#eyes. osamu gets it. so he just nods his head while discretely trying to rub away the blooming pain on his bicep.

[sashimiyas]

i know this may just be my indulgence. but i do think osamu and iwaizumi would get along so well

[sashimiyas]

Atsumu spots Osamu easily among the crowd – twin things. There’s that and the fact that he and his brother are usually a full head taller than the average population of Japan. The volleyball player swerves through, dodging the flailing hands of a dancer and traversing some sticky footing.  Pleasantly buzzed from a night of inebriation, he’s not even annoyed when a guy accidentally bumps into him; yet the sight he arrives to makes him immediately scowl.

Osamu likes to label what he does as “customer service” and for some reason, the dang guy can’t seem to turn it off. He smiles at randos he passes in the streets and if one of them decides to say hi to him, he can’t keep walking and pretend he didn’t hear them like Atsumu always does.

The convenience store near his ma’s house had always been a five minute walk, three if they’d just earned their pocket money and were racing each other down for first pick of an ice cream. Nowadays, his dear brother can extend the trip double with Atsumu’s arms crossed and his foot tapping like he’s five again and his ma just saw one of her friends in a grocery store and was “catching up”.

“What took ya so long?” Ma would ask with her head tilted, hair up and fan pointed at her while she stirred a pot of soba noodles.

“I blame ya!” Atsumu would then point with Osamu completely indifferent to the exchange. He’d dutifully wash the radish they’d been sent out to get and begin grating it. His ma, though, quirks an amused brow which would irritate him further and make him flop onto the couch like he’d always do after they lost a game. “I blame ya and ya chatty genes he inherited.”

“Saw Yamada on the way,” Osamu would offer without looking up.

“Oh? How is he? How are the kids?”

“He’s good. Kids are good, too. The oldest one’s got a cultural festival coming up. He invited us.”

“We should go!”

“Already told him we would.”

And Atsumu finds his brother in another absolutely irrelevant conversation, this time, about TVs for some reason. The blonde wraps an arm around his brother’s shoulder, the other recognizing his touch immediately without so much of a glance to him. Twin things.

“Ya getting tired?” Atsumu asks and pointedly ignores Osamu’s company, turning his cheek away from them to speak into the cook’s ears. It seems he wasn’t discrete enough because when Osamu nods, one of them pipes up with an unwarranted statement.

“My friend is single,” said friend looks sheepish, but the other one, the one who’s wingmanning, seems adamant with eyes wide and focused on Osamu, “like really single and she’s got a house really close by.”

Osamu’s reaction is much too slow for Atsumu. Or maybe Atsumu’s just fast because he grabs his brother’s left hand and displays it aggressively, shaking the limb for effect.

“And he’s got a ring right on ‘im!” The athlete doesn’t even wait for a reaction. He turns around and leads his brother out of the venue. When the din of the bar dulls and there’s enough fresh air to clear the stickiness from his pores, Atsumu finally smacks the back of Osamu’s head.

The cook parries with his own slap.

“What are ya on, Tsumu?” He asks while rubbing his nape.

The stupid question makes him want to hit his brother again but he settles for a shove this time. “Ya gotta stop doing that!”

Osamu doesn’t get a chance to defend himself as they walk past a group of friends which turns the blonde smug. He’ll take all the wins he can get.

“What are ya talking about?”

“Ya gotta stop talking to people and being nice and shit.”

“It’s called being friendly, Tsumu. Ya should try it.”

“Ya don’t need any more friends,” Atsumu huffs, turning his head away, embarrassed. “Ya got two best friends already.”

Osamu’s grin is conspiratorial, “are ya saying that you’re one of ‘em?”

The blonde flushes, small red spots peeking through the unbuttoned portion of his shirt, mad that he’s so easy to read, angry because his brother sees right through him. “I better be!” Then he tries to deflect by pushing his brother again. Osamu bodies him with his shoulder in response. “And ya got one waiting for ya at home so let’s go. I’m tired of hanging out with these scrubs.”

The streets are more quiet now. There’s the sound of their steps and the soft huff of their breath and the rustle of their clothes, and even the bar’s music is just muffled noise that makes Osamu’s gaze seem so loud. He stares for a moment until his eyes fall to his feet. He nods with a small muttering of thanks.

If Atsumu is easy to read, then so is he. Neither of them need their emotions to be shown so expressly. It’s simply intuitive so there’s no reason to dwell on it.

Atsumu knocks into his brother again, “don’t thank me yet. I’m snitching ya out!”

“Ya instigating!” Osamu grins as he pushes his brother’s cheek, “I didn’t do anything!”