Suna thinks, in a perfect world, he would be allowed to peacefully enjoy his day off—sprawled on the couch, watching the flex of his boyfriend’s muscles as the man works dough underneath his strong hands. Thriving, unbothered, and envious of gluten.
At the very least, he gets to watch the way Osamu’s face scrunches up cutely as he tries to concentrate on kneading the dough with the right amount of pressure. Tries.
Osamu’s phone beeps for the tenth time in as many minutes, and the man sighs. They both know it’s his brother with yet another issue that supposedly can’t wait, and their silent agreement to ignore him did not factor in the level of the man’s persistence.
“You want me to get that for you?” Suna offers, in a tone that suggests he would rather stub his toe on every available corner than get up.
“Can ya, please?” Osamu asks, his hands pausing briefly over the dough. “He’s not gonna stop ‘til he gets an answer.”
Suna ponders this for a moment. “Fine,” he relents, his bones cracking as he gets to his feet, “but only ‘cause I don’t want him barging in unannounced like he did last time.”
Osamu winces at the memory, but knows better than to speak of it. “What does he want?” he asks, once Suna grabs the phone from the counter.
Suna scans over the message previews. “Apparently, he left something when he came to borrow our washing machine and he needs to know if it’s here before he gets eviscerated.”
Osamu sighs. “Ya better go check and tell him before he actually bursts through our door to find it himself.”
Suna starts to complain, but Osamu pointedly holds up his flour-covered hands.
“All right, but don’t be surprised if I snoop through your phone.”
Suna isn’t actually serious. Osamu hardly has any shame, anyway, so anything worth hiding between them never really stays hidden.
“Ya can if ya want to, baby,” Osamu says simply, and Suna swallows down the wave of affection at the endearment. “I don’t have any secrets.”
Suna gives an unconvinced hum. “You say that, but I’m the one who found out you like eating pickles with peanut butter.”
“That wasn’t even a secret.”
“Well, it should have been,” Suna says dryly.
Osamu snorts, and Suna slots himself beside him to give an affectionate pinch of his tummy.
“I still can’t believe you use face ID when you have a literal twin,” Suna mutters as he angles the phone for Osamu to unlock. “What if he sees our messages?”
“How will we ever cope with him knowing ya wear Kuromi undies when yer home alone?” Osamu deadpans.
“They’re shorts,” screeches Suna, scandalized. “Respectable shorts. Say it.”
Osamu gives him a sidelong glance and stays absolutely silent.
Suna’s eyes narrow. “Watch your back, Miya,” he warns, hearing the man’s snicker before going to deal with the other Miya.
It takes Suna longer than he would like to find what Atsumu is whining for—an old volleyball sweater from a school that he didn’t even go to, thrown in the bottom drawer of their dresser. He grimaces at the SAKUSA written across the back.
<< Found it. Disgusted by it. Take it.
>> shut up like ur any better with ur suna folder
Suna stills in the middle of the room.
He stares at the text long enough that when he returns, Osamu is already placing the dough to rest.
The phone buzzes again with more slander, but he dutifully returns to Osamu’s side and places the phone back on the counter.
Suna’s eyes snap back to Osamu’s curious gaze. He considers this for a moment, his interest piqued. “Your brother said something interesting.”
Osamu raises his brows. “He did?”
Suna hesitates. It’s possible that Atsumu could have been bluffing, but maybe he was telling the truth for once. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Osamu blinks at him, his hands pausing in their cleaning. “When have ya ever embarrassed me?”
Suna cocks a brow at that, but Osamu stays resolute, so either he’s forgiven Suna for the Mochi Incident or he’s somehow managed to repress it entirely.
Suna purses his lips, his gaze turning wary. “He said something about a… Suna folder?”
Osamu stiffens—almost imperceptibly. Suna would have missed it had he not been paying as close attention as he is.
Osamu’s face remains impassive, though the tips of his ears start to turn pink. “What about it?”
Suna balks. “It exists?”
“It’s just where I keep all my photos of ya,” he murmurs simply. As if it could be that simple.
Now Suna is overrun with the mystery of these supposed photos. Does he look decent in them? Or are they sneaky photos where he looks horrendous to everyone but his boyfriend?
Osamu has, on more than one occasion, insisted that Suna looked great when in reality he looked like he had just surfaced from a week-long bender. The man’s judgment is irredeemably impaired by relationship goggles.
“Can I see?” asks Suna innocently, drawing circles into the counter with a finger.
Osamu manages a flippant shrug. “If ya want.”
It’s not that he’s entirely vain; he just wants to know if Osamu is walking around with undisputed blackmail material that his nosy brother could unexpectedly pull out at the next reunion dinner.
Suna waits as patiently as he can for Osamu to clean up, more thorough than he needs to be. Then he realizes—the man is stalling. Suna frowns.
“You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, pressing a hand to his back.
