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Two Steps To You

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Suna is contemplating the content of his fridge when his phone buzzes. He taps to answer, because even talking to Miya Atsumu is less painful than trying to figure out what he’s going to feed himself. 

 

“Where are ya right now?” Atsumu says before Suna can get a breath in. 

 

“At… home?” Atsumu makes an indistinguishable noise of rage and Suna shuts the fridge door. “Why, am I supposed to be somewhere else?” 

 

Normally he gets on a train and goes to see Osamu whenever he can, but Osamu is busy with one of his branches at the moment. 

 

“That shithead didn’t tell ya huh,” Atsumu grumbles into the phone. It’s not a question. 

 

Suna’s brow pinches into a frown. “What did Osamu not tell me?” 

 

Sometimes it’s odd dating a twin, especially when both of them were your friends long before you decided to date one half of a whole dumbass. Initially, he’d worried that Atsumu would butt into their relationship and be his nuisance self. But that hasn’t been the case. 

 

Even before Atsumu ate shit falling in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi, he seemed to know the boundaries. So for him to be sticking his nose in now… 

 

“He’s sick, and I’m in Tokyo for some promotional stuff.” 

 

Suna pulls his phone back from his ear to put Atsumu on speaker, his brain racing to make plans. “How sick?” 

 

He doesn’t need to see Atsumu to hear the frown in his voice. “Not sick enough for a hospital, but it ain’t a cold either.”

 

Of course. It figures that Osamu would try to keep the both of them away so they wouldn’t get sick also. Suna adds stopping to buy masks to his to-do list, already scrolling train tickets. 

 

“Why is he like this?” Suna sighs. “I just bought my tickets, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

 

“Thanks Sunarin,” Atsumu sighs. “I hate that I can’t get on a train myself but ya know how it is.” 

 

And Suna does. Playing professional volleyball involves so much more than just stepping on the court, and promotional shoots are one of those things. 

 

“Oh, I’m sending ya a recipe. I typed everything out so that even you can’t mess it up,” Atsumu’s voice lilts up teasingly. 

 

“Fuck you,” Suna retorts, but opens the attachment anyway. His lack of culinary skills never fails to get him roasted by both of the twins. 

 

“It’s his favorite to eat when he’s sick.” 

 

As much as he’s unhappy that Osamu is sick, it’s always touching to see how much Osamu and Atsumu actually care for each other. 

 

“I’ll do my best.” 

 

“Uh huh, call me when you get there,” Atsumu instructs, and then hangs up. 

 

Suna takes a moment to stare blankly into his apartment before he talks a deep breath and moves. He has a train to catch. 

 

The apartment is silent when Suna juggles the groceries to let himself in with his key. He sets everything down as quietly as he can manage before padding down the hall to check on his boyfriend. 

 

Osamu is sleeping fitfully, wrapped in what must be every blanket he owns. 

 

“Idiot,” Suna murmurs, touching Osamu’s forehead lightly with the back of his hand.

 

He straightens the covers and leaves a glass of water and fever reducers on the nightstand while he gets to work in the kitchen. Atsumu was placated by a text, so Suna is free to read and re-read the recipe before he starts. 

 

He slices the vegetables slowly, electing to follow Atsumu’s instructions to “cut up everything first and then maybe you won’t burn shit.” 

 

The soup is simmering away on the stove, approved via photos by Atsumu and Suna’s inexpert taste testing, when Osamu shuffles out of his room. He ducks into the bathroom first, probably so hazy he hasn’t realized Suna is here yet. 

 

Suna waits, diligently stirring his creation until Osamu re-emerges with a facemask identical to Suna’s fitted to his face. 

 

“Rin,” Osamu sighs, slumping nearly his full weight against Suna’s back. “Shouldn’t be here.” 

 

One hand braced on the counter top, Suna turns the burner off and turns to gather Osamu into his arms. When he gets bored of weight lifting for the sake of volleyball, weight lifting for the sake of being able to hold his equally buff boyfriend is good motivation.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Suna nuzzles his cheek against the top of Osamu’s head. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be.” 

 

“Gonna get sick,” Osamu protests. 

 

“Nah,” Suna says. “We’re being smart. Did you take the fever reducers?”

 

“Ugh.”

 

That’s probably a yes. Suna gently nudges him. “Go back to bed, I’ll bring you food.” Osamu perks up just a little at the mention of food, but Suna still ends up escorting him back to bed. “Now stay put for a second.” 

 

Osamu gives him an unamused look for that, but Suna is already headed back to the kitchen. He’s more than a little nervous that his attempt at Osamu’s favorite comfort food has fallen flat. His boyfriend is the chef, not him. 

 

Still, he ladles the bowl full, grabs a lap tray, and returns to the bedroom under Osamu’s curious gaze. 

 

It’s not until Suna sets it in front of him that he finally realizes. “Rin,” he says, unhooking the one loop of his mask. 

 

“I hope it’s not bad,” Suna shrugs, and tries not to hold his breath as Osamu lifts the spoon to his mouth. 

 

He’s watched his boyfriend eat a lot of things, to the point where he can usually tell if Osamu enjoys the food based on his expression. This is… hard to interpret. The tears welling up at the corners of Osamu’s eyes are definitely concerning. 

 

“Hey, what’s wrong babe?” Suna gently thumbs the tears away. 

 

Osamu sniffs. “So good. I can’t believe ya made this.”

 

Suna offers a wry smile. “Tsumu gave me a recipe that was hard to mess up.” 

 

That just makes Osamu tearier, so Suna leans over and cards gentle fingers through his hair. “Just eat your soup, silly. Then we can take a nap.” 

 

Osamu leans into his side as he takes his time savoring the soup. Suna sits with him until he’s done, and when they finally settle in for a nap, he sends a pic to Atsumu. 

 

We’re good.

 

And they are. Suna’s not always the most put together adult—that’s usually Osamu’s job—but he can take care of his sick boyfriend. 

 

“Thanks for coming,” Osamu mumbles, his head pillowed on Suna’s chest. 

 

Suna strokes his back with reverent fingers. “You’re silly to think I wouldn’t come.” 

 

“Love ya.” 

 

“Love you too. Now go to sleep, would you?” 

 

Osamu pokes his side for that, but he’s out cold soon anyway, his congested snore breaking the dead silence of the room. Yeah, Suna loves him even if he is a self-sacrificing lug sometimes.