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his favourite picture

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For years, Suna Rintaro’s wallpaper was a picture of his boyfriend that he took when they were in high school. It’s his favourite picture ever. 


They’re sat under the shade of a tree tucked into the back of the gym, the sound of Atsumu’s annoying voice as he nags Aran flitting through the open doors. The sun peeped through minute gaps in the leaves, and the air was warm and comforting as Suna slipped his fingers into Osamu’s. 


Suna loved the feeling of Osamu’s hand in his, and he circled his thumb reverently over every trough and crest, every callus and blister. He knows the strength they possess, feels it thrumming underneath the other’s skin. But he also loves that the same hands that can pummel his twin or spike a volleyball all the way across the court, are the same hands that thread through his hair, softly and carefully, as they kiss or secretly link their pinkies together when no one is looking. 


They’d snuck away from their teammates during their lunch to get a quiet moment together. They bask in the comfortable silence that hangs between then, soaking in the feeling of the other’s body next to theirs. Osamu shifts closer, seeking the heat radiating from Suna’s body as Suna brings their joined hands up to place a soft kiss to the back of Osamu’s hand. 


He watched a soft blush spread over his cheeks and down his neck and chuckled when Osamu pulled his hand away and grumbled out a “You’re so gross.”


Osamu had brought a box of onigiri with him, now their common practice to share it together. Suna wasn’t big on food like Osamu was, but Osamu loved food. He loved eating it, loved making it and loved feeding it to his boyfriend. So Suna indulged him. He ate and tasted and hummed in approval just to see the way Osamu’s eyes would glow with pride and his lips quirk up into a cute smile, which are rare but ultimately worth it.


Now Osamu had both of his hands around a rather large onigiri (Suna was sure that it was at least twice the size of a regular one), and was raising it to his mouth. Suna carefully watched the way Osamu held it delicately, bringing it up to his plush, pink lips, and took a tentative bite. He watches the way grey eyes light up with joy before long lashes flutter and his eyes slipped closed as he savoured the taste. Osamu hummed at the pleasant taste and wiggled in glee. He took another bite. His cheeks were full and puffy, like a chipmunk and his eyes were still closed as he chewed, shoulders slumped and face relaxed as he enjoyed his food. 


Before Suna could properly process what’s happening, he’d already pulled his phone out of his pocket and silently snapped a few pictures of his boyfriend. He tried (and failed ) not to giggle at the way Osamu kept filling his mouth before he swallowed his last bite, and how messy he eats for a 17-year old boy. There’s rice sticking to his cheeks and Suna hates the way he still wants to kiss him silly. 


Suna suddenly has an idea, and positioning himself properly, making sure the angle and lighting are just right , calls out to his boyfriend who is still eagerly eating.


“‘Samu, babe, look at me.”


The other boy’s eyes open with a start, his sterling pools of silver catching the afternoon sunlight and his cheeks pink from the pet name,( he loves it, but he’s never going to admit it). His hair is slightly windswept and there’s still rice clinging to the corner of his mouth, the onigiri still poised near his mouth, ready for the next bite. 


Snap, snap, snap snap.


Suna takes photo after photo after photo. He looked so stupid and ridiculous and outrageously pretty , just like always and Suna commits the way he looks to memory, regardless of the dozens of pictures he probably just took. 


Osamu swallowed, and he carefully returned his onigiri to its container and closed it. He placed it behind him and before Suna had a chance to react, Osamu lunged at him, hand grabbing for his phone. Suna stretched his arm out and leant backwards, keeping his phone just out of reach. 


“Yah! You jerk, why’d ya take a picture of me?” Osamu was fully seated in Suna’s lap now, thighs bracketing the taller boy’s waist, keeping him pinned down as he tried to get the cellphone in his outstretched hand. Suna smirked, and sitting up straighter, he swiftly pushed his phone into his pocket before sliding both hands to rest loosely on Osamu’s waist.


It was only then that Osamu seemed to become aware of their position, eyes widening and hands dropping to curl awkwardly in his lap. His blush returned full force and he glared half-heartedly at Suna. 


“I needed a new wallpaper,” he says with a smirk. He loves teasing Osamu, because for all of the other boy’s fierceness with his twin or general disinterest in other people, he still melted at any type of compliment or praise. 


“Why’d you want me as your wallpaper? You wanna look at my face everytime you open your phone? ‘S not like I’m anything nice to look at.” Osamu pointedly doesn’t look at him, eyes darting from side to side, and flicking down to his hands in his lap. 


Suna felt himself frown, and in one brisk movement flipped them over so that he had Osamu caged between his arms. Startled silver orbs stared up at him and pink lips had parted slightly in surprise. His hair was fanned out across the grass like a halo, and Suna thinks he looks beautiful


“You see, ‘Samu that’s where you’re wrong. I do wanna look at your stupid face all the time. It’s ‘cause you're pretty. Really pretty. Makes me wanna cross the gym and kiss you sometimes.”


Osamu was properly scarlet at this point, blush having made its way down his neck, and past his collarbones that Suna gets a peep of through the neck of his t-shirt. He brought a hand up to cover his face and resolutely ignored the way Suna kept looking at him.


“Shut the hell up Sunarin! I ain’t pretty, if anything you’re the pretty one,” he grumbled. 


Suna laughed lightly, leaning down to nose at Osamu’s cheek before pressing kisses all over his red face. 


“I ain’t gonna-” a kiss to his right cheek, “deny that but-” a kiss to his left cheek, “that doesn’t mean-” a kiss to his forehead, “you aren’t-” a kiss to the tip of his nose, “really fucking gorgeous.”


They were so close now, noses a hair’s width apart and Suna could feel the tiny puffs of air escaping Osamu’s lips. His eyes flicked down to the lips in question. They flicked back up to a pair of grey eyes watching him like a hawk, and Suna stared right back. He felt Osamu’s hand snake its way up his chest and slide gently into the hair at the base of his neck. When Osamu next says his name, it’s breathless, almost reverent and pleading .




He lets out a shaky breath then, the air between them thick and heavy.


“Yea ‘Samu?”


“Kiss me, ya asshole.”


Suna doesn’t know if he bent down first or if Osamu surged up to meet him. All he knows is that they’re lips on his, soft, warm lips move slowly against his own. There’s no rush in their movements, just familiarity and comfort, like slipping into a well-worn hoodie. 


Osamu tastes like candied sunshine. He’s bright and warm and Suna finds comfort in their easy silences. He forgets the world around him when Osamu’s with him. He makes it through most days waiting for the small smile Osamu shoots him when they walk out the gym shoulder to shoulder, or the way Osamu will silently pass him some of his lunch on the really bad days. Most days he feels like the other is his little slice of heaven. His nectar and ambrosia. His divine food. 


When Suna had put the picture of Osamu as his wallpaper, he’d immortalized that memory. So that he’d never forget the way Osamu’s eyelashes fluttered against rosy cheeks or the way he’d said his name. 


For years, Suna Rintaro’s wallpaper was a picture of his boyfriend that he took when they were in high school. A picture of a warm sunny afternoon in their second year. It stays that way when they graduate, when Osamu officially opens Onigiri Miya and even when Atsumu announces that he’s been added to the roster of the Japanese National Team.


Until one day he changes it. Now, in its place is a picture of Osamu, wearing an EJP Rajins shirt, curled into Suna’s side. His hand is laced together with another, resting on Suna’s bare chest and silver wedding bands glinting in the low light of the early morning. Suna took it the morning after their wedding, when he’d woken Osamu, his husband , with a gentle kiss. 


It’s his new favourite picture ever.