Atsumu as the rest of the first-years whirl around in the panic that comes from being in an unfamiliar situation, and the demand to partner up together is on the tip of his tongue.

“Osamu.”

Osamu turns around at the sound of his name, and it’s like receiving a spike to the face—abrupt and unexpected. Suna waits a foot away, his hands digging into the pockets of his sweatshirt. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged Osamu all day. Yet Suna doesn’t look half as scared as Osamu feels. That bored expression never falters, though his eyebrows lift with expectation. 

“Are you going to be my partner?” Suna asks. 

All Osamu can do is blink. It’s all he’s waited for, and his mouth refuses to cooperate with his brain. 

Thankfully, Atsumu saves him from sinking too deeply into his own embarrassment. “Oi, Sunarin,” Atsumu snaps. “You can’t just come all the way to Hyogo and demand to steal my brother away from me. I get he’s yer soulmate and all, but you can’t have Samu all to yourself.”

At that, Suna’s eyebrows furrow together. “Sunarin?” His gaze shifts over to Osamu, all frozen and stiff. This time, there’s a note of hesitation in his voice. “Do you…not want to?”

“Yes,” Osamu blurts out. “Yes, let’s partner up.” He takes a step closer to Suna and casts a glare over his shoulder at Atsumu. “Find someone else to put up with yer terrible personality for a change.”

“Ugh.” Atsumu pouts before grabbing ahold of the nearest first-year by the hem of his shirt. “Hey, you’re Gin, right? Be my partner, please? My stupid brother—”

The rest of Atsumu’s words fade into the distance as Osamu follows Suna over to a corner of the gymnasium. There’s enough space for them to practice without risking bumping into one of the other pairs, and Osamu grabs a volleyball on the way for the two of them to share. He waits for Suna to pull off his sweatshirt, and without thinking, his gaze rakes over his arms, in search of a mark.

“It’s not there,” Suna says.

Osamu lifts his head. “Huh?”

“Your name,” Suna clarifies. He takes two steps further back until there’s enough distance between them to perform the drill. By now, most of the others have started, and the space is filled with the noise of volleyballs slamming against forearms and palms smacking against the rubber. There is the brief, “Got it!” that filters through the rest, but the rhythmic collision of volleyballs against bare skin drowns out everything else. “It’s not in a visible place.”

“Oh.” His entire face warms. Suna caught him. He was so obvious that Suna noticed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

“It’s alright.” Suna gestures that he’s ready. 

Osamu tosses it up into the air, rolling through the sky, and he starts his first touch with a medium set that soars in a decent arc over to Suna. It’s not nearly as precise as one of Atsumu’s, but it gets the job done. Suna returns it with a steady bump, and soon, they join the team in their comforting rhythm. 

“Yours is on your hand,” Suna remarks, as if his name isn’t clearly visible across the back of Osamu’s hand. 

“Yeah.” Osamu digs it back up. “Uh, do you—” The rest of the sentence dies in his throat. It’s a question that has come up in the back of his mind a few times, though he tries not to dwell on it too hard. Depending on the answer, the knowledge can crush him beneath its heavy fist. 

“Hm?” Suna receives it again. 

The ball curls into the air as Osamu ponders the best way to present the question. Suna’s arms are empty when most people have at least one mark printed there. That has to count for something, right? Or all of his marks hidden as well as Osamu’s name?

Because all this time, the only comfort Osamu has been able to give himself over the fact that he has only ever had one soulmate is that he has always had Suna. But maybe, Suna doesn’t need him. Maybe Suna is not like Osamu. Maybe he has several soulmates, and Osamu means nothing to him. 

He takes too long to bring his platform up, and the receive is off when he returns it to Suna. Rather than taking the extra step to adjust, Suna lets it drop, and he picks it up before the captain or their coach notices. That’s something Osamu has noticed. Suna never takes unnecessary movements. He’s clinical about what he does, and his aggression never overcomes him to the point that he rushes into anything. 

Osamu can’t say the same. Half the time, he’s willing to do a risky dive for the sake of being able to say that he kept the ball in the air. He gets carried away—and he’ll readily admit that.

“Do you have another?” Osamu blurts out before Suna can toss the ball into the air—because he has to know. “Soulmate, I mean?”

