Meow

There's some more time left until the cafeteria closes.

You put in your first search result: Murai Volleyball.

Immediately there are headlines vying for your attention, and embedded images boxing in the toothy-smile of Murai who raises a clenched fist towards the LED floodlights on the ceiling. Behind him are others dressed in the same colors as him, fighting to get into the frame, but he's in the spotlight, demanding the camera to focus on him.

You click on a video. It's one minute long and it's of Murai two-handedly pushing the ball in the air for a sprawling six-foot giant to spike on the opponent's court.

This is confusing. He's not the one hitting the ball to the other side, so why does his team point at him and offer high-fives when they score? All he does is redirect the ball towards the—

A round of lazy throat-clearing snaps you back to reality and you cram your hands in front of your laptop screen. Oh god. You glance over your shoulder and see Sakusa standing there, hunched as ever, eyes sleep-glazed and lidded.

"You're still working on it," he says, matter-of-fact.

"Ah, yeah, I lost track of time. Did you come up here to check on me?"

He gives you an unimpressed look and shambles forward. The sound of his sneakers scuffing against the ground reverberates throughout the empty corridor as he drops into a chair across from you. He stuffs a hand into his pocket—Probably to stop himself from resting it against the germy desk.

"You got on my case for doing the same thing," he says as he scrolls through his phone.

"It's not that late, and I don't have anything better to do." It's the truth. You had finished your math homework the day before. If you saw one more problem asking you to do integrations by parts then you'd fucking snap.

"Sleeping is a better commitment."

You examine the time on your laptop. "I don't go to bed around this time. It's way too early."

Sakusa grunts. "I don't care for hanging around people who don't know how to prioritize something as simple as their own health."

Wow what a hypocrite. "So it's okay if you do it, but not me?"

"There's a difference."

"Enlighten me," you say. You sit further back in your chair and cross your arms.

"I wasn't tired yesterday, but you nagged at me anyways. Meanwhile you look ready to drop dead."

"Someone is being selectively forgetful about the fact he was yawning like every other minute." You lace your fingers together and rest your chin against them.

Sakusa looks displeased. He straightens up like he's about to abandon the chair and leave you alone, but he drops back down and relaxes his muscles. It takes him considerable effort to soften the ridges and hard lines of his face. "I was not yawning."

"You were. It was very distracting."

"I wasn't. Clearly you were staring too hard at me." His tone is clipped, but there's an underlying presence of uncertainty.

"You're right, I was," you say, nodding.

Agreeing with Sakusa catches him off guard, and he frowns at you. "Maybe stop doing that, then? It's creepy."

Painful. Utterly painful. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and try to quell the burst of nerves intensifying in your stomach, and the fuzzy tingle in your palms. Layers of cultivated confidence sizzle away when he bites back just as hard—If not harder than you. If you can't reap it, don't sow it. That's how the phrase went, right? Fuck. You're tired.

"Alright, I'll stop." For effect, you do stop staring at him and return to your essay. Your fingers fly across your keyboard.

"That wasn't me giving you permission to continue working on the project," he mutters.

From your periphery, because fuck no you're now making a point to not look at him, you could see his face was pinched. You try not to laugh.

"What else am I supposed to do?" you say. "It's either stare at you or work on—"

"Multitasking is a thing that exists." He tucks his phone away. "And also I'd prefer if you didn't overwrite. It'll be a pain to edit later."

"The more I write, the faster we'll complete it, and then the more legroom we have for editing. That's what you said, right?"

"Okay," he says, voice heavy with the weight of annoyance, "I'll delete the essay if you continue working on it."

Oh this fucker of a mother. Now he's flipping the chessboard on you. "You can't use my threats against me."

"It wasn't much of a threat coming from you."

The pitter-patter of your fingers slamming into the keys of your laptop nearly drowns out his voice. You tunnel-vision on the screen because this is how you answer petty. No words. A silence that speaks louder than any halfhearted syllables you could squeeze through your throat.

Sakusa releases an incomprehensible sigh and slumps harder in his chair to the point you were worried he literally melted. His curls bounce against his forehead when the AC vent next to the table kicks on.

"The picture was taken during his last Spring Tournament," he says.

You fumble and recalibrate. Are you both even on the same planet anymore? "Huh?"

"You were looking up articles on Murai." He points at your laptop.

Shamefaced, you incline your head in a silent 'yes, you caught me' as he sits there. It's insufferable because he's not judging you; he's perfectly unexpressive.

Maybe he really, truly, does not care. Perhaps you really, truly, are overthinking things. You stretch out your legs—accidentally bumping into his, to which he retracts them under his seat—and force your heart to stop fighting against the bars of your ribcage.

"I was," you admit, "and I'm glad I did. He's a really good settler."

"Setter," says Sakusa. "You mean setter."

"Oops." You cringe and make a quick mental note of that. Definitely don't want to make the same mistake if you talk to Murai again. Or a volleyball player in general. Or anyone in general. "Thank you. But yeah, his team really seems like to him a lot. He has that really nice quality, you know, approachability? He hypes up his other teammates and is always smiling and congratulating them when they score a point off his throws."

"Sets—Off his sets." Sakusa listens to your every word, gripping onto them and deliberately letting them digest in his brain. It's the kind of spotlight you never asked for, and didn't realize you've wanted for a long time. Someone is listening to you. "Murai's known for creating opportunities for his spikers."

"Is it true? What he's known for?"

Sakusa's mask wrinkles. "I suppose."

A high compliment from Sakusa. You're pulled into the gravity of the conversation, and so you surrender from your laptop and close it. "Have you guys, um, done any spikes? I mean. Have you spiked any of his sets?"

He tilts his head and nods. "Plenty of times. His consistency needs work, but he's good at winging new moves—which is irritating."

"You don't like it when people do new things?"

"I don't like it when they pull a new trick out of their hat without practicing it first, no." His face tugs into a pout.

Guess you hit a nerve on that one. But on closer inspection, he's kind of cute when he openly emotes like this. His fingers fidget with the zipper of his jacket.

"We're volleyball players, not magicians," he says.

"Magicians practice all their stunts before they get on stage. And I mean they practice a lot."

Sakusa pauses. "Oh? I don't really care. Point still stands."

"Are you a setter, too?" This is the only role you know.

"No. I'm an outside hitter."

"What do you hit outside of?"

The impending anxiety hits you harder than the sight of him unhinging his jaw to deliver an answer. You need to start researching this sport if you want to entertain a serious conversation—Sakusa isn't an ordinary college student. He's some semi-pro volleyball player who's listening to you butcher all the related terminology.

At least he's kind and patient enough to correct you. If it pissed him off, he didn't let it show, and if he didn't let it show, he wasn’t pissed off. This is the one absolute truth you've learned about him these past two days.

"Nothing?" he says. "Generally if the setter gets pulled too close to the net, then I'm the one they rely on to receive their sets. Or in other words, if there's a shitty pass, then I'm the one on the receiving end of the upcoming set."

"That sounds tough. So pretty much you're the one dealing with all of your team's trash plays?" Oh crap maybe that was a bit too—

Sakusa half-laughs. It's a simple, airy sound. Not a steady stream of cackles. Hardly a chuckle. It's monotonous, but humored. And you know then and there you're fucked.

"That's a good one." He seizes his backpack and rolls the strap over his shoulder. "I'll have to remember that."

As he stands from his chair, you push your laptop back into your bag and check your phone. Still not late enough to justify crashing in your bed at this hour. Your stomach speaks up for you.

"I told you there's vending machines up here," Sakusa says, fingers fluttering over his phone screen. He's playing some kind of braindead puzzle game.

You gesture to the trashcan two tables away, where your empty cans of coffee were sitting in a graveyard of bottles, notebook paper, and pencil shavings.

Sakusa's nose scrunches. "That doesn't count as food."

"Vending machine food in general doesn't count as food."

"The first wise thing you've said."

You glare at him. "Ouch."

The two of you maneuver through the wave of professors and assistants who had finished their office hours for the day. Sakusa keeps himself largely displaced from them, corralling himself onto the side and maintaining six feet of distance. You join him, because you suffer from sheep mentality.

Just one of his idiosyncrasies. It's easier to not probe him about why he's acting this way.

You realize four floors down, when you reach inside the pocket of your backpack and find the tease of empty space—you've forgotten your phone. Oh well. Not a big deal. You refuse to let the panic creep up your face as you rotate a sharp one-eighty and crawl back up the stairs.

"What"—Sakusa stops and catches you by the elbow. It's a surprising amount of contact, even though it's not skin-on-skin—"are you doing?"

"I left my phone," you say, "don't wait up for me."

Sakusa wordlessly detaches from you and dwarfs your slow climb up the stairs, skipping two to three steps at a time with his long legs.

You halt and look at him incredulously. "What are you doing?"

"Hurry up." He doesn't look back at you, already climbing the next set of stairs. "I don't want to spend all night looking for your phone."

You want to tell him he doesn't have to involve himself, that he's wasting his time, and this is your problem, that you don't need a babysitter for a mundane task such as retrieving a forgotten phone, but he's already far ahead of you and not slowing down.

"Ah—okay!" You pant and lumber after him. "Thank you!"

Guess it really is befitting. A player who's on the receiving end of his team's trash plays. The one who's on perpetual garbageman duty. The one who cleans up messes. It's ingrained in him, maybe? To make the most of a shit situation. A habit to deal with the shortcomings of other players. It translates into him assuming the role of doing the same for others, even off the court, maybe? Just maybe—No.

Sakusa isn't one to selflessly do this kind of thing for anyone. But you can't think of anything you've done to deserve this kind of unprompted reaction from him. It just happened. It's breathing, it's a heartbeat, it's blinking—it's reflex.

You beg the warmth in your cheeks to retreat, but they burn hard and hot.

You are so fucked.

by wobbles taglist— @sexyandcringe

a/n: thank you all for the wonderful comments in the tags! someone asked if Murai is an OC and i say yes! this is a canon-compliant fic, and unfortunately we don't know who was on sakusa's college volleyball team. so i had to improvise. a familiar face will be showing up though next part. :)

You march straight to class as you rub the vestiges of sleep from your eyes. It's a gross kind of crust which embeds into your waterline, and you really have to swipe at it three to four times, using passing windows to ascertain if you've completely removed it.

While you wipe the flakes off your knuckles and suppress a yawn with your other hand, you nearly backend a student. His long legs circumnavigate around you—It's gracefully humiliating because you on the other hand are stumbling and losing balance from the weight of your backpack sucking you to the floor.

"Crap," you say as you reach out to anchor yourself against a hallway chair and regain your footing. When you're certain you won't fall over, you raise an apologetic hand. "Sorry about that. You okay?"

Of course you had a gut feeling about who you almost collided with. Because it feels like any interaction you have with this guy is just a collision in of itself—A disruption, an inconvenience. Unpredictable.

Sakusa stares at you with his permanent resting bitch face, hitches his backpack up higher, and says on a suffering sigh, "Watch where you're going."

