two skies younger
Jul. 22nd, 2021 02:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
softpunkssuna rintarou/miya osamu // ~2k
> Suna and Osamu break up. Of course, nobody believes them.
They break up rather amicably, which Suna thinks will make Kita proud because they’re very mature, or as mature as second year high schoolers can be. But Kita only pauses for a second before continuing to tie his shoelaces. Suna deflates.
“You don’t believe me,” he sulks.
Kita doesn’t even try to deny it. “To be fair, do you?”
“Of course I do.” Suna’s done his research; he’s prepared a pseudo-speech for this. “I have my sister’s favorite 80s romance movies lined up and a tub of ice cream with my name on it. I’m not going to shower tomorrow. I’m going to fuse with the couch and be as disgusting as Atsumu during buffets. Grieve like a real heartbroken man.”
“I see,” Kita says, standing up. “Sounds like you’re busier than I realized. Have a fun weekend.”
It’s Friday, and Kita always says things like that. Suna doesn’t think there’s any deeper meaning to it until the next day, when he’s woken up at seven in the morning with a reminder from his phone that he’s supposed to meet up with Osamu today in school for a project.
“Shit,” he says, and then promptly falls out of bed when his phone chimes again with a text from—Atsumu.
You don’t havta go if you don’t wanna.
Suna frowns. Is there a reason Osamu can’t tell me that himself?
'Cause you broke up? Get with the program. You suck at this
He tosses his phone aside and looks out the window. Though the curtains are drawn, the sunlight that filters in is bright and beautiful. It’s a good day to sleep in and be miserable, and Suna knows Osamu—even if he didn’t actually say it to him—wouldn’t mind if he did ditch their plans for the day. They broke up; they’re allowed to have some alone time to themselves. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since it last happened.
Suna stands up and makes his way to the bathroom. It's also a good day to take a shower and not become one with the couch.
> Suna and Osamu break up. Of course, nobody believes them.
They break up rather amicably, which Suna thinks will make Kita proud because they’re very mature, or as mature as second year high schoolers can be. But Kita only pauses for a second before continuing to tie his shoelaces. Suna deflates.
“You don’t believe me,” he sulks.
Kita doesn’t even try to deny it. “To be fair, do you?”
“Of course I do.” Suna’s done his research; he’s prepared a pseudo-speech for this. “I have my sister’s favorite 80s romance movies lined up and a tub of ice cream with my name on it. I’m not going to shower tomorrow. I’m going to fuse with the couch and be as disgusting as Atsumu during buffets. Grieve like a real heartbroken man.”
“I see,” Kita says, standing up. “Sounds like you’re busier than I realized. Have a fun weekend.”
It’s Friday, and Kita always says things like that. Suna doesn’t think there’s any deeper meaning to it until the next day, when he’s woken up at seven in the morning with a reminder from his phone that he’s supposed to meet up with Osamu today in school for a project.
“Shit,” he says, and then promptly falls out of bed when his phone chimes again with a text from—Atsumu.
You don’t havta go if you don’t wanna.
Suna frowns. Is there a reason Osamu can’t tell me that himself?
'Cause you broke up? Get with the program. You suck at this
He tosses his phone aside and looks out the window. Though the curtains are drawn, the sunlight that filters in is bright and beautiful. It’s a good day to sleep in and be miserable, and Suna knows Osamu—even if he didn’t actually say it to him—wouldn’t mind if he did ditch their plans for the day. They broke up; they’re allowed to have some alone time to themselves. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since it last happened.
Suna stands up and makes his way to the bathroom. It's also a good day to take a shower and not become one with the couch.
==
It was because of a list, one that detailed all the reasons why dating was a bad idea. Suna made it on a whim during math class and showed it afterwards to Osamu, who didn’t even spare it a second glance, far more engrossed in whatever game he was playing on his Nintendo DS under the table. Silently, Suna scribbled it down as yet another reason.
“Is this because I kicked your ass at Mario Kart two weeks ago?” Osamu finally asked.
“No.” Even though it maybe was. “It was because kicking my ass at Mario Kart two weeks ago was what you considered a date. I’m not lowering my standards just for you.”
“Because they were so high to begin with,” Osamu mouthed. “What does it even mean to go on a date?”
“I don’t know." Suna paused. "That’s why we shouldn’t date. Because we clearly don’t know it, and if we do, then it doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t get it.” But he probably thought Suna was in one of his moods, where he said things he didn't mean just to see if Osamu would take the bait and do something different with it, because he said, “Sure.“
The truth was that Suna didn’t really know what he was doing or why he was doing it, but they did it anyway. They thought about shaking hands over it, but Osamu’s palms were damp because doing something for too long always made his hands clammy, so Suna awkwardly wrapped his hand around Osamu’s wrist and shook it.