Suna keeps the ball balanced on the tips of his fingers. He’s so still that Osamu misses how quickly Suna throws the ball up before swinging his arm down into a hard spike. On instinct, Osamu dives to dig it up. The impact of hitting the floor digs into his chest, and his face slams forward, the ball dropping in front of him, too strong and fast to reach.

Osamu peers up as Suna’s feet slide into the edge of his vision. His breath catches in his throat at the devious smile Suna is wearing. He should be upset about this. If it were anyone else that had tricked him as Suna had, he would have been brimming with fury. But all he feels is a warmth trickling into his stomach. A burn against the back of his right hand.

“No,” Suna answers, his grin widening. “Just you.”

Word spreads that he and Suna are soulmates. It doesn’t take long for people to make the connection between the name on his hand and the person at his side. As the realization trickles through the rumor mill of Inarizaki High School, more stares are turned their way, and it’s unsettling to know that they’re not because of their status on the volleyball team—but because of the rarity of seeing two soulmates match in person. 

Osamu can’t decide if he likes the attention or not. He’s used to being in the spotlight, partly because Atsumu demands it all on his own, but being ogled for his skills on the court and being ogled for a mere coincidence are two very different things. To his credit, Suna takes it in stride. It’s almost as if he doesn’t notice the looks that follow him, but Osamu comes to realize that that’s just the kind of person Suna is.

He doesn’t care much about the opinions of others—except for a select few. 

Osamu is learning a lot of things about Suna. He finds out that he has a younger sister. He finds out that his favorite thing to eat are chuupets. He finds out that the proclaimed full body spike takes a lot of work and dedication outside of practice. Every fact he learns is tucked away where the knowledge can’t be touched, and he cradles every tidbit close to his chest like watching over a dying flame. 

It should be disorienting how easily Suna fits into his life. Somehow, it’s not. It’s like Suna is meant to fill the space on his right as he walks, and Osamu can’t remember what it was like not having Suna in his life at all. He sees Suna everywhere—at class, at practice, during their long walks home. 

Suna even meshes well with Atsumu, who is difficult for people to get along with. But every single one of Atsumu’s underhanded taunts roll off Suna’s skin, and slowly, Atsumu warms up to Suna, too. The name Sunarin is spoken around their house far more now that it applies to a concrete person. 

Even his parents like Suna. They have to, considering they wind up inviting him to stay over for dinner after their extended study sessions and encouraging him to spend the night. His mother spends afternoons curating recipes specifically for Suna, and Osamu might have been jealous if he weren’t so grateful. His father starts watching a murder-mystery television series, simply because Suna recommended it to him. 

He considers himself lucky. Very lucky, indeed. People tend to have many soulmates over time. Osamu has one, and Osamu likes his best of all. 

There’s one thing Suna won’t budge on. He never lets Osamu look at his mark. 

It’s late in the afternoon on a sleepy Sunday, the sun setting below the clouds, and the chirping of the birds outside reach them through the open window as Osamu stands in front of the kitchen counter, forming the perfect onigiri in his hands. 

Suna sits on the counter perpendicular to Osamu, his legs swinging beneath him, watching Osamu as he works. Osamu believes this is boring to watch. Atsumu certainly thinks so. He’d rather Osamu call him once everything is ready to be eaten rather than sit through the process of making it and waiting. But for some reason, Suna never seems to mind watching Osamu. 

Osamu is at his quietest in the kitchen. It’s like all the air leaves his lungs, and his attention is fixated on the ingredients in front of him as his brain rushes to figure out how he can form a masterpiece with his hands and the tools splayed out in front of him. He rarely likes any distractions. He never wants his focus to be drawn away. But Suna is the one exception, and Suna has long since mastered the art of keeping out of Osamu’s way as he works. 

But this time, Osamu is talking, because as he molds the rice together, his eyes hone in on the mark on his hand. “Where is it? Really. Is it in an embarrassin’ place? I won’t make fun of you for it, I swear.”

“No,” Suna insists. He leans forward as Osamu presents the onigiri to him in a perfect triangle. “Looks good.”

“Thanks,” Osamu says, setting it aside with the others. “Why not?” 