"Yeah, that's on me." It's easier to not make enemies with someone you're forced to cooperate with on a shared grade. "I'll watch my feet next time."

"Hmm," he says noncommittally, and retreats into the classroom.

Stellar start to the day. It gets better and better. You follow after him and try to not linger on the aggravation bubbling inside your stomach.

Sakusa is true to his word and doesn't steal your seat again. He ascends up the lecture hall stairs and slides himself into a vacant row. Fuck, he even swabs down the desk surface with an antibacterial wipe before he procures his notebook and writing utensils. Once again, you feel far less prepared by comparison.

The professor drags himself in, his throat-clearing reverberating against the wall panels as he shambles towards the projector. You whiteknuckle your pen, tearing the tip into your notebook paper. Time to release your suppressed anger into cathartic, violent notetaking.

Thirty minutes into the lecture you're experiencing the symptomatic repercussions of skipping breakfast and your morning coffee. Eyelids are solid weights, stomach is shivering and groaning, and your mind has settled into a gelatinous mist. No thoughts, just write. Persevere through this lecture.

And persevere you did. Through the stabbing pain of hunger, and the brain-fuzz, you manage to record every syllable leaving your professor's mouth until he's spreading his arms and banishing you all from his classroom for the day. You pack your things and coalesce with the herd of students with one goal in mind: Cafeteria.

God, please.

"It's still packed," Sakusa says, several feet away from you but walking parallel. His legs allow him to eclipse your pace, and you're staring at his yellow backpack and red duffel bag.

"The cafeteria?" you say.

He gives a curt nod.

"Was it that obvious I was heading over to it?"

He peers over his shoulder, one lidded, brooding eye critically analyzing you. "I could hear your stomach from a whole row away."

Shit. You trail further behind him, maneuvering away from his gaze so he couldn't see the blush on your cheeks. Noted. You'll never skip a meal again. Next time pack a snack to avoid this kind of situation.

"Sorry, I hope the noise wasn't distracting."

Sakusa walks at the same speed—As in, entirely outstripping you. This prompts you into thinking it's his silent way of indicating the conversation is over, but then he slows down, examines his phone, and casts another glance at you.

"It's because there's several road teams staying in the sports dorms."

"Road—Uh, road teams?"

"Visiting teams."

"Question still stands. Sports noob, remember?"

"It means other collegiate teams are visiting to compete against our home ones. Which is why the cafeteria is at max capacity."

Okay. Maybe you didn't need that much information spoon-feeding, but it was entertaining seeing him commit to talking more than usual. He has a distractingly deep voice. Pleasant sounding. It's a shame he doesn't talk more in general. Dude really hit the gene jackpot with everything. Sharp jawline, appealing black curls framing the edges of his face, and two—

"You're staring," he says.

The both of you were now walking in sync. Even though your leg strides weren't mirroring one another, as his were longer, he had slowed down significantly into an easygoing gait.

"Yeah," you admit, "I didn't realize you have two moles."

"Surprise," he says with zero inflection, eyes looking straight ahead.

"Do you get a lot of confessions?"

He answers your question with a question of his own, doused with his usual dose of blunt sarcasm. "Does having two moles have any correlation whatsoever with receiving love confessions?"

"Certainly. They're very eye-catching."

"Clearly not enough. You didn't notice them until now."

"Because I was tired yesterday and this morning—And, and I don't like making eye contact. It's awkward."

Sakusa then decides it is prime time to make eye contact with you. It's flat, devoid of emotion. Just a taught connection between your eyes and—

"There he is!" A tall man carves a path out of the students in front the two of you—An ocean bisecting apart. He raises a hand up in the air.

A high five? Sakusa doesn't indulge him, instead shouldering past, chin collapsing towards his neck and shoulders hunching inwards.

"Murai," he says in lieu of a proper greeting.

You feel distinctly out of place. Especially when this "Murai" person, realizing he's not receiving any high-fives from Sakusa, repositions his palm to face you with a cheeky grin. His other is resting against the duffel bag slung across his shoulder—The same color as Sakusa's. It clicks in your brain. Sports. Volleyball. Road teams.

Sakusa's on the volleyball team, and this must be a teammate of his.

Wanting to make a good first impression, and because the people pleasing side of you of course heeds any request, unspoken or otherwise, you on instinct raise your hand and give him the weakest, floppiest high-five. There's sweat on his palm and it smears against yours when you peel your hand away. Ah. Hopefully the disgust isn't evident on your face.

Murai fingerguns you with a wink. "A team player. You love to see it. A general you, of course."

You have no idea what the fuck he just said but you nod and laugh along like the socially awkward monster you are. "Aha, yeah. I guess?"

"Lay off, Murai. She won't understand your gross eccentricities." Sakusa swings his gaze back towards you. "And don't enable him. He'll never stop. He's like a fucking dog whose behavior is guided by operative conditioning based solely off of positive reinforcement."

"Well I'm in luck since according to a poll taken last year, about fifty percent of the population is comprised of dog people." Murai continues fingergunning you to the point you're worried he's stuck on an infinite loop. "So what's it gonna be? I've got a fifty-fifty chance here. You a dog person?"

"Dogs are nice," you say. What the fuck who words it like that? You sound like you're some alien creature from outer-space trying to assimilate with mankind.

"Gross," says Sakusa.

Murai fist-pumps and salutes you. "Knew it. You had those vibes. Man's best friend, right? What's your favorite breed?"

You have no clue. You've never owned a dog before. When's the last time you've seen one in person? "The Labrador."

"Double knew it." Murai conveniently grows bored of talking to you and returns his attention to Sakusa. "You pumped for today's match?"

"As I'll ever be," Sakusa says simply.

"They've got a talented setter. Knows how to hide his hands." He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie for effect. "And their blockers are infamous for stuffing every ball."

"I'll just break through their blocks, then." Sakusa shrugs. "Or go around them. They're not a powerhouse team."

Murai laughs and shakes his head. "Whatever you say, dude. Are you on your way to practice? I'll help you stretch."

"I don't need help stretching."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' I'll see you at the gym." He nudges his face towards yours and pulls one hand out from his pocket to send you a wave. "Would you like to watch us practice? We don't get much of an audience."

Sakusa heaves a sigh. "Because. It's practice. Nobody watches practice. You don't have to watch us practice."

Before you can pop open your mouth for a response, Murai is huffing out an offended squawk. "We look so cool when we practice! The secret is it's far less tense when we're not playing against an opponent team, so we're at liberty to really pull off some cool, experimental moves. C'mon, c'mon. The stands are all empty. It's lonely. It'd be cool to know someone's observing us!"

There's too much spotlight on you, and you're not sure you have the stamina to watch some dudes play who you're not friends with. Even acquaintances seems like too generous a term. You try to mentally parse through friendly ways of declining his offer, but fortunately Sakusa steps in with the save.

"Stop pressuring her. She's busy with schoolwork." Sakusa lifts his chin up and tampers with his phone. "I won't be able to contribute to the project tonight because of a game. If you could work on the segment I've assigned for today—"

"Yeah! My pleasure, really." Thank youuuu, Sakusa. Absolute life saver. Whether he knew it or not, or maybe he genuinely didn't want your presence anywhere near him more than necessary, this freed you from Murai's pleas for attendance. "I'll go ahead and work on it tonight. I hope you guys have a good game at baseball—I mean, volleyball. Volleyball."

A gasp tumbles from Murai's lips. "Do I look like a baseball kinda guy? That's the most boring sport."

"You'll have to forgive her," says Sakusa, with something reminiscent of a smug grin on his face. It's so tiny, so microscopic, that you think it's the blaring overhead lights playing a trick on you. "She's not a sports person."

"Noted," says Murai gravely. He claps his hands together and bows his head in prayer towards you as he walks backwards. "I pray you one day realize that you're sleeping on the coolest sport to ever exist. And that you look up my name online to watch clips of my nasty dumps."

"Your what?" you say, gut-punched and reeling.

"Again. Not a sports person. Stop throwing terminology at her she won't understand, you idiot."

"It was intentional! The look on her face is hilarious!"

"It's really not," says Sakusa.

Murai's not listening, his bellyfuls of laughter drown out Sakusa's response and he's literally holding his abdomen like he's afraid his internals are going to spill out. Meanwhile your hands feel too inactive, your legs are walking through jelly, and a pulse rings in your ears. This is it. This is pure, unadulterated embarrassment.

What makes it worse is you can tell Murai's not trying to actively make you uncomfortable.

Sakusa rubs behind his ear, fingers assuaging the chafe marks from where the elastic band of his mask meets his skin. He squints at Murai. It shuts him up and he smiles apologetically at you.

"Sorry, did I go too far?" he says.

You nod. "Just a little. But don't worry, it's just hard to match your energy right now."

"Noted, I'll tone it down a notch." He pushes his thumb and index finger together.

"Thanks," you say.

Sakusa and Murai move further away from you as the hallway forks into two different directions. You take the hint, and wish them one last goodbye and a good day.

Murai's eager "You too" overlaps with Sakusa's more quiet "Goodbye." But you don't miss the way your last name falls from lips. His expression is still as uncaring, impassive as ever, but this doesn't stop the way your heart squeezes in an unfamiliar way, or the buzz riding through your veins, and the tightening of your throat.

Of course.

You found him handsome, you found his mannerisms both no short of irritating and also endearing, but did this really have to mean you like him? Then you realize, this is a feeling you haven't had since elementary school. Since you were forced to hold hands with a classmate, and experienced them squeezing onto you like a lifeline. Experienced them laughing at a joke you told, like it was the funniest fucking thing they'd ever heard. Experienced them pushing their crayon box your way when they saw you ran out of blue ones to color in your sky. Experienced them sneaking their food onto your tray with a gleeful smile while the teacher wasn't looking.

That feeling of being the most important person in the world, even if it's for two minutes or two seconds or the time it takes for someone's mouth to form the letters of your name.

You wanted to be Sakusa Kiyoomi's friend.

Not even ten minutes later your phone vibrates with a message.

Chair stealer: Sixth floor. Staff building. Vending machine near room 631 is always overstocked with canned coffee. Sorry about Murai.

Chair stealer: He's a highly acclaimed setter, and like most setters of that kind of caliber he has an infuriating personality.

You: Do all highly acclaimed setters boast about their nasty dumps

Chair stealer: Unfortunately.

You keep chronic tabs on your life. As in, everything stays in its designated slot; there's no spillover, no runoff. There's a routine, a rhythm, and if there's a disruption it takes you three momentous lung refills to become marginally less angry. This has made your university life a turbulent one.

Ever since elementary school you had it all planned out—Actually, no. Ever since the womb you had it planned out. Meticulous note-taking on which academic pursuit best complemented your interests, the spread of classes per semester which would guarantee the speediest graduation date. It was all. Planned out.

Yet you didn't account for the people you'd meet along the way. You weren't prepared for the roadblock in the form of your roommate barring entry into your own fucking dorm at midnight because she's too busy sucking face with an alumni she's starry-eyed for. You didn't account for the instances of being ragdolled to social outings—Which by the way, were an excuse for peers to copy off your homework.