Osamu was unimpressed. “You’re right. I can’t believe I lowered my standards for this.
“Good talk,” Suna said, and despite breaking up, they walked down the hall side by side like nothing had changed between them.
“Is this because I kicked your ass at Mario Kart two weeks ago?” Osamu finally asked.
“No.” Even though it maybe was. “It was because kicking my ass at Mario Kart two weeks ago was what you considered a date. I’m not lowering my standards just for you.”
“Because they were so high to begin with,” Osamu mouthed. “What does it even mean to go on a date?”
“I don’t know." Suna paused. "That’s why we shouldn’t date. Because we clearly don’t know it, and if we do, then it doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t get it.” But he probably thought Suna was in one of his moods, where he said things he didn't mean just to see if Osamu would take the bait and do something different with it, because he said, “Sure.“
The truth was that Suna didn’t really know what he was doing or why he was doing it, but they did it anyway. They thought about shaking hands over it, but Osamu’s palms were damp because doing something for too long always made his hands clammy, so Suna awkwardly wrapped his hand around Osamu’s wrist and shook it.
Osamu was unimpressed. “You’re right. I can’t believe I lowered my standards for this.
“Good talk,” Suna said, and despite breaking up, they walked down the hall side by side like nothing had changed between them.
==
A year ago, some students from a rival school of Inarizaki had snuck into the campus and vandalized the wall of the science building. The board didn’t like it, but they preferred to channel their funds elsewhere, and they reasoned that since the science building was all the way in the back, nobody would see it unless they went looking—and they wouldn’t, because the building smelled like chemicals and there were better places in the school to hang out.
Osamu insisted they could do the school a favor by repainting it themselves for their art class project, which required them to answer a simple question with a unique output. Suna didn’t understand why their teacher agreed to the proposal when the board expected them to only paint enough beige to cover the graffiti and nothing more, but she must’ve thought that this was Osamu—and consequently, Suna’s—response to her question.
“So,” Osamu says now. “'What statement is our art trying to make?'”
“Nothing,” Suna replies. “This is the second dumbest idea you ever had.”
“What’s the first?”
“Saying that we do this on a Saturday morning.”
“You came anyway,” Osamu points out. Suna doesn’t say, of course I came, because they both know this outing was meant to be a date, but they don’t do that anymore now, so Suna had no reason to show up, yet he did. “Besides, it’s better than doing this in the heat of the afternoon. I know how much you hate sweatin’ if it’s not ‘cause of volleyball.”
If he’s touched at the fact that Osamu remembers, he doesn’t show it.
They only needed the paint bucket and large brushes from the art room, but Osamu took some cans of half-used spray paint too. Suna didn’t ask then, and he doesn’t ask now, intent on accomplishing their task of laying out coats of beige onto the colorful swear words and graphic images, covering them all up like they never even happened. He still doesn’t know what kind of statement they’re trying to make in doing this, but maybe it’s the fact that it’s one that's better than whatever was initially here. Suna used to think of graffiti as a cool thing, but this is nothing but crude and disappointing.
Painting isn’t Suna’s forte, even if it doesn’t take someone skilled to just cover everything in a single color, so he has to brush the same spot a few more times to make the graffiti disappear completely. Osamu is a bit better, but he moves much slower. They don’t talk even though the silence is awkward and it’s never been difficult for them to break it with entertaining discussions, no matter how pointless, but that’s Suna's fault, because he's pointedly not looking at Osamu. It's enough to make the latter reluctant to say anything.
Suna wonders if this is the statement he’s trying to make, the point he’s trying to prove—they’re not dating anymore. They don’t have to do what they used to do, no matter how natural and tempting it feels to fall back into it.
In the end though, Osamu doesn’t have enough respect for Suna, because he eventually says, “Biege’s so borin’. We’re gonna fail this class.”
“Not if being boring is the ‘statement you’re trying to make’,” Suna air-quotes. “But I told you so.”
“Fuck off. I can still fix this.” Before Suna can ask how, Osamu picks up a can of spray paint and makes a light red streak against the wall they just painted on.
Suna immediately yanks Osamu’s hand back. “Are you fucking serious? We’re here to cover the graffiti, not make more.”
“This ain’t graffiti. We have permission,” Osamu reasons. “Technically, you could say we’re makin’ an art mural.”
“Art mural, my ass.”
“C’mon.” Osamu grins. “The board hated it ‘cause it was ugly, nothin’ more. If we make it look pretty, or do somethin’ unique with it, I’m sure they’ll let it slide. Plus we get a good grade.”
