mia

maybe it was when your grandmother sent you over with extra eggs and you stood at his doorstep fanning yourself with your hat.

“jesus christ, why is the countryside hotter than hell?” and kita had just stared at you for a second too long before quietly saying, “i think you should drink more water for that.” that was the first ever conversation he had with you.

or maybe it was when you started sitting on the little ledge near the irrigation ditch while kita is tying up a tomato vine carefully, sandals abandoned somewhere behind you while you complain about your cousin's wedding and at the idea of wearing a ugly bridesmaid dress that she choosed. though kita really wanted to tell you that you'd look like a goddess in any dress you wear. he just couldn’t.

even though he thinks you were specifically made for the golden hour. every evening he’s out in the fields pretending to check the crops when really he’s just waiting for you to come outside and sit on your grandmother’s porch with a popsicle melting between your fingers. he swears the whole countryside changes when you laugh. the wind feels softer. even the cicadas quiet down for a second, like the nature is making it clearer for only him to listen.

sometimes you bring him cold barley tea during harvest season and sit beside him while he works, rambling on and on while he hums along quietly. and every single time you lean closer to wipe sweat off his forehead with the edge of your sleeve, kita turns the brightest shade of red, choking on his own spit. who said the perfect captain from high school won't get flustered infront of the woman of his dreams?

kita shinsuke has started recognizing the sound of your sandals against dirt paths. before he even sees you, he already knows it’s you walking toward the fields carrying cut fruit your grandmother forced you to share with him. he never says anything about it though because admitting 'i know the exact sound your footsteps make' feels a little too close to a confession.

you once called him pretty during a summer festival and kita genuinely had to turn around for a second because his face got so warm he thought he might actually pass out. meanwhile you were just licking syrup off your fingers like you hadn’t permanently altered the chemical composition of his brain.

your voice comes out too even. too casual. you’re proud of that for about half a second, until rintarou shifts his mouth and your heel digs hard into the couch.

osamu rounds the corner into the living room still in his work clothes, dark shirt clinging at the shoulders, sleeves shoved up just enough to show the strong line of his forearms. he looks tired in the way he usually does after a day at the shop— shoulders a little low, hair slightly flattened from his cap, expression set into that resting bluntness that makes strangers think he’s annoyed even when he’s just thinking about rice.

then he sees you.

then he sees rin.

and his mouth curves.

not surprised. not scandalised. not even particularly slowed down by it.

just that warm, crooked grin that means he’s home, and the house is exactly as stupid as he left it.

“figures,” he says.

you barely glance away from your switch. “missed you too.”

“didn’t say i didn’t.”

he crosses the floor, stepping around rintarou’s long legs like this is an obstacle he expects to find in his living room. rin’s hair brushes your inner thigh when he turns his head a fraction, acknowledging osamu’s presence with nothing but a pleased hum into you.

your body jolts.

the switch nearly slips.

osamu catches it with one hand before it can slide off your stomach.

“careful,” he says, amused.

“he’s cheating.”

rin’s eyes flick up. slow. bored. shiny-mouthed.

he does not stop.

osamu leans over the back of the couch and kisses you.

it’s easy. familiar. one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other still holding your switch safely against your stomach like he’s saving both your dignity and your game. he kisses you like he just got home from work and you’re his favourite part of the apartment. no hesitation, no self-consciousness, no particular concern for the fact that rintarou’s face is still buried between your legs.

you smile into it, breath hitching when rin’s teeth catch just enough to make you twitch.

brat.

osamu pulls back an inch, brows lifting because he feels the gasp against his mouth.

“good day?” you ask, like nothing happened.

he looks down at rin.

rin looks up through his lashes and blinks once, slow as a cat.

osamu snorts. “same old. lunch rush was stupid. atsumu called twice t’complain about rice balls he didn’t even buy.”

“tragic.”

“devastatin’.” osamu’s gaze drags back to you, taking in the switch, your flushed face, the way your thighs keep trying to close around rintarou’s head and rin keeps holding them open. “rin been good t’ya?”

rin hums again, mouth full.

the vibration goes straight through you. you bite the inside of your cheek and whack the top of his head lightly with the edge of your switch.

