Work Text:
“Koushi?”
Suga doesn’t move from where he’s perched on the stool in the backroom, one leg crossed over the other, perfectly balanced despite the unsteady stool legs and lumpy cushion spitting foam from a long tear in the side. Across his leg, a textbook balances precariously.
“Koushi.”
He hunches forward, ignoring the way his back keens in pain, licking his thumb and changing the page of his textbook. Suga frowns and squints at the information, trying to force art history into his brain like it was a thing that he couldn’t, you know, look up, if he had to teach his class about it. He didn’t even want to teach art history, he just wanted to watch the gears in his kids’ minds turn, see paint splattered across fingers and hear clay slamming into the cheap art room tables…
“Koushi!”
Suga jumps at the yell in his ear, nearly smacking the speaker in the face, and flings the book into the air, hearing a satisfying thunk as it crashes to the ground.
“Nice arc,” Ennoshita comments, walking in just as Suga has a heart attack. He grins at Suga’s flush and unties the apron from his back, hanging it up on one of the hooks on the wall. Suga frowns and checks the clock. Holy crap, was it that late already?
Next to him, Yaku’s face softens into a sympathetic smile. “Chikara’s shift is over. I’d love to cover for you, but there’s a whole hoard of screaming children out there with your name written all over them.” He squeezes Suga’s shoulder comfortingly. “C’mon.”
Suga drags a hand through his hair and sighs loudly. He picks his book up off the ground, dusts off its cover, and grimaces, putting it on the counter. “Sorry, Yaku. It’s just—midterms, you know?” Yaku laughs pleasantly. Knowingly.
“Don’t remind me. I’m still too scared to go back and get my Master’s.” He smiles and pats the countertop of the employee’s backroom lovingly. “If I didn’t have this old place I’d still be drowning in debt. But,” he adds, “if you’re in a tough spot and need a little financial help while you’re testing…”
It’s Suga’s turn to laugh. “No, no, don’t worry about me. I’ll get paid for the work I do; I was trying to cram a little. Humanities aren’t as easy as they appear on the surface,” he grumbles, slipping his apron on and tying the back. “And I have to apply for that internship at Karasuno…”
“Ahhhh, the glorious life of a university student,” Yaku sighs. He slips the Kitty Corner Creamery cap on and puts his hands on his hips. “Now, get out there and give those kids your best pained smile!”
Suga doesn’t mind the work, honestly. Yaku pays better than most and he’s only been out of university for a few years, so he’s pretty good about hiring college students who need the money. The ice cream parlor itself is very cute, in an over-the-top attempt to stick to the theme kind of way. The sign for Yaku’s shop was actually custom designed by Suga for one of his projects—a curly black cat with a pink smile and golden eyes wrapped around the equally curvy letters of the Kitty Corner Creamery. Inside, the checkered tile floors contrast harshly with the obnoxious shade of red that Yaku had insisted the walls be painted, despite vehement protests from both Suga’s artistic and Akaashi’s interior design sensibilities.
On the plus side, though, he let them paint cats on the walls.
Every wall is covered with a different breed and color of cat—from orange domestic shorthairs and Siamese to Maine Coons and Japanese Bobtails. They claw at crudely drawn butterflies or play in the too-green grass (Ennoshita’s contribution), climbing windowsills or staring peacefully out at the customers. Every open surface, too, is covered in figurines or sculptures of cats. There’s a wall of crayon drawings from the kids and more than a few eager college students that frequent the parlor. It’s overwhelming. It’s homey.
It’s full of children.
Suga loves kids, there’s no doubt about that. Kids have a kind of innocence and brightness in their regard for the world that inspires Suga and drew him to education as a career in the first place. He wants to give his all to foster that brilliance in kids before they grow up and lose it, forget the wonder of childhood. But Suga doesn’t delude himself. He knows that children are just as capable of being loud and obnoxious.
To Suga, it looks like a field trip had showed up to the parlor, but maybe it’s just a sleepover, judging from the hovering mothers in the background while the kids squirm and push and shriek to pick their choice of ice cream. Their hands—almost certainly grubby—press all over the glass that Ennoshita had cleaned not half an hour earlier. Suga sends a pained glance towards the group of mothers, but is politely ignored, and that’s when the migraine starts up.