Suna crosses his arms. “Like that’s so easy to do. We’re volleyball players, not artists.”
“Have a little more faith, Rin,” Osamu says, tossing him a can. Suna catches it. Osamu turns back to the wall and its drying paint. It should take longer than this, but the heat that lingers in the air quickens the process, so they can do whatever they want over the coating without much damage. “I’m thinkin’—” Osamu paints a small red circle onto the wall. “Interactive, interpretative art. So, any thoughts you wanna share with the class?”
“A list of reasons explaining why this is no better than painting the wall beige for a major art project and calling it a day,” Suna retorts, but he leans closer to draw lines of different lengths around the top half of the circle. The color comes out as light blue.
When Suna pulls back, Osamu quickly makes connected curve lines around the tips of the Suna's straight lines.
“I was going for a sun,” Suna interjects.
“Your sun sucks. Explosions are way better.”
“How is that an explosion? That’s a flower.”
“Fine.” Osamu shakes the can. “I’ll make a better one.”
They’re volleyball players, not artists, even if Osamu is acting like they could be, so what’s supposed to be the image of an explosion looks like a tiny tree. Suna fixes it by filling in the shape with blue and making what’s supposed to be a cloud by practically overlapping Osamu's drawing. Osamu adds a small circle at the lower left side and two wavy strokes below with the kind of precision and intent that makes Suna wonder if there’s actually an image Osamu wants to form.
Suna can’t figure it out, but he finds himself trying, spraying wavy strokes above the cloud like he’s seeing the potential of a person and bringing it to life by making the body. From the corner of his eye, Osamu smiles before he gets to work on the other side to start making the same thing, knowing Suna will follow soon after to help.
“It’s two floating people huddling by a fire,” Osamu says at the end of it, because two hours later with the noon sun rising, Suna thinks they’re finished but doesn’t know what to make of what they’ve done. The color combination looks hideous, even if they’re muted shades that are easier on the eyes, and the paint clings to their hands in ways that’ll be tedious to wash off. “Looks pretty nice. If you think about it, you could say they were going on a date.”
“Only you would think that.” Suna moves closer to Osamu to understand what he's seeing, only to fail. “And what kind of statement would that make?”
“I don’t know,” Osamu says. “That maybe what’s important is that no matter what they’re doing, at least they’re doing it together.”
Suna glances at him. Osamu’s shirt is red and there’s a large smudge of blue in the center because Suna accidentally sprayed him, and the colors look horrible together even though they make purple when combined. It doesn’t really make sense, just like everything about today, but it’s not bad. Suna looks away.
Atsumu was right when he said he sucked at this. Kita was right when he doubted him.
“What on earth are we doing,” Suna says, because he has no idea.
“Not dating,” Osamu answers, even though he says it in a way that means he doesn't mean it; he just wants to see if Suna will take the bait.
Suna likes to think he doesn’t, but when Osamu’s hand twitches and makes contact with his, Suna instinctively intertwines their fingers together, red and blue together, like it’ll morph into something that makes sense and is meant to be together, like nothing between them even changed. When he thinks about it, maybe nothing really has.
Osamu’s palms are clammy. Suna holds on anyway, both their standards lowered, but at least lowered together. They make a pretty neat statement.
Osamu insisted they could do the school a favor by repainting it themselves for their art class project, which required them to answer a simple question with a unique output. Suna didn’t understand why their teacher agreed to the proposal when the board expected them to only paint enough beige to cover the graffiti and nothing more, but she must’ve thought that this was Osamu—and consequently, Suna’s—response to her question.
“So,” Osamu says now. “'What statement is our art trying to make?'”
“Nothing,” Suna replies. “This is the second dumbest idea you ever had.”
“What’s the first?”
“Saying that we do this on a Saturday morning.”
“You came anyway,” Osamu points out. Suna doesn’t say, of course I came, because they both know this outing was meant to be a date, but they don’t do that anymore now, so Suna had no reason to show up, yet he did. “Besides, it’s better than doing this in the heat of the afternoon. I know how much you hate sweatin’ if it’s not ‘cause of volleyball.”
If he’s touched at the fact that Osamu remembers, he doesn’t show it.
They only needed the paint bucket and large brushes from the art room, but Osamu took some cans of half-used spray paint too. Suna didn’t ask then, and he doesn’t ask now, intent on accomplishing their task of laying out coats of beige onto the colorful swear words and graphic images, covering them all up like they never even happened. He still doesn’t know what kind of statement they’re trying to make in doing this, but maybe it’s the fact that it’s one that's better than whatever was initially here. Suna used to think of graffiti as a cool thing, but this is nothing but crude and disappointing.