“define good.”

osamu’s hand settles at the back of rin’s neck.

it’s casual, almost absent. his fingers slip beneath the hair at rintarou’s nape, thumb stroking once over the warm skin there. affectionate. possessive, but not sharp about it. the kind of touch that says he knows exactly where both of you belong.

rin’s shoulders loosen under it.

your stomach flips.

osamu notices that too, because osamu notices everything useful and pretends not to.

“ya eatin’,” he says, fingers tightening slightly at rin’s neck, “or just playin’ with yer food?”

rin lifts his mouth only enough to mutter, “both.”

his breath is hot against you.

you make an undignified sound and glare down at him.

osamu laughs under his breath. “yeah, sounds right.”

then he straightens like the matter is settled and heads toward the kitchen, already unbuttoning his cuffs.

“what d’you two want for dinner? i got chicken thawed. was thinkin’ karaage unless yer both gonna be useless and make me order somethin’.”

“karaage’s good,” you say immediately.

rin’s hand slides up to your stomach, palm pressing there to keep you still when he goes back in with more focus. your hips jump anyway.

“rice?” you add, voice thinning slightly.

osamu opens the fridge. “gotta make a fresh pot.”

“aren’t we out?”

“bought more yesterday.”

“because i reminded you.”

“because ya nagged me.”

“same thing.”

“not even close.”

you grin at the ceiling and try to choose a move in your battle. the screen is a blur of colours and tiny pixel violence. rintarou chooses that exact second to drag his tongue slow and flat, and your thumb hits the wrong command.

“fuck.”

“language,” osamu says automatically, reaching for the ginger.

“i’m losing!”

“to rin or the game?”

“both.”

rin’s laugh is muffled and unbearably smug.

osamu rinses his hands at the sink, then starts moving through the kitchen with the kind of competence that always makes you a little stupid to watch. cutting board dragged down. knife selected. rice measured and washed in a bowl with three quick, practised turns of his wrist. he does everything like his body remembers before his brain has to, like cooking is just another language he speaks when he’s too tired for words.

the apartment fills with small, domestic sounds.

water running.

rice shifting in the pot.

the clean knock of knife against board.

rin’s mouth.

your own breathing, becoming harder to keep level.

that’s the thing that always gets you about the three of you. not the fact that rin is eating you out on the couch while osamu starts dinner ten feet away. it’s the normalcy. the way these things sit beside each other without fighting for space. the way osamu can ask about dinner while rintarou’s tongue makes your thighs tremble. the way rin can be completely indecent and still lean into osamu’s hand like he’s being petted.

it should feel absurd.

it does feel absurd.

it also feels like home.

“spicy mayo or plain?” osamu asks, glancing up from where he’s slicing ginger.

you try to answer.

rintarou, because he is evil, sucks your clit into his mouth at exactly the wrong moment.

your voice catches hard.

“uh—” you swallow, fingers clenching around the switch. “plain. plain’s good.”

rin’s eyes flick up.

he looks pleased with himself.

osamu points the knife in his direction without even looking. “rinnie.”

rin pauses.

barely.

“don’t make ’em useless before i finish cookin’.”

rin lifts his mouth, chin shiny, expression flat. “you gave me twenty minutes.”

“i gave ya a warnin’.”

“sounds like a deadline.”

“sounds like yer gonna get dragged off the couch by yer shirt if ya don’t behave.”

rin’s mouth curves.

you groan. “don’t threaten him with something fun.”

osamu’s laugh is low and easy. “yer both impossible.”

“you love us.”

rin kisses your inner thigh with exaggerated sweetness.

you nudge his forehead with your knee. “don’t start acting cute now.”

“i’m always cute.”

“you’re a parasite.”

“favourite parasite.”

“most expensive parasite maybe,” osamu mutters from the kitchen.

rin looks smug enough that you would kick him if you trusted your legs.

osamu tosses the sliced ginger into a bowl, then starts working on the marinade. soy sauce, sake, a little grated garlic. he eyeballs every measurement because he’s good enough to get away with it. you watch him for a second over the top of your switch, his hair falling forward as he leans over the counter.

“cucumber?” he asks.

“yes.”

“salad or just sliced?”

“just cucumber and vinegar.”

“how d’ya want it?”

“thin,” you say immediately. “not your usual brick chunks.”

osamu pauses with the knife halfway to the board.

slowly, he looks at you.

“brick chunks?”

“you heard me.”

“they’re good chunky. more crunch.”