Yeah. It turns out you were grossly underprepared. So it's when you're wiping the remnants of sleep from your eyes as you walk through the classroom doorway that you see your seat—Your seat was stolen. As in: A seat that is yours. You claimed it. It's yours. You've sat in it all semester. You have cried literal tears in that seat from test fatigue, from stress fatigue, from anxiety fatigue. Fatigue.

The chair that has supported you in more ways than one has someone else sitting in it.

Immediately your world comes crashing down into a fiery column of mundane complications gone wrong. Fuck! "Fuck." Shitting hell. "Goddammit."

Your teeth are glued together with your tongue wedged between them. A habit of self-destruction. You were about to chew off your own tongue from anger. Fuck. The professor straggles in behind you and clears his throat. It makes that disgusting rattle-chain of phlegm noise.

You move from him and steal the seat next to what is your seat, purposefully shouldering off your backpack and letting its textbook-laden body punch against the ground.

The man in your seat turns to give you a lidded glare. Even has the audacity to scoot away from you and wedge his face mask further up the incline of his nose. A part of you wants desperately to spite him and inch your chair closer, but you weren't petty enough. Unfortunate. Returning his reproachful gaze was enough for now.

You both put aside your differences for the lecture, clearing a workspace for notes. It's here you notice one of several things. Your current seat does not adjust. There's no knob you can twirl, no button, nothing, nada. Your feet are suspended an inch off the ground, and your thighs are adhering to the underside of the table.

Second, it squeaks. So much. Any minute movement instigated a cacophony of orchestral chair noises. Holy shit. The pen in your fingers threatens to shatter.

Time oozes. You linger in a mental limbo, not quite disassociating but also not quite there. Autopilot is most apt. Awake and alive enough to take notes verbatim, but dead and dying inside enough to mourn the loss of your chair for an hour and twenty minutes straight. The professor turns off the projector and dismisses the class.

You're about to jerk out of your chair and force feed your notebook into the mouth of your backpack when the chair stealer speaks.

"Partnerless?"

The word doesn't register. It doesn't sound like a word. Your brain, still in autopilot, manages to force some semblance of response out of your mouth. "I'm single and not looking to date."

His brow bunches into a wrinkly mass of skin and his eyes squint at you, roving up and down like he's second guessing all life choices that brought him here.

"No," he says, "I mean you don't have a partner for the project."

Oh. Ah. You see. Wait. Project? You rip open your notebook and examine the red ink hemorrhaging across one of its pages. There, in all capital letters to indicate a high priority assignment, was: PROJECT. DUE ON SEVENTEENTH. ACQUIRE PARTNER. []

"Crap," you say eloquently, "crap crap crap. The seventeenth—That's like—"

"Seventeen days from now? Yes." With clinical care he slides his notebook into his backpack. You notice he's also carrying a duffel bag that he pushes out of your line of sight when he spots you staring at it. "Take out your phone."

On instinct you obey, cringing at your Simon Says reflexes honed from the years of playing the part of a heeding daughter and obedient teacher's pet. From context clues alone you understand what he's about to do, so you thumb open your notes app and proffer your phone out to him. His face contorts even more, and you grow concern he's going to break the laws of anatomy—If such a thing exists.

"Do you not want type out your phone num—"

Like ammo from a machine gun, numbers fall from his lips and you force down a surprised intake of air in a race to type it all down. He then forces his arms through his backpack straps, adjusts the left one, gives you one last cutting look, and walks off with his duffel bag slung across his right shoulder.

You stare after him and soon you're alone. At least your chair is free.

There's a problem here. It hits you three days later when you're knee-deep into your Calculus II homework and integration by parts is no longer a powerful distraction. You don't know your partner's name. You don't know if it's okay to text him—Well. Obviously it's okay to text him. He gave you his phone number. Fuck.

This is awkward. Your heart hammers and your palms spill out buckets of sweat, smearing against your writing utensil and drenching your paper. Ahhh. God. Get it over with. Initiate. Do it. You can do it. It's a single text. The more time you squander, the more you'll feel inclined to saddle yourself with the entire project and let him piggyback off your efforts.

It's something you wouldn't particularly mind, but if you had to deal with his murderous scowls and unspoken judgments then—Augh. You lean over and procure your phone from its charging station.

You: Hello, it's me. Your partner. What time works best for you?

Aaaaand now you're cringing. You return to your homework and force your brain to comb through your memorized catalog of trig identities. Your phone vibrates.

Chair Stealer: 6PM to 8PM

You: K. Where.

Chair Stealer: Room 201

Pause button. What.

You: Building?

Chair Stealer: Dorms

There's so much wrong here. You're about to contest it, suggest that the library is more appropriate, how you'd even prefer studying in the fucking laundry room than some dude's dorm. But this stilted text-conversation has your skin crawling, and you'd like to avoid any more unnecessary interaction with this guy.

You send a thumbs up emoji and drill twenty different questions of integration by parts and substitution into your skull until it cracks open and your brain squelches out.

It's 5:50PM and you're waiting outside room 201 with your backpack hooked over your shoulder and your eyes rooted to the clock on your phone. If you knock too early, won't that be weird? But if you arrive too late you'll look sloppy. And you're anything but that. You're an anti-mess. A not-mess. You're organized, and everything is okay, you know what classes you'll be taking next semester, what you need to graduate—

"Please move."

You fly to the side of the hallway, hands flattened against the peeling wall panels.

There he stood, chair stealer. His eyes perpetually lidded, tired, and exuding a "please don't talk to me or I'll unexist myself" kind of vibe. He hunts through his duffel bag for a pair of keys. They jingle a merry tune as he stabs them into the lock and opens the door.

"Sorry," you say a little too late, and not sorry-sounding at all. You follow after him, careful not to touch anything lest he'll fucking turn around and gut you with his keys.

He mumbles something in response. Words trapped under his mask. You ask him to repeat, but he doesn't. He simply slips off his backpack and duffel bag, organizing them into the storage space under his bed.

"Is there anywhere I'm allowed to sit?" You hope you made that sound as passive aggressive as possible.

He nudges his shoulder in the direction of a chair tucked under a desk. "There's fine."

You're grateful he's allowing you to sit anywhere at all. You situate yourself and hook your laptop up to its power supply. "So for this project, I was thinking—"

"We split it into parts. We have two weeks left which means we allot out the first half this week, second half the next. I've already composed a calendar where I've planned out segments of the project we do per day until it's completed. It gives us three days of legroom where we can edit the essay before submission."

Oh. This is a change of pace. So your partner wants to hold the reigns and dictate the pace of the project. This is nice. You nod. "That sounds fine. Thank you for thinking ahead like that."

"This is my standard procedure for anything," he says, eyes wandering towards your backpack on the floor. "Do you play volleyball?"

"The sport?" Please, brain. Work.

He stares at you. "Yes."

You angle your face away from him in a futile act of hiding the dusting of red across your cheeks. "No? I mean, no. Why?"

He expels a sigh, shoves a hand into his curls and gives one last look at your backpack. Specifically the charm hanging from the zipper. It's of some mascot character you were unfamiliar with, but your roommate had very lovingly thrown it at your head as an apologetic gesture of keeping you out of your room overnight last week.

You could cobble together context clues. That's all you could do. Your partner is not a very verbose person.

"Does playing volleyball have anything to do with the charm?"

His eyes squint. "Forget it. I've invited you to edit the document; check your email."

Oh shit abrupt topic change. You stiffen and flex your fingers before bringing up your school email and checking the column of messages in your inbox. Straddling the top of the column was an invite to—

"Kiyoomi Sakusa?" you say.

His grunt of affirmation is all you need and you click on it. Suddenly your window cranks open a new tab and a document stares back at you with linebreaks denoting what segment of the project needs to be done each day, available research journals in your university database you can use related to your topic, and an MLA citation guide.

Wow. You're impressed and you hated it! "This is, wow, this is amazing! You thought this far ahead?" Your feelings come freefalling out of your mouth unbidden. God you hated yourself sometimes. "Yeah. Yeah, gosh, this is amazing. You're amazing."

He sits on the edge of his mattress and perches his laptop on his thighs. Doesn't dignify you with a response. Honestly, you're relieved. You denote which portion of the essay you'll work on, and Sakusa supplies you with a barely audible: "Okay."

The thrum of keyboard tapping and notebook page-flapping fills the room with the ambiance of two hyperfocused university students. You're grateful he's not much of a talker, since you're not either. Not to say this is a comfortable silence, because it's not. Not by a long shot. But the prospect of looming smalltalk is far more stomach-churning to you than a pregnant pause.

One hour passes and you've already finished your slice of the essay for the day. You scroll down to see Sakusa's—

"Wait hold on," you say (he does not hold on, he still attacks his keyboard at 120 words per minute), "you're doing more than we need for today."

He glances at you before returning to his screen. "And what?"

"If you binge write the essay it's going to get sloppy."

"It won't."

The disbelief is not kept from your voice. "It won't? You misspelled the word 'constitutional' in the previous sentence. The structure's all off. Parallelism be damned, dude. C'mon." You can't maintain even a façade of professionalism at this point. He's exhausting.

He finally retracts his claw-hooked fingers from his keyboard and exhales. An edge of exasperation bites into his tone. "It's fine. I don't understand this mentality of 'overdoing' an essay. If we get it done earlier, we get it done earlier. Then we have more time to edit. Since you know so much about grammar and sentence structure then you can take care of it and I can finish this on my own."

"Then what was the point of the calendar?"

"A reassurance."

He's outclassed you in overpreparedness. Whatever preparedness you have going for you he's got in spades. You're too tired to push yourself to continue writing for the sake of not feeling like a burden, but also what the fuck you don't want to be a burden!

"Can't you call it a night here?" you say. "Since we're ahead by a sizable margin then we can—"

Aaaand he's ignoring you. The sad truth? You couldn't tell if he did it spitefully or because he genuinely doesn't understand how rude he's being. A lack of social awareness. You lean back into the chair and watch as words vomit across the document for the next thirty minutes. Then it stops.

Sakusa twists out of his bed and stretches his arms over his head, wrists bending in savagely cruel degrees where his palms can caress against his forearm. Your mouth opens, and your reaction goes noticed.

"It doesn't hurt," he says. A canned response laced with a trace of caution, like he doesn't know if you'll freak out or jump with excitement. "So don't ask me if it does."

"I wasn't going to," you say like the liar you are. Then you attempt to spring some smalltalk on him. "Are you ambidextrous?"

"What."

"Can you use both your—"

"I know what it means. I just don’t understand where that line of questioning came from." His jaw clicks. "The answer is no, by the way. I'm not."

Well fuck you for trying to start a proper conversation. You should've stuck with your anti-talk policy and not have bothered. Unfortunately Sakusa does not leave it die, and probes the lifeless conversation with a stick.

"Are you ambidextrous?" he says.

"I wish I was."

His muscles relax and he sits on the mattress again. "Why?"

"Because my right hand cramps up when I take notes. It'd be nice if I could just use my left hand when that happens."