“Because,” Suna murmurs, “I haven’t figured out what it means yet.”

Osamu’s shoulders drop at that. He and Suna rarely ever mention the word ‘soulmate’ in reference to each other. He notices Suna’s lingering looks towards his hand, but beyond that, in the last year, they’ve hardly ever broached the conversation of the nature of their relationship.

Soulmates can be platonic or romantic. It’s not a connection that needs a certain label. But Osamu wants to know what kind of label fits their relationship best. Because when he thinks about his future, it’s all a blur—except for Suna. 

It’s not like they need to figure it out right away. They have all the time in the world. But even endless time doesn’t feel like enough when you’re brimming with unanswered questions. 

“What does that mean?” Osamu asks.

“Like, my name is on your hand. And that makes sense. You do everything you love with your hands.” Suna leans back. “When I show you where your name is, I’m going to explain why it’s there and what it means. I’m just…still figuring it out.”

Osamu looks sideways at Suna. Suna stares back, as unflinching as ever, even though this is one of his rare moments of sincerity when he’s not looking to pull someone’s leg or get under someone’s skin. This is Suna at his center. 

“Okay,” Osamu says, because he’s waited years for Suna, and a few more years doesn’t sound unbearable. “I’ll wait.”

“Thank you,” Suna says before kicking Osamu’s thigh. “Pass me one, will you? I’m starting to get hungry.”

As Osamu hands it over, he knows he’s not imagining how Suna’s fingertips run along the back of his right hand. 

Even as Osamu and Suna undergo the process of learning everything about the other—about filling in the gaps of information—there are still instances where Suna leaves him winded and reeling. Osamu thought that having a soulmate was knowing their every move and their every action, but he’s starting to think that having a soulmate means that they still manage to surprise you even with the passage of time.

The team is in the middle of their cooldown after practice. Osamu takes special care in mimicking exactly how their captain leads their stretches. The qualifiers for Spring Nationals are on the horizon, and he wants to make sure they make the cut. It would be incredible to make it on the national stage as first-years, and even imagining it is enough to push him forward—to make him want to work harder. 

He’s on his final stretch, his feet pressed together as he bends forward. The rest of the team have gotten to their feet, and most of the third-years murmur their farewells before breaking apart for the day, heading their separate ways until tomorrow morning for another brutal practice. 

But Osamu refuses to stop—because across from him, Atsumu is mirrored in the exact same position. And Osamu refuses to be the one who gets up first. From the curl of Atsumu’s lips, he’s not willing to give in first either. 

“Dumb twins,” Aran remarks from somewhere behind him. “How do you manage to compete with stretchin’ of all the things?”

Another calm, level voice joins Aran. “It’s best for you two to go home now, and rest up. We have another early practice tomorrow.” Osamu likes Kita. He does. Even when Kita scares him with his rationality and cool logic. 

But neither of them move to stand. They almost resemble terrifying canines with the way they’re facing off against each other, their lips curled, their eyes daring the other to give up first. Akagi trots over to kick Atsumu in the knee, but Atsumu still doesn’t move.

“Oi,” Aran says. “C’mon. This is ridiculous.”

Ginjima lets out a breathless laugh—as he often does when he’s associated with the twins’ stupid antics by default. “You can’t just stay here all night. One of ya has to give up. Or you both can give up at the same time. Then it’s completely fair.”

It’s never been more obvious that Ginjima doesn’t have a twin. 

Osamu thinks that he can go for another few minutes like this when there’s the approach of footsteps behind him. There’s the sound of someone sitting on the floor, and then, arms come to wind around him. The touch knocks him out of balance, and Osamu finds himself leaning backwards as Suna drapes himself across Osamu’s back. 

Osamu is practically in Suna’s lap, with Suna’s legs braced on the outside of Osamu’s, and his back is pulled flush against Suna’s chest. Suna’s head nuzzles into Osamu’s neck, his hair tickling Osamu’s cheek, and it’s such an absurdly intimate position that all Osamu can do is huff out a soft exhale of breath. 