“they’re better thinner, soaks up the vinegar better than your stupid big chunks.”

rin snorts against your thigh.

you point down at him without looking. “don’t even.”

rin nips you.

you gasp and bap his forehead with two fingers.

“less teeth.”

“you like teeth.”

“i like appropriate teeth.”

“define appropriate.”

“not during menu planning.”

osamu is grinning now, knife moving through cucumber in neat, thin slices just to prove a point. “bossy thing.”

“thank you for listening.”

“didn’t say i was listenin’. just didn’t wanna hear ya complain through dinner.”

“because you love me.”

“because i love quiet.”

rin lifts his head. “wrong person to love, then.”

you kick him gently in the ribs.

he catches your ankle and kisses it before going back down.

it’s unfair how quickly the banter turns into heat again. one second you’re laughing about cucumbers, the next rin’s tongue is flat and unhurried, his lip ring catching just slightly, cool metal dragging over a nerve-bright place that makes your stomach jump under the switch.

your breath breaks.

the pokémon battle music keeps playing.

you lose.

badly.

“no,” you whisper, devastated and breathless.

osamu glances over. “game?”

“rin made me lose.”

rin, mouth still against you, makes a sound that is very clearly not an apology.

you drop the switch onto the cushion beside you before it can become collateral damage. your fingers slide into his hair instead, not sure if you’re pushing him away or pulling him closer. he looks up only long enough to catch his breath, lips slick, eyes half-lidded, expression lazily cocky in the exact way that makes you want to ruin his life.

“need something?” he asks.

his voice is rough.

you thumb his forehead.

“a new boyfriend.”

rin smiles. “which one?”

“you.”

“harsh.”

“less teeth.”

“heard you the first time.”

“then why are you still doing it?”

“because you sound cute when you complain.”

osamu’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “he’s right.”

betrayal.

you turn your head to glare toward the kitchen, but osamu isn’t looking at you. he’s coating chicken in potato starch, expression completely neutral except for the dimple trying to show near the corner of his mouth.

“i’m being bullied.”

“ya started it.”

“i am literally vulnerable.”

“yer playing pokémon while gettin’ head.”

rin laughs again, then shuts you up with his mouth.

the problem with rintarou is that he looks lazy until he decides not to be.

most people mistake the slow blink and slouched posture for a lack of intensity. they see him sprawled on couches, hood up, phone in hand, thumbs moving over a screen, and assume he is half-asleep through life. you know better. osamu knows better. rintarou is lazy only when he doesn’t care.

when he does care, he’s relentless.

and rintarou cares very deeply about getting his mouth on you.

he holds your hips down when you start squirming. he follows every little shift, every attempt to roll away from the pressure once it starts tipping from good into too much. his hands spread wide over your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you there, his tongue slow and precise and mean with knowledge.

“rin,” you breathe.

no response.

“rintarou.”

his eyes flick up.

that’s all.

osamu turns on the burner. oil starts warming in the pan with a low, patient shimmer.

“rin,” he calls, not looking away from the stove. “set the table when yer done.”

rin lifts his head, mouth shiny, hair a mess from your hands. “busy.”

“then stop bein’ busy.”

“no promises.”

“don’t tire ’em out before dinner, asshole.”

rin looks up at you.

you are flushed, thighs trembling, one hand braced on the couch, the other still tangled in his hair like you’re going to personally remove him from your body by force.

his smile goes soft around the edges in a way that somehow makes him look worse.

then he says, “they’re fine.”

you wheeze. “i’m not fine.”

“dramatic.”

you make a half-hearted attempt to shove at his forehead.

he does not move.

at all.

it’s actually offensive.

“rintarou,” you warn, but there’s not enough air in your lungs to make it land.

he hums and doubles down.

the oil pops softly in the kitchen.

osamu makes a thoughtful noise. “y’want lemon too?”

“yes,” you gasp immediately, then swear because rin looks pleased that you managed to answer while falling apart.

“both lemon and mayo?”

“both. please.”

“polite.”

“barely.”

rin’s fingers dig into your hips.

your back arches off the couch.

“rin, holy fuck, i’m gonna come—”

he ignores you.

of course he ignores you.

not because he doesn’t hear. because he hears perfectly and decides that your warning is useful only as encouragement. his mouth gets firmer, less lazy, tongue and lips working with the horrible confidence of someone who knows exactly where you are.

you try to pull him off by his hair.

he groans.

wrong choice.