"Not surprising given how you hold a pen." He leans against the headboard of his bed and rubs a hand against his shoulder. Looks like he's sore.

"How would you know?"

"I was forced to witness you mercilessly choking your pen in a deathgrip the entire class."

You're about to ask which class when the memories are dug up in your brain like a film strip unspooling. The anger flashes through you, white-hot and consuming when you remember—"Chair stealer!"

"Excuse me?" he says.

"Excuse yourself from my chair next time you decide to steal it from me."

It's all lost on him. The slope of his nose creases and he slips down his mask so it hugs the underside of his chin entirely. "That's my chair, actually." He points at the one you're sitting on.

"No! The one in class. That's my chair."

"It's the property of the campus, actually."

"Actually," you parrot in a voice mocking but not even close to resembling his own, "it's the one I claimed. Since the first day of class."

His lips downturn and he shucks of his shoes, slotting two fingers against their heel collars and pulling them closer to his bedpost. "Look, I don't understand if this is a bit. If it is, please stop. And if it isn't." He looks at you. "I'll sit somewhere else next class."

Oh. That was easy. You figured for a guy so obstinate in writing the entire essay in one sitting he'd put up more of a fight. Though on closer examination, you can see the hard edges of his eyes and the discoloration under them. An easy win because the poor dude is sleep-deprived.

"You need to rest," you say. You stand up and collect your things from his desktop. "I don't want to keep you up. If I see you working on the document anymore tonight, I'm going to delete it."

It's an empty threat, and Sakusa sees right through you somehow as if he already has your entire personality, disposition, and history memorized. His demeanor is still lax, there's no change; he doesn't even blink. "Alright."

You yank on your backpack, and just before you're about to leave his room, the low, tired rumble of Sakusa's voice stops you in your tracks: "It's Vabo-chan."

For a moment you're confused, but then it clicks. You awkwardly shrug one of your backpack straps off your shoulder and twist it around to point at the charm hanging from it. "This?"

He nods, eyelids drooping. He suppresses a yawn. "Yeah. It's a volleyball mascot. Hence why I asked, well, you know." He shrugs.

"Do you play volleyball?" you say.

There's a glimmer of a smile on his face before it's gone like it's never existed, like it was just a glitch and he soft rebooted. "Sometimes."

"Oh, cool!" Nothing in your voice indicates that you find it cool, and you wince internally. Ugh. Playing it off, you add on, "Maybe I'll watch you play sometime? I don't really know any of the rules, though. I'm kind of a noob at all sports."

"It's fine. You don't have to force yourself. If you're not a sports person then you're not a sports person." Another sharp yawn leaves him. It's noiseless, but you can tell he's trying to stave off his fatigue in order to keep up appearances.

When you tell Suna over a bowl of curry at lunch, he doesn’t take you seriously. “You say that like you haven’t been trying, since you saw him going on a date with someone else.”

You frown back at him. That had been the first time you’d realised that nothing was going to come out of your feelings. After seeing him in that cafe with another girl, this is the conclusion you’ve reached. To Osamu, you were just a friend so your feelings would never come to any fruition.

It’s fine, you think to yourself. You’ve had months to accept it, and now it’s time for you to move on. “I haven’t tried hard enough,” is what you say.

“And why is that?” Suna asks, looking at you seriously.

“Do you really have to be serious all the time?” You pout. “Do you really have to be a psych major right now?”

“I’m genuinely asking you,” he responds, “because I want to know how different things will be this time around.”

“Ok, but I’m determined this time!” You smile, “I’m in my early 20s, my prime years— don’t you think someone as pretty as me deserves to have a fun love life?”

In response, Suna starts eating again and you whine at him. “Rin, come on, won’t you help me out?”

“The best way to move on is to just tell him how you feel and let him reject you.” he says seriously. “You’re the type of person who needs a rejection, otherwise you’ll just keep hoping.”

“What hope are you talking about?” You ask. “I’ve never actually believed that Osamu would date me. It was just a lot of wishful thinking.” You say this matter-of-factly, as if you’re talking about the weather, or like how Miya Osamu has grey hair. “I don’t need to be rejected so I don’t need to confess anything.”

Suna sighs at your words. “So what are you going to do? Use somebody as a rebound to get over him? How are you even going to do that when you compare everyone to Osamu.”

You open your mouth to deny but he beats you to it. “Don’t even— do you know how many times I’ve witnessed you rejecting someone because ‘they’re not as nice as Osamu’, or because they’re not being romantic enough? This isn’t a movie Y/N. You have to start being more realistic.”

“Then what do you want me to do?” you pout. “It’s not my fault everyone pales in comparison! It’s not like I can just date him to get it out of my system.”

The gears start to turn in your head as soon as the words leave your mouth. You’ve read enough novels, and watched enough movies to know that fake-dating someone you like can only end two ways: either you both fall in love for real, or get your heart broken. There’s a 99% possibility that Osamu would break your heart. But that one percent…

Your eyes light up and Suna groans, seeing the look on your face. “No, don’t even think about it.”

“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say!” you whine.

Suna just sighs, looking unconvinced, but lets you continue.

You straighten your back, declaring, “I’ll ask Osamu to be my practice boyfriend, so I can practice going on dates.”

“Terrible idea. Osamu would never agree to it.”

.

.

.

“Sure, I’ll do it.” Osamu says casually when you ask.

You blink. You had been prepared to grovel, shed tears and pull out a presentation on why Miya Osamu should be your practice boyfriend. You had even made sure to do it when he was in the middle of eating to make sure he was in a good mood. And here he was, not even looking up and agreeing? Something’s not right.

Safe to say, you’re suspicious. “Oh,” you scratch your head, “just like that?”

Osamu looks at you, in the middle of slurping some noodles, and doesn’t even take his time to finish chewing and swallowing before responding, mouth full and cheeks puffed up, “Well, you’re going to treat me, right?”

It hurts your pride that his gross manners still makes him unbelievably cute.

“Ah, there’s the Samu I know!” you clap your hands and smile when Osamu predictably glares at you.

“Nevermind,” Osamu says, turning away from you and taking his meal with him too. “You are clearly not grateful enough. It’s sad, because I am so kind.”

You want to laugh again, but you hide it with a cough. “Samu, please,” you whine, “I’ll treat you to food.”

Osamu turns back to you, but only partially. But you know you’ve successfully baited him already. “How much food?”

“As much as my minimum wage job can procure,” you promise, but with the intent to break it. Osamu was a garbage truck when it came to food, and you were going to be broker than broke if Osamu wasn’t given set limits.

Osamu nods, reaching out to fist bump you to conclude your agreement. You cheer and meet his fist.

And Suna thought you wouldn’t even get him to agree. It is really all too easy.

.

.

.

But then you didn’t really think that far ahead on what this practice dating would entail. You’re easily swept away by grand ideas and tend to forget the details for execution. Worry not, you’re already working on fixing this.

“You may be wondering why I’ve called you in for a meeting,” you begin, sitting primly at Osamu and Suna’s dining table. (To call it a dining table is like calling a child a man, but this is not your apartment, so you can’t judge too hard.)

“In my own apartment?” Osamu slides into the chair, so that you’re facing each other, “Do you ever stay at your own place?”

You narrow your eyes at him, “Of course, I do. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the practice boyfriend thingy—”

Osamu leans back, smirking, “The practice boyfriend thingy?”

You pull out a piece of paper, huffing and trying hard not to regret your decision, “I just think we should probably write down some ground rules on it, especially if you’re going to do it in exchange for compensation—”

“Did Miwa coach you through this—”

“Are you going to let me finish talking?” you wait for him to finish miming the zipping of his lips, before continuing, “Also, no, I did not learn this from our favourite pre-law student. This was in To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. I figured it’s probably good to write down what we’re both comfortable with and what kind of lessons we’ll be doing?”

Osamu looks at you thoughtfully, “Well, in terms of lessons, that’s up to you, right? Like what do you want to practise?”

When you think about relationships, you think of pretty idyllic images of first dates, holding hands while walking underneath cherry blossom trees, and kissing. You’re sure Osamu would bully you if you actually said this out loud. So vaguely, you say, “Just dating in general, I guess? The thought of going on dates makes me nervous. Like what do I do? What do I wear? What’s a good place for a date?”

“These things you kind of have to experience to know?” Osamu says, slowly, leaning forward and propping his chin on the palm of his hand, “Like we should probably just go on an actual date and you can be as bad of a first date without repercussions. I think that’s the best way.”

You nod, letting the idea sink in, “That could work.”

Osamu nods, “You can pay me back easily with a meal too,” and then he grins, “so I was thinking you should take me out somewhere expensive—”

You kick his leg under the table, “Please remember I’m a college student just like you.”

Osamu doesn’t even bat an eye at your violent reaction. “Is that it?” Osamu steals the paper and pen from your grasp and writes the word dates in a comically small font on the blank page.

You scratch your head, “I don’t really have any experience, so I don’t really know what I need to know. I’ll just trust you on this. You’re the one who’s been on a thousand dates.”

You laugh when you see the unamused expression on Osamu’s face. “You make it sound like I’ve dated a lot, it’s only been a couple of times.”

“Only been a couple of times,” you mock, “Samu, I’ve seen you at parties. You’re the biggest flirt I know.”

Your own desensitisation to Osamu’s flirtatiousness is a testament to how many times you’ve seen it. You’ve long accepted defeat. Osamu leans back in his chair and smiles, “Is that why you came to me? You clearly admire my talent.”

“That is so not it,” you roll your eyes. And then because you like to get the last word, even at the cost of being vulnerable, you glance away and admit, “It’s because I trust you the most. That’s why I asked.”

You peek at his reaction and feel a weird sense of delight at the taken aback look on his face. It’s got you feeling like you’ve won something for once.

“Oh,” Osamu says softly, and then he just looks heart wrenchingly kind. “I’ll take care of you.”

Your heartbeat ricochets off to the horizon. There is perhaps no winning against Miya Osamu.

.

.

.

The first date doesn’t happen for a while, so much so that you almost forget about the whole thing. You say almost because Suna reminds you of it every once in a while, like an evil Duolingo owl. But midterms season comes at you hard, and all the practice dating business is swept under the rug.

For the sake of your grades, you put yourself under the tutelage of Miwa, dear friend and also the scariest person you know. As long as she’s watching you, you know you’ll stay focused on work.

Like now for example, it’s a Wednesday night, which typically means watching a new episode of some zombie show at Osamu and Suna’s apartment. They had found it recently and for once, Suna was interested in a drama you had suggested. You hope they’re not watching it without you tonight as you slave over your studies at the library.

You peek over at Miwa, who is studiously outlining her textbook and comparing it with the notes she had taken in class. She looks so at peace studying, that it must be why they chose her as the model for the university’s pre-law program.

Miwa must feel you looking at her, because without even looking up from her textbook, she asks, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you say, going back to your textbook. But the history notes you’re trying to study are looking blurrier by the second. You want to take a break already, but you’ve only been here for an hour. Still, you try to persevere.