“You two are disgustin’,” Atsumu says as he passes by. Osamu is sure that means he lost, but right now, he can’t bring himself to care. “Get a room.” Though Osamu doesn’t see it, he can tell Atsumu is addressing the rest of the team as he says, “Don’t worry. Leave them. Sunarin does this sometimes. It’s a soulmate thing. He says he has to ‘recharge’ or some shit.”

Suna does do this a lot. He’ll wander over to Osamu when he’s over at the Miya household or when they’re away at training camp, and he’ll offer no other explanation other than the fact that he needs to ‘recharge’ before draping himself over Osamu in a sloppy hug. But he’s never done it in public in front of so many witnesses. 

The rest of the team seem to accept Atsumu’s explanation, and the footsteps fade away as they all depart from the gymnasium. Osamu sighs as their voices grow quieter with distance, and he turns his face towards Suna.

“You good, Suna?”

Suna nods against his neck. “Mmhmm,” he hums. “But you two were being annoying. This was the only thing I could think of that would get you to stop.”

Osamu flushes. “Oh.” He looks straight ahead again. “Does this mean you’re not rechargin’?”

“No, I’m recharging.” Suna’s grip tightens around him. “Just another minute. Then we can go.”

“Sure,” Osamu says, and that would have been his answer even if Suna had requested that they stay there forever. 

It isn’t until the week before the Interhigh in their second year that Osamu works up the courage to ask Suna the question he’s always wondered. The two of them are walking home after a late afternoon tutoring session, and the sun is starting to set along the horizon, a faint breeze brushing through the air. Besides the crunch of their sneakers against the ground, there is nothing to fill the silence other than their shared breathing.

It isn’t often that they wind up walking home alone. Usually, Atsumu tags along, leading the trek. But he went home early. Because of the influx of practices in the run up to Interhigh, Osamu’s started to fall behind in his coursework, and he convinced a classmate to spend an hour with him and Suna after school to catch them up. Somehow, Atsumu always manages to meet the bare minimum standard for his grades every time, even though Osamu knows for a fact he doesn’t put any more effort into studying than Osamu does.

But as they continue forward, Osamu is glad Atsumu isn’t here. He’s gotten used to the easy way Suna fits at his side when it’s just the two of them, meeting his pace for every stride. It doesn’t matter whether Osamu slows down or speeds up. Suna matches him each step. 

Beside him, Suna is in the middle of sucking on an ice pop. The obnoxious slurping drowns any other sound out whenever he sticks it in his mouth, and the remnants are starting to show on his tongue. 

Osamu glances sideways. “Hey, Suna?”

“Mmhmm,” Suna hums, popping it out of his mouth again to answer properly. “What’s up?”

“Have you ever wondered why we only have one soulmate?” The question feels as though it’s been dragged out of the furthest recesses of his body, leaving an ache behind. “Do you think somethin’ is wrong with us?”

Suna whips his head around, and the movement is so abrupt that Osamu reels back. “Huh? Why would you think that?”

“I dunno,” Osamu says. “Everyone else has multiple. Atsumu has five at the moment. There’s someone in our class with nine. But I’ve only ever had you.”

“And I’ve only ever had you,” Suna replies. He returns his gaze forward before gracing Osamu with a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I used to think about it a lot when I was younger, but I haven’t worried about it that much recently.”

It takes Suna saying this out loud for Osamu to come to the same realization. Although he thinks about soulmates often—especially in reference to Suna—he’s thought less that there’s something off about him. It’s hard continuing to think that when he has Suna right here. It never feels like he needs another. Not when Suna is more than enough.

“Oh. Right. That makes sense.”

“I just don’t think soulmates are as predetermined as everyone makes them out to be. I think the process is simpler than that. You meet someone, and they happen to be the right person you need in your life at that particular point in time. That’s all.”

Osamu straightens at that. “Then what about the names?”

Suna shrugs again. “I think they’re more suggestive rather than definitive. Like, if you seek out one of your soulmates and things wind up working out between you, then that would support the whole soulmate cycle. But I think they’re more about mapping out possibilities for you rather than pinpointing the kind of person you are or who you’re going to end up with.”

Osamu considers that further. He’s thought of finding your soulmates as a necessary endpoint his entire life. His parents are soulmates after all. So why shouldn’t he wind up with his soulmate too? That’s all he’s ever seen growing up: people who live with and love the ones that are etched into their skin. He’s never known anything different. 