“oh my god,” you gasp, and the sound comes out almost like a laugh because the whole situation is ridiculous. osamu is frying chicken. the rice cooker clicks into its low hum. you are coming apart on the couch because suna rintarou has decided dinner can wait.

“rin—”

your orgasm hits before you finish saying his name.

it rolls through you hot and heavy, legs locking around his shoulders, fingers tightening hard in his hair. rin holds you through it with both arms around your thighs, mouth still working, slower now but not stopping, not even close enough to stopping. your whole body jolts with oversensitivity.

“wait,” you gasp. “wait, wait—”

he does not wait.

you try again, palm landing on his forehead like you’re playing whack-a-mole with the world’s most stubborn man.

“rintarou, i swear—”

“rinnie.”

osamu’s voice cuts through the room.

not loud.

not harsh.

just firm enough that rintarou finally stops.

he lifts his head with the world’s most offended expression, mouth slick, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes narrowed like osamu has interrupted an important scientific process.

osamu stands in the archway between kitchen and living room, tea towel thrown over one shoulder, arms folded. the smell of frying chicken follows him into the room, rich and warm.

“off,” he says.

rin blinks.

“now.”

rin’s mouth opens.

osamu points at him. “don’t.”

rin closes it.

you laugh weakly, still twitching. “thank you.”

“want ya t’walk, not crawl, to the dinner table,” osamu says, stepping closer.

rin mutters, “crawling is fine.”

“for you, maybe.”

osamu grabs the scruff of rin’s shirt and hauls him back like a misbehaving cat.

rin goes, but not with dignity. never with dignity. his expression is pure petulance, mouth pouty, hair wrecked from your hands. he looks like he’s been dragged away from a meal he personally hunted.

“i wasn’t done.”

you lift one shaking leg and gently press your foot to his shoulder. “i was. i was so done.”

“you came.”

“and then i was done.”

“sounds fake.”

“you’re fake.”

“good one.”

“i’m recovering.”

osamu looks between you both, unimpressed and fond in equal measure. then he hooks a thumb toward the hallway while heading back into the kitchen.

“go wash yer face. and don’t touch anythin’.”

rin stands slowly.

so slowly.

then, instead of going to the bathroom, he wanders directly into the kitchen.

osamu sees him coming and sighs.

“rintarou.”

rin doesn’t answer.

he steps right into osamu’s space, catches him by the front of his shirt, and kisses him.

filthy.

open-mouthed.

absolutely flavoured by you.

osamu scowls into it, but he does not shove him away. his hand comes up automatically to rin’s jaw, fingers pressing there for half a second like he’s either going to push him back or keep him close. it ends up being both.

you watch from the couch, boneless and dazed, thighs still trembling.

your stomach flips all over again.

osamu breaks the kiss first, eyes narrowed, mouth wet.

“yer fuckin’ gross.”

rin’s smile is small and satisfied.

“you like it.”

osamu wipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist, still scowling. “bathroom. now.”

rin pecks him once more, quick and smug, then finally disappears down the hall.

osamu watches him go.

then looks at you.

“don’t encourage him.”

“i literally hit him.”

“he likes that.”

osamu disappears and returns a moment later with a glass of water. he sets it on the coffee table, then crouches in front of you, big hands warm on your knees.

“drink.”

you take it with both hands because you are not entirely sure your fingers work otherwise.

he watches you drink, then reaches down and carefully fixes your underwear back into place. it’s such a practical gesture that it should not make your chest warm, but it does. he smooths the fabric over your hip, then pats you there firmly when you twitch.

like a dad with a dog.

“gonna be okay for dinner?”

you laugh into your glass. “if i can walk.”

“good. yer settin’ the table.”

“i just almost died.”

“and i cooked.”

“rin almost killed me, make him set the table.”

“rin’s gonna wash the dishes if he keeps actin’ up.”

from the bathroom, rin calls, “heard that.”

osamu doesn’t look away from you. “good.”

you smile despite yourself.

his face softens in that small way he rarely announces. his thumb brushes over the outside of your knee, once, then again.

“y’good?” he asks, quieter.

you nod.