A moment later, your phone buzzes and you’re delighted to see that it’s a text from your group chat with Suna and Osamu. You swipe to see the notification:

From Suna: Where are you? Are you really studying? >:(

You snort at Suna’s doubt and reply: you’ve caught me. i’m actually on a date with miwa <3

You get a response immediately: Miwa is too good for you. She would never!!

Followed by a message from Osamu: are you :o cheating on me already?

You shake your head at Suna’s predictability. He is so obvious with his massive crush on Miwa. You ignore Osamu’s message. The teasing is an unfortunate side effect of asking him to be your practice boyfriend.

You open your camera and point it at Miwa, “Miwa, Rin wants proof that I’m actually studying with you.”

“Is Rintarou your mom?” Miwa drily asks but poses cute nonetheless.

You smirks, immediately sending the pic to the group chat. “No, but he nags like he is,” is what you tell her. You lock your phone and pretend to look at your textbook as you wait for the notifications to come in.

You don't have to wait long. Your phone buzzes so much that you have to switch it to silent mode due to Miwa’s judgemental look. You smile sheepishly and unlock your phone to see what Suna has to say.

Suna is crying in your messages: She is so cute :’(

Though almost immediately, he sends another message full of his suspicions: How do I know she didn’t send this to you?

Osamu decides to add on to his previous message: wow, so you’re really cheating on me :(

You roll your eyes at both of them and type furiously: Why would Miwa send me a selfie of herself studying to fool you? Also, please be quiet, Osamu-kun :)

But your response doesn’t even make a difference. Suna texts back: I think I have to go over there to check for myself.

While Osamu texts: Buy my silence. For the price of one shin ramen, I will be quiet for the five minutes it takes me to eat—

You put your phone down, refusing to read any further. Apologetic, you turn to Miwa, “Hope you don’t mind, but Rin might be stopping by.”

Miwa shakes her head but it’s more good-natured than anything. She smiles, “Fine. But tell him to bring coffee and snacks with him.”

“You want your usual coffee?” you ask, and Miwa hums affirmatively. You send one last text to the group chat, basically telling Suna to get you and Miwa snacks and food as well as your location in the library.

You assume that you’ll get nothing done once Suna comes around, so you actually seriously study in the meantime. You aren't that bad of a student anyway; you just need to study with someone strict like Miwa, so your brain doesn’t wander endlessly. In class, you’re actually pretty studious.

Half an hour later, you see the impact of Suna’s arrival first — in front of you, Miwa brightens considerably and when you turn around, you see Suna walking like he’s the male lead of a K-drama. He must have brushed his hair, changed his clothes from the pyjamas you for sure know he was wearing to a stylish outfit, and his smile is in full force. You can’t stand him. He did not get dressed this nicely just to check if you were actually studying.

Suna barely looks at you, and instead his attention is fully on Miwa as he cradles the coffee he got for her. “Hey, Miwa-kun.”

“Rin,” Miwa greets, tone sweet enough to replace sugar in coffee, “Is that my coffee?”

Suna nods, handing it over, “Yup, one caramel macchiato.”

Miwa thanks him with starry eyes and a smile. It’s only then you notice that Suna only had one coffee with him, and you fight the urge to whack him with your textbook. You settle for glaring at him, “What about me? Where’s the coffee I asked for?”

Suna shrugs, “I don’t have it with me. I’m sorry I accidentally dropped it, but it’s okay, your mom told me you shouldn’t be allowed to drink coffee past dinner—”

Just as you’re about to retort, somebody’s hand places an iced americano in front of you. You look up wide-eyed to see Osamu cooly winking at you, “Ah, so you were actually studying.”

“Samu,” you’re surprised to see him since he didn’t say he was coming by too, “What are you doing here?”

Osamu pinches your cheek, “I wanted to make sure we were pausing our show for a good reason.”

You pout, “I’m actually studying, so you guys don’t have to check up on me.”

“Lesson #1,” Osamu sighs, “Practice boyfriends should check up and bring coffee as support.”

You flush at that, tugging at your ear that was definitely turning bright red. “Well, thank you.”

Osamu thankfully turns his attention to Miwa and Suna, while you start sipping your coffee to distract yourself from the way Osamu is pressed to your side, and how his fingers are absentmindedly playing with random strands of your hair.

You don't know why you’re getting so affected by these things. You’ve always been touchy with Osamu, never really worrying about looking too affectionate, since you act that way with everybody. But now, it’s like the same things are felt through different lenses. Is it because Osamu is saying he’s doing things as your “practice boyfriend”? You really don't know.

Once Suna is done flirting with Miwa and thanked her for helping his poor friend study, Osamu does a small laugh and turns to you again. “Think you’ll ace your midterms?”

You sigh at the reminder but smile up at him, “With enough motivation, I should be able to. Miwa will make sure of it.”

Osamu leans down and you think it’s to kiss your head goodbye as he always does, but instead he leans close to your ear. He whispers so that Miwa and Suna can’t hear, “If you do well, I’ll take you out on that date. That should be enough motivation, right?”

“You’re so full of yourself,” you bristle at the suggestion, but Osamu just smirks as he pulls away. Where does he get the confidence and the shamelessness to say all these things?

Nevertheless, you hope all of this satisfies your heart enough, so by the time it’s over, you can easily move on and let this stupid crush go.

The way your heart clenches tells a premonition you refuse to acknowledge though.

.

.

.

Before you know it, midterms seasons pass and you’ve actually done well enough for yourself. It’s all thanks to Miwa and her hard work. You’d crashed hard at Suna’s apartment and threw yourself at his arms, whose owner had groaned and complained that you were too heavy now to be doing stuff like this. You usually ignore his complaints, because his actions are typically the opposite of his words.

Once you've gotten your dose of comfort from your best friend, you happily move on, ready as ever to put that harrowing experience aside. You won’t admit it out loud, but you had taken midterms a bit more seriously this time. You’ve never been the type to put too much pressure on yourself to do well for less important classes, but there was a prize waiting for you this time if you did well.

A date, you thought with a giddiness that had you rolling around your twin sized XL dorm bed and almost falling to the floor.

You hope your grades reflect your hard work and high hopes for once.

A week later, as you’re getting coffee with Miwa, you get the notification that your grades are up.

“Oh my god,” you exclaim, surprising Miwa beside you.

“What’s wrong?” Miwa looks at you concerned.

You shove your phone at her, “God, I can’t look, you look. Tell me that I passed.”

Miwa takes your phone from your waiting hand and you can see her click through the screen. Suddenly, Miwa frowns and you immediately panics, “Oh god, what’s wrong? How bad is it—”

Miwa hands your phone back to you, “It needs your login information.”

“Miwa, god,” you could have screamed. You put your login information quickly and hand it back to her, “Open it already.”

Miwa is patient enough that she doesn’t even roll her eyes at your demands. Your heart is pounding, jaw tense, and then suddenly, Miwa looks at you with a bright smile, “Y/N! You did really well—”

You grab your phone back to look for yourself and right there on the screen shows your midterm grades for your classes, and they’re all surprisingly… decent? They’re not just passing scores either, some of them are in the 90s range. “I can’t believe this,” you wrap your arms around her in a tight hug, “Me, doing well in all my classes? Sounds fake.”

Miwa pats your head, “See? I told you that hard work never lies. We should celebrate, preferably with some ice cream.”

You laugh, “You and Rin have the same taste. But okay, today it’s my treat. Anything you want, Miwa-kun.”

Miwa does a quiet little cheer with both her hands. “I know a place,” she says, then starts leading the way.

You screenshot your scores and send it to the person that’s been on your mind all day, worried that if you don't do that now, you’ll forget (as if you could). You mute your phone’s message notifications immediately after sending it, because you’re nervous of what Osamu will reply with. You’ll check it when you’re ready.

That time happens to come when you’ve made it back to your room and you’re happily showered and in bed. Clutching the stuffed toy you sleep with at night, you finally open your messages and see that there’s a couple messages from Osamu.

The first text says: good job!!!!!!!!!

And the second text says: should I keep my promise? :^)

You roll around in your bed to scream into a pillow. When you’ve let whatever emotion Osamu has inspired out, you calmly compose a reply: thank u and yes you should!

Osamu replies immediately: ok. be free and cute on saturday. my treat.

Your heart flutters at the text message and you hate how your brain can’t differentiate this practice date from something real. You respond: but i’m already cute all the time!!

well, Osamu’s final text message says, be even cuter. it’s a date.

You fall off the bed this time around. But if no one saw and the only evidence is that it takes you an extra five minutes to reply (your butt hurts and it’s distracting you from choosing an appropriate emoji), then did it really happen?

Your calm, cool, and collected response is: it’s a date 🕺🕺

.

.

.

Saturday comes soon enough, but not without Suna pestering you for details. It was a mistake to decide to meet at their apartment. You’re not even early, but Osamu had seen your outfit and then stomped back into his room, yelling, “Y/N, you forgot to tell me what you were wearing!”

You look down at your clothes, a nice top, some blue jeans, boots and a leather jacket. Is it not cool enough to pass Osamu’s fashion taste? Whatever, you think, settling down on the couch next to Suna, who turns to you and says, “Can’t believe this is really happening. My baby’s first date—”

“It’s not a real date,” You say cooly, “It’s for practice, stupid.”

“Oh?” Suna raises his brow, and then pulls out his phone, “Then why were you texting Miwa for date advice?”

You purse your mouth and fight the temptation to stick your tongue out, “Why do you know that? Why is Miwa snitching on me to you?”

Suna does not fight the temptation and sticks his tongue out. “We were hanging out, and she just mentioned it. I thought you were trying to keep it a secret.”

“I thought Miwa could keep her mouth shut,” you grumble, sinking back against the couch cushions. “What’s going on with you and Miwa?”

“Nothing,” Suna shrugs, nonchalant. “We’ve just been hanging out a lot. She's super fun and friendly, and she likes sushi.”

You roll your eyes, “Everything I’m not.”

Suna claps his hands with delight, “Oh? You said it, not me.”

“God, Samu, hurry up before I kill your roommate,” you call out, turning away from Suna’s ugly face. You joke, “You already look beautiful, please,I’m hungry…”

Suna snorts, leaning closer to whisper, “Hey, try not to sound like you’re absolutely in love.”

Thankfully, Osamu decides to grace you all with his presence, walking out in a very similar outfit to what you’re wearing. You stand up, surprised. “Oh, we’re matching?”

Osamu smiles proudly at himself, extending a hand towards you, “Cute, right? It’s not a date if we’re not wearing a couple look. This is lesson number one.”

“Well, you should have said so,” you pout, putting your hands on your hips.

“Ah, stop pouting,” Osamu whines, shaking his outstretched hand for you to take, “Come on, I’m hungry, we should eat already.”

You shyly take his hand, but Osamu intertwines your hands without hesitation and pulls you out of the door. It leaves you stuttering out a goodbye to Suna, who sends you two thumbs up while mouthing, stay strong!

Tell that to my runaway heart, Suna Rintarou . A couple look and they’re holding hands already? It's only eleven in the morning and there's only one word for the state you’re in: shambles. You are in shambles.