That was why the lack of another mark unnerved him the way it had. He didn’t like standing out as he did. He didn’t like thinking he was unworthy of another, or that he was inherently less deserving than anyone else. Those insecurities had buried themselves deep, and even now, he’s not sure he’s dug them all out. 

“That’s why people tend to have multiple,” Suna continues, oblivious to the fact that Osamu is silent beside him. “Because it’s about showing you several paths. Not just one.” He looks over at Osamu. “Right?”

He likes the thought. But then— “So what about you and me then?”

“What about us?”

“Do you think that we’ve only got this one path?”

Suna gives him a weird look. “No. Of course not. I chose you. And you chose me.”

It’s the matter-of-fact tone that sends the message home. As Osamu meets Suna’s gaze, his lips part in a silent oh. Because he does choose Suna—over and over again. And he’s been an idiot. Because Suna has been choosing him too. From moving to Hyogo to coming to Inarizaki to seeking Osamu out, Suna chooses him over and over again. 

And, for the first time in his whole life, a sense of peace settles over him. He doesn’t need another soulmate. He doesn’t need another mark. Even if he had one, he’d still choose Suna.

The Interhigh Tournament feels like riding a rollercoaster at full speed to the peak. With each match and each victory that follows, Osamu feels more and more invincible. Inarizaki High School can’t be stopped, and with the support of their cheer squad, beneath the powerful lights of the gymnasium, he lets himself believe that they’re unconquerable. 

But there’s a drop. There’s always a drop, and he can’t believe he lets himself forget it when they lose to Itachiyama Institute in the finals—when the stage is lit up for them and the audience is chanting their names. They get too comfortable off the thrill, and they pay for it with defeat.

It isn’t until they walk away from center court that the tears build up and his chest tightens. There were so many moments that they could’ve done better. There were numerous instances in which he could’ve pushed himself further to dig up a ball or hit a spike a different way. But he let himself get carried away. How could he not? Everything was going so well. It was like watching from the stands. He himself was in awe of their force and power. 

He let himself get caught up in the moment. He remembers Akagi’s brilliant receives, Aran’s powerful spikes, Atsumu’s precise sets. He remembers his golden plays, too—those brief seconds of genius. But he remembers Suna most of all. Every time Suna leaps up for a spike, all he wants to do is watch. It doesn’t matter that he’s seen the full body spike a million times now. His breath catches every time, and the back of his hand burns. 

His shoulders slump, and his head sinks as he fixes his gaze downward at his sneakers. He doesn’t need to look up to know that everyone in front of him is battling their own tears away. He can hear it in the sniffles and sharp gasps ahead. He hears it in his own breathing, mirrored in Atsumu, who drags his feet along the floor to his left. His head hangs as low as Osamu’s, and even if Osamu could manage a sentence of encouragement, he wouldn’t be able to. His voice would crack on the first word. 

The pressure in his chest continues to build, and Osamu recognizes the telltale signs that he’s reached his limit as his eyes start to burn. His eyelashes feel wet when he blinks, and he draws in one last sharp breath between his teeth, steeling himself—

A hand comes to wrap around his, and like that, Osamu can breathe again. 

Suna falls into place at his right side, his shoulder brushing against Osamu’s. Although his gaze doesn’t flicker over, his thumb rubs a soothing circle along the back of Osamu’s hand right where his name lies. It’s mind-blowing how such a simple gesture manages to put him at ease. It isn’t like Suna has erased the weight of loss, but he’s made it more bearable with the reminder that they’re on the same page in this. It becomes a promise that they’ll return—and next time, they won’t walk away with their heads down. 

Osamu looks down at their joined hands, and as Suna’s fingers intertwine with his, he offers a reassuring squeeze back. 

Except it happens again.

This time, defeat comes in the form of Karasuno—the underdog of the competition—and even though the path of victory is paved for them, Inarizaki walks away as the losers once more. The sting of that loss never lessens with time, nor is it ever any easier to brace for. When you play volleyball, you resign yourself to the fact that defeat is inevitable, and Osamu starts to think that maybe he doesn’t want to get used to that. 

Maybe volleyball is a potential path for him. But he’s not sure he wants to choose it. 