I love children, Suga chants to himself. I love working with kids and that’s why I made them my major. The kids, predictably, hem and haw over which flavors, choose one then back out of the decision, decide they like their friend’s flavor better than theirs, drop a cone on the floor…
Yaku appears as a godsend to accompany Suga in the polite but increasingly strained handle of the children and their mothers who are irritatingly slow in paying for the ice cream. It’s going to be a long shift, Suga decides, as the party doesn’t leave but moves to the chairs further in the shop. Yaku and Suga share a look of mutual despair before a sharp revving outside jerks Suga from his thoughts. Yaku’s brow creases. Suga turns, and his stomach drops in a completely different way.
Sometimes shady characters showed up the ice cream parlor and the employees had to serve them anyway. Suga had been hit on inappropriately more times than he was comfortable with, although Yaku usually shooed those types from the premises. That’s definitely the look he’s giving the motorcycle gang coming into the shop as they whoop and holler, knocking against each other’s shoulders in a way that’s probably friendly to them, but terrifying to Suga. He grips the ice cream scooper tighter.
What are you going to do, spoon them to death, Koushi? he chastises himself, looking around with false nonchalance when the tiny doorbell tinkles.
They’re respectful to Yaku at least, nodding at him when the ‘manager’ badge on his chest becomes readable. They’re five in number—two tall leaders in leather, one with a wild mess of black hair that looks like a failed attempt at stylizing and the other with grey and white streaked hair so incredibly distracting, Suga can’t believe it’s real; two in bomber jackets, snickering together, one with a smattering of freckles that make him look like a teenager and the other with a sharpness and weightiness to his gaze that makes him look like the type no one wanted to mess with.
The messy-haired leader turns behind him to ruffle the hair of the fifth and final member of the motorcycle gang, earning him a scowl and shove that proves to Suga that their crew is more of a loose association then a strict gang. He relaxes a little, then even further when he notices Yaku doesn’t look fazed by their appearance. His hands are on his hips, actually, confident. Suga wonders if he knows one of them.
His question is answered when Messy-Hair spies him and practically yips with glee, running to the display case and leaning across it, arms crossed. “Heeeeyyyy, it’s grumpy eyebrows!” He says cheerfully, eyes dancing. “Who knew that you worked here?”
“Get off my ice cream,” Yaku grumbles almost tolerantly, flicking the man across the nose until he backs off, rubbing at his face with a pout. That would be a story to ask for before his shift ended.
Suga turns away from the shenanigans occurring on top of mint-chocolate chip, on sale today, to look back over the counter. And his heart almost stops because, woah, Harley Davidson #5 was actually far more interesting than he had first appeared.
The man has moved from the shadow of the two bomber jackets, arms crossed over his chest. Suga’s probably ogling him a bit, but hell, with arms like those and leather vest, who wouldn’t? He’s got the kind of biceps Suga saw guys at the gym huffing and puffing over, the kind in all those stupid photos where there was some tiny kid hanging off the bulging muscle of a guy’s arm. But what really catches Suga’s eye is his ink. Motorcycle man has swirling depictions of dragons and monsters down his arms in bright reds, oranges, blues, and greens amongst clouds and waves and curving lines intricately traced onto him from shoulder to wrist.
The artist in Suga rises to the bait of gorgeous art, and he gives in to staring, trying to fully comprehend the complexity of a snarling eastern dragon, fur flowing from its elbow, chin, and mane as it tangles with a lean, scaled kaiju with a dagger-like tail tip. He tilts his head to the side a little. So cool… He thinks, awed and impressed and considering asking, maybe, who the artist was, so he could do a study on their work—
Oh crap. He’s looking right at me!
Tattooed Wonder shifts his slightly-dulled scowl from his companion in leather to Suga, noticing the ogling. Suga looks away about as quickly as he can manage, blushing so hard he can feels the tips of his ears burn and color spread down his neck. What, he’d just taken a peek! What was with this aggressive overreaction? I guess staring is pretty rude, Suga sighs to himself. He glances up, one final time, to gauge just how angry the guy was at him.
Inked Adonis is still looking at him. Suga has time to register that holy shit, that is definitely slight stubble and it is definitely suitable for a guy like him, before he freezes, caught in the act staring once more. There’re going to be harsh words in a second, Suga is sure, or a snort of disgust, or—
Motorcycle man smiles.