You don't know where Osamu’s taking you, but you’re content to just follow for now. As shy as it makes you, you’re glad to be holding hands too. It's a chilly morning, even with the sun high and shining; and holding hands is good for warmth, amongst other things you don't have the current mental capacity to dwell on right now.

Osamu squeezes your joined hands, "Sincerely, congrats on doing well in your midterms. I remember everything gets harder beginning your second year."

"Thanks," you give him a dimpled grin, "But, yeah, I already miss being a first year. Now I can't even skip classes."

"You shouldn't skip classes in the first place anyway," Osamu nags at you, but you just bat your eyelashes at him, innocent, and then Osamu sighs, "Okay, fine, I'm not going to lecture you when I've done my share of skipping—"

You intentionally bump your shoulders against his and laugh, "Good, that's better. You were starting to sound like Rin. No offence, but only Miwa is allowed to nag at me about school."

"Full offence," Osamu deadpans, "Why do you respect Miwa, who's younger than you, but never listen to me or Suna, huh?"

"Because Miwa can crumple me with one hand," you say easily. "She invited me to go with her to the gym once and the girl was lifting weights heavier than me. I think she invited me for a specific reason…"

Osamu throws his head back laughing, "I know Suna doesn't work out much, but I do. And I definitely lift weights heavier than you. Why aren't you scared then?"

You smile angelically and steel yourself for the potential backlash, "Well, Samu, I know you adore me. Why would I be scared of you?"

Immediately, Osamu reaches over with his free hand and pinches your cheek hard, "You think just because you're cute you're not gonna get beat up one day?"

You try to pull away, but Osamu evidently works out. Stuck in place, you stick your tongue out, “When that day comes, let me know and I’d like to see you try to catch me.”

Osamu frowns at that, letting you go and patting your cheek, “Hey, you’re not saying stuff like this to other people, right? You’re really going to get beat up one day if you are.”

This is exactly why you aren’t afraid. Osamu underneath all the smirks, all the posturing, and the daredevil attitude, is a sweet, caring person. He could have said that in the first place, but well… where’s the fun in that?

You change the subject, “Sure. Now what about food?”

“Almost there, it’s just up the street ahead.”

They come to a stop in front of a cafe, with floor to ceiling windows, wooden tables and tons of greenery. Osamu pulls open the glass door and gestures for you to go in first, and you do, with eyes flitting upon every pretty thing in the cafe. What catches your eyes is the way the light filters in from the windows and falls; what is muted becomes bright.

“Y/N,” Osamu calls you over, already looking at the menu, “What do you want to eat?”

“Woah,” you marvel at it, a simple one page menu, but there were watercolour renditions of each item they served. “Those pancakes look good, should we get that?”

“Which one? Do you want the one with fruits or with chocolate?”

You hum in thought, “Let’s go with fruit, since the strawberries look good.”

“Okay, cool,” Osamu says, then points at the drinks, “Did you have coffee already?”

“No, but I kind of want the fruity drinks instead. That strawberry lemon tea looks good too,” you murmur, scanning the menu. “Ugh, why does everything look good?”

Osamu laughs, “I think I’m going to get just an Americano.”

“Should I do that too?”

“No, you should get what you want,” Osamu gently pushes you to the counter, so you can start ordering.

You do end up ordering the strawberry lemon tea and you order for Osamu as well as your shared pancake. Just as you’re about to pull out your purse, Osamu reaches over you and tells the cashier to take his card instead.

“But—” you try to interrupt,  but Osamu just winks at you and any protests you have dies down. “My treat, remember?”

When he finishes paying, you take a table in the far corner of the cafe, right by a window. You let out a pleased sigh, looking out into the street, “This is so nice, how did you find this place?”

“A friend suggested it,” Osamu says vaguely, “I’ve actually been meaning to try it for a while, but just never had the chance.”

You nod, “Thanks for paying, by the way. Even though I’m supposed to pay…”

“Don’t worry, we can go out to eat at another time, and you can definitely pay then,” Osamu says, cheekily. “Just say thank you, Samu. You’re the best, Samu.”

“You’re the best, Osamu-kun,” you say, a touch too sincere for a practice date at eleven am. Well, you’ve never hidden your affection for him that well anyway. You don't need to when Osamu interprets it all as friendly love. Some things are better lost in translation.

Osamu glows with the praise, patting his own shoulder, “I know, wait until the food gets here, then you’ll be even more amazed.”

And you are amazed when the food gets to the table. The server approaches you with your drinks that look as dreamy as their watercolour counterparts, and the pancakes are covered in powdered sugar so fine it looks like snow. When the server sets your food on the table, you’re surprised to see actual watercolour paints, brushes and paper with the meal.

“Ta-da!” Osamu excitedly cheers, “This cafe is actually known as a place you can paint at with an order of a drink.”

You’re starry-eyed at the array of colours the cafe has provided you with. You turn to him, pouting, “Hey, why are you unfairly good at everything?”

Osamu sips his Americano and shrugs, “Some people are just perfect. What can we do?”

“Alright, alright,” you’re hungry, you’ll eat first, before Osamu eats all of it by himself.

You cut yourself a piece of the pancake, making sure to get each element of the dish on your fork, and finally eat it. You wiggle happily at the sweet taste, “This is so good. I’m happy.”

Osamu laughs, “I’m glad.”

You’re both so hungry, you finish the pancake in just a couple of minutes. You let Osamu have the last piece, “Since you paid, you can have it.”

Osamu shakes his head, “No, since it’s my treat to you, you should have it.”

You purse your lips, “I’m full. Seriously, you should eat it. I’m going to start painting.”

“You eat like a little bird,” Osamu says, amused. But he ends up finishing up the last bite of the pancake, so really, you pay him no mind. You’ve been itching to play with the watercolour paints since the beginning.

You grab a pencil to try and sketch out a scene for you to paint, but your mind comes up blank. You hum quietly in thought, “What should I draw?”

“Draw me,” Osamu suggests, striking a pose, “Paint me like one of your french boys.”

You laugh, “I’ve never actually seen that movie.”

“It’s a classic. I think even Suna has seen it,” Osamu pushes your trays of food to the side, bringing his own watercolour supplies closer to him.

“Don’t like tragic endings. What’s the point? If you’re gonna write a love story, might as well make it happy.” You watched Brokeback Mountain once. It was devastating and you’d vowed never to watch it again. “Also, sure I’ll draw and paint you, if you do the same for me. But if it’s ugly, I’m going to be real sad.”

Osamu’s jaw drops, offended, “I’ve taken an art elective once. No need to be judgy, Picasso. If mine turns out ugly, I’ll be really mad. If this was a real date, I’d be mad enough not to want a second date.”

You copy what he said in a mocking way and laugh when Osamu tries to grab you from the other side of the table. “Okay, be quiet. I need to concentrate, so I can earn this hypothetical second date.”

Osamu snorts before copying what you said in the same mocking tone. You laugh again. You get along so well.

You guys end up focusing on your drawings, promising not to reveal to each other what it looks like until you’re both finished. You realise that you’ve been too focused on painting that you’ve gone quiet for a while. “Hey, shouldn’t we be talking? Is that what people do on dates?”

“Yes and no,” Osamu answers, without looking up from his work, “You should just be having fun and getting to know the other person on a date. There’s not really a lot of rules.”

“Hmm, I am having a lot of fun not hearing your voice,” You smirk, but get a deserved kick in the leg for it. “Ow, that hurts!”

“Lesson number ten, you probably shouldn’t insult your date,” Osamu says.

“Lesson number ten, you probably shouldn’t insult your date,” You copy again in a mocking way, “Also, how are we at lesson number ten already? And how am I supposed to get to know you, when we’re already friends?”

“I’m not keeping count, I just choose whatever number pops up in my head,” Osamu says, dipping his brush in water to wash out the colour that he’s using, “Anyway, to your other question, there’s always more to know. For example, first impressions?”

“I should be asking you that,” you snort, “Pretty sure, you hated me when we first met.”

Osamu laughs out loud at that, “That’s just my face when it’s resting. Also! You were the one who hated me. Always hanging around in my apartment with Suna, and whenever I said hi, you’d just nod coldly!”

“Because!” you laugh too, “You were scary and intimidating. If only you’d cracked your lame dad jokes earlier…”

Osamu finally looks up at you, “How was I scary and intimidating? I remember I offered you oranges. I was so nice!”

“And when I peeled them, you demanded I give you some,” you say, all matter-of-fact.

“I asked nicely! I didn’t realise it was the last orange and I was hungry,” Osamu explains.

“I was under duress, what if you kicked me out if I didn’t give it back?”

“Wow,” Osamu says, “You really thought your best friend was rooming with such a scary person?”

You smile, a gesture of mock comfort, “Don’t worry, I don’t think that at all anymore.”

Osamu glares at you, before sighing. You think it’s so funny when he does that, knowing you’re the cause. Osamu goes back to finishing up his painting, “So? When did your perception of me change then?”

It is an essay worthy question.

Contrary to what Suna thinks and claims, it really wasn’t love at first sight. You don't believe in that kind of thing anyway. You think about when it all changed for you. It’s not a lie to say that your first impression of Osamu was that he was scary and intimidating. After all, Osamu was already popular in their university. You’d heard the rumours of a Miya Osamu, who was considered the top student of his grade and was one of the best in the business department even as a second year at that time. Who wouldn’t be intimidated?

And then, you had first seen him in person when you visited Suna’s apartment for the first time. You’d been sitting on the couch with Suna, and this guy walks out, dark ripped jeans, black long-sleeved sweater, and piercing dark eyes half covered by his hair. If you had to use one word to describe him, it would be captivating.

You hadn’t been able to look away from him and even when Suna officially introduced you to each other, you had been so nervous, you could only nod at him.

“Y/N?” Osamu breaks you out of your thoughts, “Is it something to think so hard about?”

“I’m trying to remember when too,” you let your thoughts wander to the answer, as your hands busy themselves with the finishing touches on your work. You switch to the colour black, just to give the drawing emphasis by outlining.

Could it have been that very first movie night, when Suna had chosen an old horror movie that had you both screaming into Suna’s shoulders?

Was it that random night you had fallen asleep on their couch and woke up covered in blankets and your head cushioned by pillows? You'd asked Suna about it, but he’d denied it was him.

Was it any of the numerous times Osamu had complained how hungry he was and yet had never hesitated to share his food with you? Or any of the numerous times Osamu had let you borrow a jacket, or a hat, or even a pair of gloves?

You can’t remember. Maybe you just woke up and knew the inevitable: there’s some people you’re just meant to fall for.

You end up giving Osamu a bullshit answer, pretending to think hard, “I think it was when you got really scared of that movie we watched. What was it, the Grudge?”

Osamu covers his face in embarrassment, “Hey, that was scary for everybody. You slept over that night too!”

“Oh,” you squint, “Was that the night we all slept on the living room floor, because we were all scared of sleeping by ourselves that night?”