Choosing volleyball does not seem as easy as it was choosing Suna.

There’s a tug around his center sometime after midnight, and his eyelids flutter open against the pitch-black darkness of the inn. His entire body feels like it’s weighed down, his muscles sore and aching, and the warmth of the futon makes him want to curl further into a ball until the first rays of sunlight force him to stir. It’s natural that getting up seems like a monumental task. After the match they played against Karasuno, Osamu thinks he can sleep for weeks without pause. 

But the tug is insistent, and as he rolls over, blinking furiously in an attempt to wake up quicker, he notices the empty futon at his side. 

His bones crack as he sits up, his covers pooling at his waist. The faint outlines of his teammates are visible if he squints, and their loud snores follow him as he untangles himself and slips on his slippers. With a groan, he runs a hand through his gray hair, ruffled from tossing himself onto his pillow, and he snatches his sweatshirt from the foot of the futon. On his way out, he grabs Suna’s, too, because knowing him, he’s outside facing the chill of January in a T-shirt.

Osamu makes sure to avoid Atsumu’s futon by the exit, although his twin makes it pretty damn difficult when he’s sprawled out like a starfish. Osamu hisses when he nearly steps on Atsumu’s fingers, but he makes it out alive.

The hall is deserted when he shuts the door behind him. Most of the other teams staying here will have gone to sleep a long time ago—if they haven’t already gotten on their bus back home. They’ll be like them in a few days. There aren’t any upcoming matches for Inarizaki. There isn’t a center court waiting for them. 

That reminder sinks into his stomach and settles there, as unwelcome as always. Ignoring the bite of annoyance that flickers at the thought of their loss, Osamu wanders down the hall. He knows where Suna will be. 

When Osamu steps out onto the balcony, he’s met with a burst of cold air. A shiver rushes through him, and he wastes no time in pulling on his sweatshirt.

Suna stands at the edge, his forearms braced against the railing, his gaze turned down towards the street. The lamps outside illuminate his face, magnifying the sharp angles of his nose and jaw, and the hair that parts to either side is more disheveled than usual—likely the result of tossing and turning before resigning himself to a sleepless night. As expected, he has nothing to protect himself from the chill. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, though it’s almost like he doesn’t even notice the low temperature. 

“You’re an idiot,” Osamu says by way of greeting as the door slides shut behind him. 

Suna looks over his shoulder. “Huh? What are you doing out here?”

“Soulmate thing,” Osamu says, providing no further explanation. Before Suna can protest, he strides over and drapes the sweatshirt across Suna’s back, forcing his arms through the sleeves. “Such an idiot.” There’s a touch of fondness to his tone, even as he lowers himself to zip it up. It isn’t until the zipper reaches the collar that he’s satisfied. Suna watches him in stunned silence. “There ya go. Now you won’t get sick. If you’re lucky.”

Suna offers him a slow nod. “If I’m lucky,” he echoes. 

“What are you doin’ out here?” Osamu throws the question back at Suna, as it’s his fault they’re both outside instead of tucked away in the warmth of their futons. “Are you okay?”

Suna returns to his former position: his forearms braced against the railing, his gaze settled on a point Osamu can’t find. Osamu mirrors him.

“I’m fine,” Suna says. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“That sounds like a lot to think about,” Osamu says. The metal of the railing digs into his arms, but he stays still. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“Mmm.” 

The light from the lamp that hangs over the balcony catches Suna’s face at that exact moment, and the fond smile Suna wears is enough to make Osamu’s heart stutter. That’s been happening a lot recently. Osamu thinks he knows what it means, but he hasn’t worked up the courage to admit it to himself yet. 

“It’s been a lot of self-reflection,” Suna admits. “Today made me think. A lot.” He strokes his chin. “I’ve never been out-smarted by another blocker in the long game like that. It’s…hard to explain.”

“It’s not yer fault,” Osamu says. Karasuno had a lot of tricks up their sleeves, as did Inarizaki. It just so happened that Karasuno played their cards better. He never imagined someone manipulating Suna the way Suna has manipulated opposing blockers for years. “We underestimated them. We shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah,” Suna agrees. “But it made me think about the fact that there’s so much I still don’t know. There’s still a lot for me to learn about volleyball.” He drops his arm. “I didn’t realize that. Today made that abundantly clear.”