It’s not just an awkward, ‘haha we both were looking at each other and now it’s uncomfortable’ smile, it’s a full-blown, where-have-you-been-all-my-life smile, and Suga feels his blood pressure jump to dangerous levels. He briefly considers his options to a) smile back shyly and sweetly b) shake Yaku and tell him to call an ambulance because like hell could he smile at this super hot, super cool biker, no way or c) let his mouth flap open and shut like a fish and make a fool of himself. The choice should be obvious, and yet Suga sets himself on the road to failure by dropping a melting chunk of chocolate chip cookie dough on his foot and sputtering at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.
Death should come for him, and swiftly, before he makes a mistake like try and talk to the guy.
When he looks back at Angel Smile (ice cream crisis solved by flinging the ice cream onto the tile and off his shoe), the man is looking down at his feet, but there’s a cute blush to his cheeks that makes Suga’s flame up even more. Did he put that there? Oh god, and the guy was really so very, very attractive, that whole filled-out but not a body builder vibe and the tats and the facial hair and the smile—
Why does he keep looking over here?
Suga holds his gaze this time because in his mind, none if this is real and he’s safely tucked into his dorm bed while Oikawa sings Taylor Swift in the shower and he doesn’t have cold, wet ice cream seeping into his shoe in front of the most beautiful man he’s ever seen before. Motorcycle man keeps at this—this blushing and looking away charade that makes Suga’s head spin. His mind is just one continuous broken record of holy shit holy shit holy shit because the guy still has this bashful little smile on his face, shying away from Suga despite his ultra-tough-guy exterior.
What the hell is happening right now? Suga thinks in a panic. Is it me? Is it the mint chocolate chip sale that’s advertised right behind my head? Does he have a thing for mint chocolate chip? Do I even like mint chocolate chip? What if our ice cream tastes aren’t compatible? Should we paint our first child’s room mint?
Things are spinning out of control, but Yaku—beautiful, well-timed Yaku—finally stops humoring Messy Hair and punches him in the arm, yelling for him to order or to get out of his shop. Suga is saved by the motorcycle gang’s examination of the flavor choices overhead and has time to notice Yaku’s worried glance before the gang are calling out orders and he and Yaku set about scooping ice cream. Of course, fortune is a sun on a partly cloudy day for Suga, so he ends up as the odd man out, taking Dragon Arms’ order.
“What can I get you?” He asks, horrified by how breathless his voice is. Please say mint chocolate chip, Suga pleads. Put me out of my delusional misery.
“I’ll take rainbow, please,” motorcycle man orders politely.
Suga processes, in order, the rich depth to his voice that sets his nerves on fire and gives him goosebumps; the half-glee, half-terror that the guy was looking at him not the ad; and the fact that this tough guy who looked like he could probably snap a neck, wanted the same flavor as the little girl who had been picking her nose in the party before them. What a dorky, childish choice, Suga thinks.
“I love rainbow,” Suga blurts, his mind betraying him, but not quite enough to say I love you, so he forgives himself.
“R-really?” The guy asks, surprised.
“Y-yeah,” Suga replies.
A pause.
“I…will go get your ice cream,” Suga says, too late. Smooth. Why doesn’t he just narrate his every movement to the ink-covered demigod while he’s at it? He scoops extra onto the cone, because he’s a sucker, and also gay as hell.
Their hands don’t brush in the exchange, which is a major letdown to Suga, and he thinks that maybe motorcycle man also looks sad about that. Or maybe he’s just wondering how he’s going to eat the obnoxiously large pile of ice cream Suga’s just handed him. They’re on separate checks, which means Yaku will probably take care of the payment, leaving Suga to escape and possibly lock himself in a padded room and shake uncontrollably, regretting every life choice that has brought him to this moment.
“Koushi, mind taking care of the last two checks?” Suga takes back everything nice he’s ever said about Yaku.
Freckles isn’t a problem, although he pays for his ice cream with unnecessarily large bills. It’s his friend who follows, hesitantly counting out exact change after the way Suga made a face at having to fish out change from the register. Suga’s struck by sudden, illuminating bravery. Isn’t this the part of every rom-com where the hero writes his number on a coffee cup or in a book or on a receipt and gives it to the heroine? Suga must fulfill his calling.