Osamu nods, smiling at the memory, “I think that was even scarier, because I didn’t know you talked in your sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night wondering who you were talking to, and then had a mini freak out when I realised nobody else was there.”

You scratch the back of your neck, “Yeah, that happens…”

Osamu doesn’t make fun of you for it and just moves on, “I’m done with my painting of you. Do you need more time?”

You shake your head, pulling up your canvas and making sure Osamu can’t see it just yet, “Nope, shall we do the grand reveal?”

“Should I go first?” Osamu asks, and then smiles when you nod your head. “Okay, then,” he says, turning his canvas over. “What do you think?”

Osamu’s painting doesn’t look like you at all. It’s a cute little bear with a little orange slice in its claws surrounded by orange peels around it.

You frown, “How is that me?”

Osamu gasps, dramatic, “What do you mean? That bear is you.”

“I don’t look like a bear,” you pout, “Why is it eating oranges?”

“Because we were talking about first impressions right? This is literally my first impression of you. Ah, you were so cute and so round. You still had your brown hair then,” Osamu sighs happily. “Okay, it's your turn now. Show me what you got.”

You turn yours over, carefully watching Osamu’s expression as he takes in the art. You had drawn a cartoon version of the Osamu in front of you right now, white fleece jacket and grey hair and all, with a little fox sitting beside him, snow falling over them both.

“It looks warm,” Osamu says, and you think, what an odd thing to say about a snow scene. “You drew me so cutely and all the little details. And the colour! I think you’ve captured it very well.”

“I just pay attention,” you shrug, “Do you like it? It’s titled, Foxes in the snow.”

Osamu nods, utterly endeared by it, “I love it.”

You hand the canvas to Osamu and watch him continue to admire the work. There is something revealing here too. I pay attention, you had said like it was nothing. But that’s something of an admission, right? And if attention was the beginning of devotion, then what does it mean when you’ve always looked at him, right from the very start?

.

.

.

Nothing really changes much between you after that. Although it’s weird to have the experience of a date between you two. Some friends were exes once, some have even gone on dates, and inevitably, at least once in the course of history, friends must have practised dating, right?

You wonder how different it would be if you guys were actually dating.

Would you have ended the date with a promise for another one, instead of giving each other a friendly hug goodbye?

Would you have looked at each other shyly in your couple outfits, instead of watching all the other couples around you in theirs? (You were so embarrassed on everyone's behalf; the couple's outfit was cute on you and Osamu, but not everyone can pull it off.)

You really wouldn’t know beyond what your mind comes up with at night, when you’re alone in bed.

As for what happens next, you’ll let Osamu decide what other ‘practice dating’ things you can do. You’ll just go along with the ride.

Besides, it’s Wednesday.

And Wednesdays are reserved for Suna and Osamu and one episode of your stupid zombie show. Maybe some snacks too.

You excitedly climb up the stairs to their shared apartment. You’re wearing comfy clothes already, and you even brought a toothbrush over too, just in case, you guys end up watching something else and decide to stay over. It wouldn’t be the first time.

You get to their door and knock a sweet little beat on the door to announce your presence. At the lack of response, you knock again, and this time it’s no sweet beat but pure rage in a knock. You eventually hear someone yell, “Hold on!” but it’s cold outside and what is more important than letting you in? That’s right — nothing. So, you keep knocking.

The door opens up suddenly, and Suna looks at you so unimpressed, “I said hold on.”

“But it’s cold,” you pout, shouldering your way in. Their apartment is nice and toasty warm; you shed your jacket, placing it over the back of the couch, and go immediately to the kitchen for a drink.

“Did you eat already?” Suna asks, coming to stand with you in the kitchen, “Samu said he wanted to order some pizza and fried chicken, do you want to join in?”

“I already ate dinner, but I wouldn’t mind a couple bites. How much are you guys ordering?” you find the green tea that you stored in their cupboard for safekeeping with the excitement of a scavenger looking for gold.

Suna shrugs, “I think he said he was ordering some pepperoni, margherita and maybe a hawaiian.”

You frown, “And you’re getting fried chicken on top of that?”

“And snacks,” Suna confirms, “Samu said class was so tiring, and that he needs to cheer himself up with food.”

Osamu has always been a hard worker. You and Suna work hard on your own respective courses too, but Osamu is a little more… passionate about his. Even outside of class, he spends a majority of his time cooking up new dishes to try. Most of the time when you come over, there’s a new dish waiting for you to try. There’s talent and then there’s hard work, you think, and it fills you with awe to be able to witness both in someone you can call your friend.

This sentiment stays with you through the rest of the night, even when you’ve settled on their couch and are waist-deep in the show’s plot filled with political intrigue and, well, zombies. On the television screen, the drama’s main lead, the Crown Prince barely escapes the Crown’s army once again. The three of you are sitting side by side on the floor, with Suna and Osamu flanking each of your sides, mindlessly eating the takeout as you’re all gripped by the scenes unfolding on the screen.

It’s kind of gross, you think, watching the dead bodies pile up on screen parallel the pile of chicken bones piling up in front of you. You had claimed three slices of pizza and three chicken wings and felt full (benefits of actually having dinner), so you felt content to lean back against the couch and just watch.

“How long do you guys think you’d last in a zombie apocalypse?” You wonder out loud.

Suna snorts, “I think I would die pretty early on.”

“I think I would make it pretty far,” Osamu interjects, then points a chicken bone at Suna, “You should stick with me, you’ll live longer.”

You smile sympathetically at Suna, “Suna, I think you would die early too. You’re the self-sacrificing type, so I’ll make sure to stick with you. I know you’ll save me.”

“Wow,” Suna frowns at you, which would be more impactful if his mouth wasn’t glistening with pizza sauce. “If I become a zombie first, I’ll make sure to eat you first,” Suna pinches your cheek, aggressive enough that you yelp, “I’ll bite you right where the fat is.”

You pull away, rubbing your cheek. You glare, “You think I won’t shoot you in the head first? You won’t get even close enough to bite me.”

“Ha,” Suna scoffs, the side of his mouth quirking up into a smirk, “As if. You’d be crying over my pre-zombie infected body. And you’ll be so sad that you won’t even notice I’ve turned already and then you’ll be bitten.”

You roll your eyes and laugh mockingly, turning to Osamu, “Are you hearing this?”

But Osamu just starts laughing at you both instead, his clean hand coming up to cover his mouth. Suna reaches over with his socked foot, across your lap, to poke at Osamu, “Hey, is the hypothetical cannibalistic deaths of your favourite friends so amusing?”

“The two of you,” Osamu says, swallowing the food in his mouth, “are so damn funny.”

You bite your lips, trying to hold back a smile. It’s devastatingly easy to earn Osamu’s laughs, and you’ll do all kinds of stupid to be the cause of it. You turn to Suna, shaking your head in disappointment, “Wait till we’re both zombies and we come for him.”

Suna shakes his head too, “Look at him eating so well. That’s right, eat up! You will be so tasty when we turn into zombies and eat you.”

Osamu is unfazed by your threats, just keeps chuckling as he picks up another chicken drumstick in his hand. You turn back to the actual show playing before them, and it’s close to the end of the episode by the looks of it. You know what cliffhangers look like.

Here’s a cliffhanger: there’s a small spot of honey chilli chicken sauce right at the corner of Osamu’s mouth. Who’ll get to it faster? Osamu or you?

Even you don't know how this ends, but what you do know is your own self-restraint. Or is it your own fear of being known? Either way, the stupid little spot mocks you and makes itself known even from the corner of your eye.

Your hands feel restless in your lap and it would be so easy to grab the napkins that came with the delivery order and make your move. This means nothing. Wiping someone’s mouth is something that could be considered a super friendly gesture. Actually, your big brain interjects, you don’t even have to wipe it yourself. You could just point it out. And at that, your mouth moves faster than whatever doubt yout mind can further conjure, “Samu, you’ve got something on your face.”

“Hmm?” Osamu turns to you, hands holding both ends of the drumstick, “I do?”

You nod and point to where it would be on your own face, “Like around right here?”

Osamu stupidly looks at his own hands, sees how dirty it is, and like he’s possessed by all the gods who are conspiring against your happiness and success, he says, “My hands are dirty. Can you get it for me?”

You could fucking sigh, but all you actually do is nod, casual and overly non-chalant, “Yeah, sure.”

You grab the napkin and watch Osamu angle his cheek towards you, while keeping his eyes on the television. You gently cup his cheek and lean close, carefully dabbing the spot away with the napkin. You make the mistake of looking at Osamu’s eyes as you do it, only for Osamu to catch you doing that.

You pull away immediately and feel your ears turn hot as you discard the napkin. “There, I got it.”

Osamu smiles, something shameless and sharp, “That was so heart fluttering, Y/N.”

“Shut up,” you cover your ears, burying yourself into Suna’s side. “You’re so annoying.”

Your response just makes him look even more pleased. So, you correct yourself. One thing has changed — Osamu’s flirting with you, and you know it’s not serious, but you still turn red every time. It’s a new discovery that Osamu will clearly not let go off any time soon. It’s dangerous.

She could feel how hot her face was as she tried to plaster on a smile, “Uh, Mr. Miya I-”

“Y/n i'm messin with ya. And please just call me Atsumu.”

“But you’re my boss, I can’t just-”

Atsumu rolled his eyes, “Sunarin is yer boss, honestly. Not me.”

“Still you’re the head of-” Her cheeks were still red but now for new reasons.

“I know, I know, I'm the prince of this nepotism circus. It's a technicality, really. Just treat me how ya did earlier.”

Y/n sighed with frustration, “He may be my direct superior but-”

“Don’t think so hard ab-”

“WILL YOU LET ME SPEAK?!” 

Finally, he was quiet and the two watched each other like they were both feral dogs about to pounce at any second. The silence was so heavy, the air was charged. Atsumu swallowed the lump in his throat. 

“I'm sorry. . . I was feelin. . . passionate.” He frowned regretfully as he shrunk back in his chair. She nodded.

“And I'm sorry I raised my voice. I got worked up pretty fast,” Y/n dared to give him a small smile, her stomach buzzing like she was about to walk off a ledge. In a way, she sort of was, “I had a rough morning. I rode the train here with the biggest douche.”

His eyes lit up again as he smiled back, “I bet he was insanely handsome.”

Y/n shrugged, “He was alright. Look. . . I'm sorry if what I said on the train offended you. I'm sure you’re perfectly qualified for your job and you have no stick in any unsavory places.”

“Y/n I promise I wasn’t offended. You made me laugh. People aren’t usually so honest with me. It was nice to hear.”

She gave him a nod, chewing on the inside of her lip nonetheless, “Well, thank you for being so cool about this. Did you need to talk to me about anything else? Like, manager stuff?”

“Mmm, we covered all the introductions earlier, so nothin else. Sunarin will help you get settled, but if ya need anything at all feel free to ask me.”

She rose out of her seat and bowed her head slightly before turning to leave. 

“Y/n, wait.”

She spun back around to face him, “Yes?”