Painting isn’t Suna’s forte, even if it doesn’t take someone skilled to just cover everything in a single color, so he has to brush the same spot a few more times to make the graffiti disappear completely. Osamu is a bit better, but he moves much slower. They don’t talk even though the silence is awkward and it’s never been difficult for them to break it with entertaining discussions, no matter how pointless, but that’s Suna's fault, because he's pointedly not looking at Osamu. It's enough to make the latter reluctant to say anything.
Suna wonders if this is the statement he’s trying to make, the point he’s trying to prove—they’re not dating anymore. They don’t have to do what they used to do, no matter how natural and tempting it feels to fall back into it.
In the end though, Osamu doesn’t have enough respect for Suna, because he eventually says, “Biege’s so borin’. We’re gonna fail this class.”
“Not if being boring is the ‘statement you’re trying to make’,” Suna air-quotes. “But I told you so.”
“Fuck off. I can still fix this.” Before Suna can ask how, Osamu picks up a can of spray paint and makes a light red streak against the wall they just painted on.
Suna immediately yanks Osamu’s hand back. “Are you fucking serious? We’re here to cover the graffiti, not make more.”
“This ain’t graffiti. We have permission,” Osamu reasons. “Technically, you could say we’re makin’ an art mural.”
“Art mural, my ass.”
“C’mon.” Osamu grins. “The board hated it ‘cause it was ugly, nothin’ more. If we make it look pretty, or do somethin’ unique with it, I’m sure they’ll let it slide. Plus we get a good grade.”
Suna crosses his arms. “Like that’s so easy to do. We’re volleyball players, not artists.”
“Have a little more faith, Rin,” Osamu says, tossing him a can. Suna catches it. Osamu turns back to the wall and its drying paint. It should take longer than this, but the heat that lingers in the air quickens the process, so they can do whatever they want over the coating without much damage. “I’m thinkin’—” Osamu paints a small red circle onto the wall. “Interactive, interpretative art. So, any thoughts you wanna share with the class?”
“A list of reasons explaining why this is no better than painting the wall beige for a major art project and calling it a day,” Suna retorts, but he leans closer to draw lines of different lengths around the top half of the circle. The color comes out as light blue.
When Suna pulls back, Osamu quickly makes connected curve lines around the tips of the Suna's straight lines.
“I was going for a sun,” Suna interjects.
“Your sun sucks. Explosions are way better.”
“How is that an explosion? That’s a flower.”
“Fine.” Osamu shakes the can. “I’ll make a better one.”
They’re volleyball players, not artists, even if Osamu is acting like they could be, so what’s supposed to be the image of an explosion looks like a tiny tree. Suna fixes it by filling in the shape with blue and making what’s supposed to be a cloud by practically overlapping Osamu's drawing. Osamu adds a small circle at the lower left side and two wavy strokes below with the kind of precision and intent that makes Suna wonder if there’s actually an image Osamu wants to form.
Suna can’t figure it out, but he finds himself trying, spraying wavy strokes above the cloud like he’s seeing the potential of a person and bringing it to life by making the body. From the corner of his eye, Osamu smiles before he gets to work on the other side to start making the same thing, knowing Suna will follow soon after to help.
“It’s two floating people huddling by a fire,” Osamu says at the end of it, because two hours later with the noon sun rising, Suna thinks they’re finished but doesn’t know what to make of what they’ve done. The color combination looks hideous, even if they’re muted shades that are easier on the eyes, and the paint clings to their hands in ways that’ll be tedious to wash off. “Looks pretty nice. If you think about it, you could say they were going on a date.”
“Only you would think that.” Suna moves closer to Osamu to understand what he's seeing, only to fail. “And what kind of statement would that make?”
“I don’t know,” Osamu says. “That maybe what’s important is that no matter what they’re doing, at least they’re doing it together.”
Suna glances at him. Osamu’s shirt is red and there’s a large smudge of blue in the center because Suna accidentally sprayed him, and the colors look horrible together even though they make purple when combined. It doesn’t really make sense, just like everything about today, but it’s not bad. Suna looks away.
Atsumu was right when he said he sucked at this. Kita was right when he doubted him.
“What on earth are we doing,” Suna says, because he has no idea.
“Not dating,” Osamu answers, even though he says it in a way that means he doesn't mean it; he just wants to see if Suna will take the bait.
Suna likes to think he doesn’t, but when Osamu’s hand twitches and makes contact with his, Suna instinctively intertwines their fingers together, red and blue together, like it’ll morph into something that makes sense and is meant to be together, like nothing between them even changed. When he thinks about it, maybe nothing really has.
Osamu’s palms are clammy. Suna holds on anyway, both their standards lowered, but at least lowered together. They make a pretty neat statement.