Osamu doesn’t know how to respond to that. Suna’s head is somewhere else, stuck in a different point in time. “You are a great blocker, Suna.”

At that, Suna’s eyes flit over to him. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “But today, I realized that I’m not satisfied being great. I want to…” His voice drops until it’s a mere whisper. “I want to continue playing volleyball. After high school, I mean.”

It’s not what Osamu expected him to say. His eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Suna says, a ghost of a smile forming across his lips. “I didn’t realize how much I loved it until now. Weird, huh?” He waits for Osamu’s nod before continuing. “But every time we lose, the more I want to play. Funny how that works.”

It’s the opposite of the revelation Osamu is coming to, but somehow, it fits Suna. Suna hasn’t talked much about his career plans post-graduation, and yet, volleyball suits him. Osamu can’t imagine Suna hanging up his knee pads for good. He thinks Suna can continue leaving crowds in awe for years. There’s just something about him that leaves even the most uninterested person in the stands watching his every move. 

Osamu returns Suna’s smile with one of his own. “I’m glad, Suna. You’re gonna do great. I know it.” 

There’s something left unspoken after the end of his sentence, and if Suna picks up on it, he doesn’t pry. He knows Osamu will tell him when he’s ready. It’s one of his best traits: Suna can be very patient. He doesn’t need to know everything right away. He’s content with letting moments sit there. 

“So,” Suna says, twisting to look back out at the streets of Tokyo, “remember what I told you once?”

Osamu’s eyebrows scrunch together, his smile falling. “Huh?”

“My mark,” Suna clarifies. “I told you I’d show you it when I figured out what it meant.”

“Oh.” It’s been so long since they’ve spoken about the placement of Suna’s mark that he’s almost forgotten. “So didja figure it out?”

“Yeah.” A brief second of hesitation. “It’s on my stomach.”

“Yer stomach?” His initial reaction when Suna refused to show him was that it was stuck in an embarrassing place or in a spot far too intimate to be able to see without the both of them embarrassing themselves. But the stomach sounds so normal. Though that’s to be expected with them, he supposes. He and Suna don’t need anything extravagant. They’re fine with the simple things. “Oh. Can I see?”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to expose myself or else I’d get sick,” Suna teases.

“Oh,” Osamu says. “Right.”

“I’m kidding.” Suna faces him, his hands gripping the hem of his sweatshirt. “Just for a second. Then I’ll explain.”

Osamu nods. His gaze drops towards Suna’s stomach, and even though it feels like such an ordinary place, his face warms up. “Ready.”

Suna pulls his sweatshirt and T-shirt up in one fluid motion. It’s not enough that his entire stomach is left defenseless, but it’s enough to leave one strip of skin exposed. 

Osamu knows that Suna spends time perfecting his core. It’s the reason he manages to pull off the upper body spike at considerable risk of injury. If he doesn’t maintain his strength and flexibility, he can sprain himself. One wrong move, and it’s all over. But even with the knowledge of Suna’s consistent daily workouts on his abdomen, every time Osamu sees the evidence of it firsthand, it feels like he’s been punched.

His breath is knocked out of him at the sight of Suna’s abdomen, sharp and defined, and his mouth dries. 

“You see it?” Suna asks.

“Huh?”

“The mark?”

“Oh. Right.” Osamu ducks his head to hide the flush that works up his neck. His eyes search for the mark he’s waited to see all his life from the first moment that he saw the name Suna Rintarou appear on his hand, and when he spots it, he isn’t disappointed. 

The size of his name matches the size of Suna’s on his own skin. That’s the first thing he notices. The second is the location of it: the lower left side of Suna’s stomach. His hand itches to reach for it, but he holds himself back. 

“It’s…” Osamu doesn’t know what to say. Any words dry away on his tongue, and he’s left speechless. 

“Yeah.” Suna drops his sweatshirt down as a shiver works its way through him. The mark disappears from sight, and Osamu feels like he can breathe a little easier. “I always wondered why it would be there. I know a lot of the time the placement of the mark doesn’t mean anything, but…”

A brief silence falls between them, and Osamu lets it sit there until Suna finds the right words. He’s waited years. He can wait a little longer—until Suna is ready.