“It’s not that I don’t wanna,” insists Osamu. “I’m just not prepared to see yer annoyingly smug face for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Shut up,” mutters Suna halfheartedly, slotting himself behind Osamu again. He props his chin on the man’s shoulder. “You like my face.”
Osamu studies him for a moment, before Suna gives a pointed, eager look at the phone held loosely in his hands.
The folder in question isn’t even named anything suspicious, just labeled as a simple ‘Rintarou’. Suna expects to find a few dozen sneaky shots of him unaware of the camera, or a horde of cursed photos that Osamu had taken when Suna had explicitly said he wasn’t ready.
What he sees instead takes him by surprise.
The first few rows are pictures from very early in their relationship. Suna can tell from the way Osamu’s hands aren’t quite settled on him the way they usually are, still unsure and insecure of his affections being too much too soon.
It’s clear from the photo that Osamu had nothing to worry about; Suna had already fallen for him—hard.
As they scroll deeper through the folder, the proximity of their photo-selves become closer and closer. Suna is shown half in Osamu’s lap more often than not, the other man’s arms wound tightly around him.
“You look great in these,” Suna murmurs, his eyes raking over the photo of Osamu with two large armfuls of rice bags. He dutifully ignores himself salivating in the background, his hands pressed together in a weeping prayer. It’s nothing a simple crop can’t fix. “How come you never posted any of them?”
They both know Osamu’s social media desperately needs some work. It consists of one devastatingly hot photo of him that Suna had to upload himself, buried in a sea of blurry onigiri and mediocre landscapes.
The next photo is from the time they went to the amusement park—the same day that Osamu had asked Suna to move in with him. The photo was taken by a worker with eager hands and zero knowledge of the focus button, but clear as day is the fondness in Osamu’s eyes.
Osamu thumbs at the Suna on the screen, whose eyes are nearly shut with the size of his grin. He murmurs, “These are… just for me.”
Suna tightens his arms around him. His heart slams against his rib cage. Osamu rakes in a breath before he continues to scroll.
More couple photos of them, some Polaroids, some photo booth strips, and then—
Suna blinks. “You—” he starts, but he swallows his tongue.
He stares at the photos—his photos—taking up row after row after row. The photos are lackluster at best, just quick snapshots with terrible lighting that Suna likes to send throughout the day. He didn’t think Osamu would actually keep any of them.
There are the selfies that Suna sends whenever he’s bored in the grocery line. The outfit photos in front of the mirror in their shared bathroom.
The photos of his unamused face when no combination of words can properly construe the amount of exasperation for his boyfriend.
The boasting smirks beside large helpings of Osamu’s favorite foods.
The… soft smiles that Suna sends when Osamu’s missing him too much during the odd hours between early shifts and late practices.
Everything from middle fingers to heart-eyes to sleepy pouts. It’s all in here.
Miya Osamu, the most infuriatingly impassive bastard he’s ever met, who apparently has no secrets… keeps a folder of every picture Suna has ever taken for him.
Though, Suna supposes with a slam of his heart, is it really a secret how much Osamu loves him?
Not when he wakes up early every morning to make Suna breakfast, despite the fact that Suna is the devil incarnate before 9 a.m. Not when he holds Suna so tightly, so surely, like the last thing he ever wants is to let go.
Not when he looks at Suna like no one has ever looked at him before, with nothing but love and adoration written so plainly on his face.
Suna settles a hand over the phone and guides it gently back to the counter.
“Rin?” Osamu murmurs. He turns to him questioningly.
Suna presses forward, feeling hands automatically come up to clutch at his waist as their lips meet. He feels Osamu gasp softly into his mouth before pressing back. It’s chaste, by all means, but it still lights him up inside like a supernova bursting in his chest.
His hands stay curled in the man’s shirt even as he pulls back, just barely.
“I love you,” whispers Suna, in the space of their shared breaths. His eyes, which had lowered with the weight of his words, lift when he sees Osamu’s cheeks begin to color.
Osamu looks winded, and fond, and awed all at once, just from a single kiss. There’s a helpless smile tugging at his lips, like he can’t believe he gets to be the one to receive Suna’s affections.
Suna thinks he understands now, the idea of wanting to preserve these private moments for himself. Keeping it locked tight, away from prying eyes.
He’s never been shy about flaunting his boyfriend on every social media platform he can. Why would he be, with the kind of man Osamu is?
Osamu is so sure of himself, so strong, and kind, and caring. A total bastard, if he wants to be. An unrepentant sweetheart, when he isn’t trying to be.
Suna just wants the world to fall in love with Osamu as hard as Suna has fallen for him. It’s what he deserves.
But right now, standing before Suna with such reverence in his eyes as he murmurs back a heartfelt I love you, too ...
Suna is overwhelmed with the desire to keep this moment tucked safely away in the chambers of his heart, where no one else can see, or ever take it away from him.
He puts it where it should be, where it’s always been.
Because this, realizes Suna as their lips connect once more—this is just for him.