“If it wouldn’t make ya too uncomfortable, please just treat me the same way as ya did this morning. I think. . we have a good back and forth, ya know?”

They did? 

Under normal circumstances, she would have said no. But the past month had changed her, hardening her in some places and softening her in others. What the hell did she have to lose at this point? 

(Deep down inside her, she registered that she was also making this decision with her vagina. And she was also fine with that.)

“Ok I will. But I'm only going to call you Atsumu when it's just the two of us. Around anybody else it's Mr. Miya.”

“That’s romantic.”

“It’ll be more romantic when I report you to H.R.”

He hissed like she’d hurt him and pointed to the door, “Go account, Y/n.”

“On it, Mr. Miya!” Y/n turned and called over her shoulder.

  - - -

Even though she had bashed the office job, it wasn’t shaping up to be too bad. Right after her meeting with Atsumu, she met the rest of her coworkers one by one. There was Tooru Oikawa, who worked in finance the same as her. His desk was right next to hers, pushed together in an L shape. It was covered in all types of alien knick knacks: an alien mug, alien picture frame, little alien figurines. 

Y/n opened her mouth to ask about them and he cut her off before she even started.

“To be honest, space kind of scares me. I'm not even into the supernatural or anything like that. I am the victim of a 5 year long running joke. I drank too much with my friends one night and compared the guy I was seeing to an alien- in a cute way- not a weird way. We broke up like two weeks later but they never stopped getting me alien stuff. I threw the first couple of things out but now I am a proud owner of a growing collection of alien themed items.”

Y/n blinked and tried to digest all she was told, “You just said so many words.”

“We’re deskmates. You have to know all your Oikawa lore.” He glared. 

She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her laughter but it was a losing battle, “Well, thank you, I feel very informed right now.” 

“You’re laughing at me. I'm gonna remember this and treat you the same when you tell me all the L/n lore.”

“That’s going to be devastating.”

At first Y/n thought he was just a giant nerd, but she soon learned that everything he said was usually wrapped up in at least seven layers of sarcasm. He said most things to amuse himself. Tooru laughed at his own jokes more than other people’s. And when he wasn’t being sarcastic, he was saying outlandish bullshit that made her brain pop. On top of it all, he was a numbers genius, and he liked making sure other people knew it too.

Somehow, she got along well with Tooru. Y/n enjoyed petty arguments with him, and talking about stupid, pointless things.

After him, she met the sales team, which only consisted of three people. First, there was Hitoka Yachi, who was sweet and bubbly. Then, Y/n met Daichi Sawamura who was also very kind when he first greeted her. Mostly, he kept to himself but he seemed to get on well with the rest of the sales department. 

Those two were nice, though her favorite salesperson had to be Kiyoko Shimizu. Upon their introduction, Y/n instantly admired her. By far, she was the coolest in the office, all sleek and glamorous in an understated way.

Tooru caught Y/n staring one day and she was a bit mortified, expecting him to hold the slight crush over her head. But he had simply shaken his head and assured her that she wasn't alone, “If our office was an anime, we would be a harem romance, and all of us losers would be a part of Kiyoko’s harem.”

“That was such an oddly specific way to say we all think Kiyoko’s hot.”

Tooru looked proud, “I painted a really clear picture though, didn’t I?”

She exhaled in defeat, “. . . Ok yes. It was a good analogy.”

Reaching over his desk he held out his knuckles to her, and begrudgingly Y/n fist bumped him.

Over the course of a month, Y/n settled in and had adjusted completely to the new job. Accounting wasn’t her first choice, but she did it with ease. For the most part, everyone at Miya inc(k)! was kind and easy to get along with (minus Mr. Suna and Kageyama, but they had the people skills of rocks). 

In particular, her manager was a little too easy to get along with. 

It had started during her second week of work, when she had been sorting through some files and Koshi came up to let her know she was needed in Mr. Miya’s office. 

When Y/n made her way over and let herself in, she found Atsumu waiting for her at his desk along with two cups from Housecog. Y/n shut the door.

“You needed me?” She took a seat in front of him.

“I'm so bored,” he whined. Through the sleeves of his collared button up, she couldn’t help but notice his biceps.

“Hmm. Have you tried working?” He must have been working out all the time to have arms like that.

“I finished my entire workload Monday. So yes I have tried it.”

Y/n snapped out of her daze and met him with furrowed brows, “If you finished all your work for the week, do you even need to be here?”

“I don’t. But my pops disagrees. And whatever he wants, he gets.” He’d said it as a joke but it felt more weighted than a petty jest.

“The king of the nepotism circus rules with an iron fist, huh?”

Atsumu slumped down in his seat, “The ironest. That coffee there is for you by the way.” He nodded his head in the direction of the cup closest to Y/n.

Her heart fluttered against her will. 

“You shouldn’t get me coffee, Atsumu. I don’t want any special treatment just because we’re friends.” She chided, before grabbing the cup and taking a sip. It was hot and smooth and he had gotten her order just right.

He smiled , “How does that special treatment taste?”

“. . .It tastes great. But don’t get me coffee again unless you’re getting for the whole office. Okay?”

“Fine. .Yer, a real worry wart Y/n.”

Her nose scrunched up at the name, “You could stand to worry a little more. Now I need to get back to my work. I believe this is what they call time theft.”

“Just bring your work and do it here.” Y/n thought he might be joking but he looked serious as ever.

She gave him a hard stare.

“I just want some company. I won’t bother ya I promise. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” Atsumu held his right hand up like he was taking an oath.

“It’s going to look weird if I work in your office for no reason.”

“Just tell Sunarin and anyone else who asks, that I'm making ya go over all the reports we got from the actuary. You can pretend you’re real annoyed by me asking too, if ya wanna sell it.”

Again, Y/n stared him down and he stared right back, a non verbal game of tug of war going on between them. He won easy.

She shook her head, “Fine. Let’s not get in the habit of this lying, though.”

- - -

The two of them fell into this habit quickly. Atsumu would come up with some excuse and Y/n would be called into his office. 

She would show up more stunned each day, “Do you just pull these lies out of your asshole?!”

“Hey, come on. Ya know there’s no free real estate up there.”

Nonetheless, Y/n did get work done in his office. She would steal his desk and Atsumu would sit in his hammock chair, fidgeting with a rubix cube. Kageyama had walked in on this seating arrangement a couple of times when he came to relay messages, and they both fell victim to a loss of words. 

“I don’t want to know.” Kageyama would grumble. Then, he’d give Atsumu the necessary information and leave. A silence would fall between them when this happened, like they were two highschoolers just walked in on by their mother. Soon enough, they’d carry on like nothing happened. 

Atsumu had told Y/n that he wouldn’t bother her while she worked and that was only a half truth. Everything, anything was on the table for a conversation between them.

 She learned he had a brother- a twin- but Atsumu would still insist he was the more attractive sibling.

 He liked dogs over cats

. He had been in love twice, with people he'd  never dated. 

Mr. Suna was actually his childhood friend, they played volleyball together in highschool. (She laughed so hard her eyes began to water when Atsumu told her they had nicknamed him ‘pussybangs’) 

It had taken some stubborn coaxing for him to reveal that he had secretly joined an improv troupe in college (his great shame), and he believed he could ‘yes, and’ his way out of anything if he tried hard enough. 

When he got hungry, he got so cranky that she had to refuse to talk to him until he ate something. 

Atsumu didn’t say much on the matter but Y/n vaguely gathered he had some type of father complex. Whether it was resentment or fear, she couldn’t put her finger on it. He had become the manager of Miya inc(k)! so that his brother could choose any career path he wanted. The subtext was clear to her, he hadn’t had a choice.  Atsumu claimed it was because he was the oldest. 

“You said you were born only eight minutes before Osamu.”

“Yeah. I'm eight minutes older. Eight minutes wiser.”

“You’re a nutjob.”

He blew her off with a wave of his hand, “I wouldn’t expect an only child to understand these advanced sibling dynamics.”

Atsumu had learned a lot about Y/n too, he liked collecting all sorts of facts about her, filing them away in his mind. She had one hell of a sweet tooth, and every day she was bringing in some new kind of dessert(she always shared with him even when he didn’t ask). 

She loved sculpting and sketching, she hated painting; she could never get the blending just right.

 He learned that the real reason she needed more money for rent was because she had just moved into a new apartment after splitting up with her boyfriend of one year. He had cheated on her.

 Y/n liked to be constantly distracted, be it a t.v show playing in the background or some music. Undeniably, she had very specific music tastes. She swore she wasn’t picky but anytime Atsumu chose the music, she would scrunch her nose up and shrug, ‘It's just not for me’. 

He had found her on instagram, and once she had accepted his follow request, he noticed she used her account like ‘a goddamn scrapbook’.

 And of course when he found out she was an only child, he teased her relentlessly for it.

“I guess ya came out pretty normal considering.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?” She pouted- unintentionally it was always unintentionally-, and Atsumu swore he’d bother her all damn day if he could see her look that pretty again.

 A spike of fear would rise in his chest when he thought about her like that. Fearful or not, it would have never in a thousand years occurred to him to stop inviting her into his office the way he did. 

These times with just the two of them had become tangible to him, something he could grab and hold when he needed a pick me up. Y/n was a good pick me up.

“It means ya could be snacking on erasers right now. Maybe huffin some glue too.”

Y/n promptly chucked his own stress ball at his head. He caught it just in time.

- - -

For the most part, the office was oblivious to Y/n and Atsumu’s budding friendship. With the exception of Rintarou Suna. He knew his friend was acting strange. And the only thing he could think to trace it back to was Y/n.

 Never before had Atsumu needed someone in financial to help him , and he certainly couldn’t need her help as much as he called her in. The tasks he supposedly needed assistance with never made much sense either. When Rintaro worked up the nerve to ask him about it one day, Atsumu simply replied, ‘Ah, she’s been crunching some personal numbers for me’. He thought Atsumu could have come up with a better lie.

Not only that, since Y/n had joined their staff, Atsumu routinely began to buy coffee for the whole office. Randomly, he’d asked Kageyama to gather everyone’s go-to drink order. Now every morning like clockwork, Atsumu came into the office with a cardboard cup holder in each of his hands, delivering everyone’s order to them like some type of coffee fairy. The first couple of times it happened, Rintaro watched Y/n trying to hold back a smile as she drank, like the coffee was a part of the funniest joke. 

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him. 

Per usual, Y/n was called in to ‘assist’ Atsumu. Trying to look inconspicuous, Rintaro left his seat and turned the corner in the hallway to reach his friend’s office. Quietly, he pressed his ear to the door, determined to get to the bottom of this weird behavior. Although it was muffled, he could hear Y/n say something followed by an obnoxious bout of laughter from Atsumu. 

Suna pulled his ear away from the door and fiddled with his tie as he walked back to his desk. Rintaro didn’t know what exactly was going on between Atsumu and Y/n, but he hadn’t heard that kind of laughter from Atsumu in a long time. 

He thought if anyone deserved some pure happiness, it was Atsumu Miya. But still, he knew this was only going to spell out trouble.