“I didn’t know,” Suna says. “When I started working on my core to be able to do the full upper body spike, I didn’t realize how important it was going to be to me. I didn’t know if it was always going to be important to me.”

“Oh.”

“But when I realized that I wanted to continue volleyball after graduation, it made sense.” Suna pulls at the hem of his sweatshirt, and for all of his nonchalance, it’s obvious that Suna is nervous. He never gives it away in the form of obvious twitches, but Osamu’s had a lot of time to learn about Suna’s habits. He has all the time in the world to learn them all. “As a professional, my core is going to be the part of the body that I take care of the most. It’s the one I have to maintain at all costs. So it makes sense. That your name would be there. It’s the place I store all my ambition.”

Osamu’s throat tightens, and the back of his right hand tingles. He’s glad now that he waited for Suna to be ready to give him the explanation he needed. It is worth it. If Suna had told him earlier, the impact would not have been the same. But knowing that he plans to pursue volleyball professionally makes all the difference. 

“Suna,” Osamu says before hesitating. “Rin.”

Suna’s eyebrows flick upward. As a beat passes, his expression smooths out as calm washes over him. “Osamu.”

The words get caught in his mouth before spilling out in a rush, the cold and hard truth. “I wanna kiss you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They haven’t discussed the nature of their relationship, whether they’re meant to be platonic or romantic or something else. But Osamu knows one thing for certain: he loves Suna. There’s a reason Suna’s name rests along his hand—where he stores his love. It’s always going to be Suna, because regardless of the amount of names that appear on his skin or not, he will always choose Suna. 

Suna digests his honesty with a nod. “Then do it.”

Osamu blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. Idiot.” Suna lets out a low chuckle. “Kiss me.”

Osamu doesn’t need to be told anything else. He reaches for Suna, right hand first, and his palm settles against Suna’s hip, as if it’s meant to be there all along. His other hand comes up to cup Suna’s face, and all Osamu can think is— yes, of course I store my love in my hands.

One of Suna’s arms winds around Osamu’s waist, tugging him closer until Osamu hears the hitch in Suna’s breathing. Even at their close proximity, the street lamps dance along Suna’s irises, and Osamu admires him for a brief moment before leaning in. 

The second his mouth meets Suna’s, his right hand feels as though it’s been dipped in warm water. It’s soothing, especially as his nerves skip along inside him. It’s the concrete reminder that this is what he’s waited for all this time, and the moment doesn’t disappoint him. It doesn’t matter that this is his first kiss and he’s lacking in experience. It doesn’t matter that Suna’s lips are chapped and cold—and so are his. It doesn’t matter that he’s giggling against Suna’s mouth too much, because Suna is doing the same, and it’s wonderful and glorious all at once. 

None of it matters because Osamu knows this isn’t the last time. There will be many more kisses after this. Many more victories and celebrations. Many more moments of basking in the other’s company. He’s waited a long time for Suna Rintarou, and now, he refuses to let him go. 

As Suna draws away, he looks down. “My stomach feels like it’s burning. Is that normal?”

“Mmhmm,” Osamu hums, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Suna’s jaw. “Or it’s yer body’s way of tellin’ you that you’re cold. Let’s go back inside. It’s freezin’ out here.”

“Hah.” Suna presses his forehead against Osamu’s. “Fine.”

As Osamu curls up on top of his futon, the covers drawn over his figure, the lull of easy breathing is enough to drag him off to sleep. After coming in from outside, his nose is cold, and his fingers dig beneath the warmth in a furious attempt to ward off the last of the chill. Already, exhaustion sets in again, the aftereffects of today’s match pressing down against his limbs, and Osamu feels himself being pulled beneath the surface. 

His right arm emerges from beneath the covers, and he reaches over to the futon over. He knows Suna isn’t asleep yet. He hears the way his breath catches as Osamu rests his hand over Suna’s stomach, right over the spot he now knows where his name lies. As he feels Suna’s palm come to wrap around his, a soft, sleepy smile curls his lips. 

It’s an honor, he thinks, to love Suna Rintarou.