“yeah. good.”

his mouth tips into a crooked little smile. “yeah?”

you lean forward and kiss him.

it’s softer than the kiss he gave you when he came home. less casual. more thank you. his hand comes up to the back of your neck, holding you there for one slow breath before he pulls away.

“water,” he reminds you.

“bossy.”

rin comes back with his face clean and his hair damp around the temples, like he has done the bare minimum required of him and expects applause. he flops onto the couch beside you, heavy and boneless, immediately leaning into your side. his phone appears in his hand from nowhere.

you nudge his shoulder.

he nudges back.

you nudge harder.

he looks over, expression blank.

“what?”

“asshole.”

“i just made you come, be appreciative.”

“you were told to stop.”

“eventually.”

you narrow your eyes.

rin’s thumb moves over his phone screen, but his shoulder presses more firmly against yours. apology by weight. it’s one of his languages.

you accept it by putting your leg over his lap and letting him rest his cold hand on your ankle.

osamu returns to the kitchen before the chicken burns, muttering something about living with animals.

dinner is loud in the way your dinners usually are.

not volume, exactly. more texture. oil-crisped karaage piled on a plate in the middle of the table, steam rising from fresh rice, cucumber sliced thin because osamu listens even when he complains. the lemon wedges are arranged too neatly for someone who pretends he doesn’t care about presentation. spicy mayo sits in a small bowl near rin, plain mayo near you, because osamu remembers where both of you reach without having to ask.

rin presses his cold toes against your calf under the table.

you kick him.

he does it again.

osamu, without looking up from his bowl, says, “feet to yerself.”

rin says, “wasn’t me.”

“ya got the toes of a corpse. i know it was you.”

you nearly choke on your rice.

rin’s mouth twitches.

osamu slides you a piece of chicken from the plate, one of the crispier ones, without saying anything. then a second piece. your favourite kind. golden at the edges, still steaming. he does it automatically, like feeding you is part of his own meal.

you glance at him.

he doesn’t look up.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“eat.”

rin leans closer, stage-whispering, “he loves you.”

“i know.”

osamu points his chopsticks at rin. “i love quiet too. never get that.”

“you’d be bored.”

“wouldn’t know. never tried it.”

rin steals cucumber from your plate.

you steal chicken from his.

osamu steals both from the serving plate and pretends not to see any of it.

by the time dinner is done, your body has settled into that warm, loose ache of being fed after being wrecked. rin is slouched so low in his chair he might become liquid. osamu is stacking plates with the long-suffering air of a man who claims he does all the work and secretly prefers it that way.

“i’ll wash,” you say.

osamu looks at you. “ya sure yer legs work?”

“mostly.”

rin’s eyes flick to your thighs.

you point at him. “don’t.”

“didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“face is innocent.”

“face is irritating me.”

osamu snorts.

you do the dishes because osamu cooked, and because the apartment feels best like this: rin sprawled in the living room with his phone, osamu moving around behind you putting leftovers away, your hands in warm soapy water, rice cooker still clicking as it cools.

halfway through rinsing a bowl, osamu comes up behind you.

not quietly. never that quietly. you know his steps, feel him before he touches you. still, your breath catches when his body presses along your back, broad and warm, his hands settling on either side of the sink to cage you in without trapping you.

his chin dips near your shoulder.

“ya not tired out yet?”

your eyes close for a second.

behind you, he smells like oil and ginger and clean sweat. like the shop. like home. his voice sits low against your ear, easy enough to pass as teasing if you want it to.

you don’t.

you shake your head, leaning back into him with a soft, contented sigh.

“not yet.”

from the living room, without missing a beat, rin calls, “will be.”

osamu laughs against your shoulder.

low.

promising.

your hands pause in the dishwater.

rin appears in the doorway, phone hanging loose from one hand, eyes half-lidded and bright with the kind of interest that means he has absolutely recovered his energy and learned nothing from being hauled away earlier.

osamu’s mouth brushes the side of your neck.

“finish the dishes,” he says.

“bossy,” you whisper.

“ya like bossy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.

rin leans against the doorframe.

“i’ll dry.”

you and osamu both look at him.

rin blinks.

“what?”

“you?” osamu says.

“dry?”

“suspicious.”

rin shrugs. “want them done faster.”

you laugh, warmth sliding low in your stomach all over again.

that’s tonight’s plans sorted, then.