He scrawls his number in the least conspicuous place he can find on the tiny slip of paper, going over it twice so that it’s readable, then blushing because he looks like he’s trying too hard. But when he hands the receipt to motorcycle man, face down, he feels a deep sense of accomplishment and purpose. And when the man hands over the exact change, Suga can feel the warmth radiating from his palms.
They don’t stay—preferring the company of their motorcycles than the cats and children of the inside of the parlor (although Messy Hair nearly pockets a tiny stone cat until Yaku snaps his fingers at him). The doorbell chimes one final time as they leave, and Yaku turns to Suga. Suga, however, has forgotten about harassing Yaku for the story behind him and Messy Hair, has forgotten that he still has a shift to work, has forgotten his own name, but hasn’t forgotten a single detail about that strangely gentle, tattooed man.
“Come on,” Yaku teases with a grin, nudging him. “What was that?”
Suga doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know.
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“But you’re just so cool, run your hands through your hair absentmindedly, making me want you!” An empty shampoo bottle isn’t exactly the custom mic of Oikawa’s dreams, but in the tiny space of their suite’s shower, it has to do. Oikawa throws his head back, shower pouring water dramatically over his head as he poses and belts the last line of the chorus. “And I don't know how it gets better than this; you take my hand and drag me head first, fearless…”
Oikawa trails off as the music from his speaker drops in volume to the point where Taylor’s harmonious gift of a voice becomes a tinny squeak muffled by the shower. Oikawa frowns. He whips his head around the corner of the shower curtain to glare at Sugawara, that devil worshipper, turning down the original country girl anthem…
Oikawa has half a rant under his metaphorical belt but Suga just whines petulantly from the other side of the curtain, looking pleadingly at Oikawa. “Please no Taylor Swift today, okay Tooru?” He looks pathetic. Miserable. In desperate need of a shower. Oikawa takes it upon himself as the best roommate ever to actually save some hot water for Suga.
By the time he’s tousled his hair and dried off, towel tied loosely around his hips, he can see that The Situation has clearly gone from bad to worse. The Situation being, of course, Suga’s weird mood swings lately. Last night he had come in humming in a disgustingly cheerful way that he usually reserved for beating another student in test scores or getting his paycheck from Yaku. But instead of tidying their room or running off to the studio to paint or carve like he usually did, Suga flopped on his bed, this terrifying mix of fear and wonder on his face as he stared intently at his phone. His smile wobbled uncontrollably and he squirmed like a sinner in church.
Oh, good, Oikawa had thought. He’s finally made plans to get laid.
Someone had to do it—Suga was the kind of drop-dead gorgeous that had Oikawa frowning at his lack of hair products and pulling open his bathroom drawers to search for make-up, but no, Suga was just one of those natural gifts of genetics. It was a good thing too that Suga had finally found someone. Oikawa was starting to get disgustingly fond of him and would have to do it himself if Suga didn’t find himself a partner.
It turned into one of those rare nights when Oikawa went to sleep before Suga, bidding him a goodnight, asshole; get some rest before shutting off his light and falling asleep immediately, Suga’s face still lit by the blue-white glow of his phone screen. And now, this morning, Suga looked like he’d just gone and had a very, very bad one night stand. Bags under his eyes, hair fluffed out at odd angles, the saddest little pout on his face—Oikawa’s heart went out to him. Oh how the mighty fall.
“He stand you up?” Oikawa asks. No wonder Suga wasn’t into the Queen of Breakups this morning.
Suga shakes his head and sighs heavily. “He never even texted me in the first place.”
Oikawa whistles. “Ouch. That’s harsh. He’s not worth your time.”
Surprisingly (or not so surprisingly), Suga doesn’t look the slightest bit comforted. He falls onto his bed in a mirror of last night, but instead of grinning and giggling like an idiot, he groans into his pillow. Oikawa pulls on boxers and a ratty T-shirt. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
He climbs onto Suga’s bed and pulls his head into his lap, meeting no resistance. Oikawa combs his fingers through Suga’s angel-soft hair and gets a small, adorable noise in response. Suga melts against him and Oikawa holds back a fond sigh. “On a scale from Iwa-chan called you a mean name to Koushi doesn’t want to be your best friend anymore, how bad is this problem?” he asks, using the scale Suga set up for Oikawa himself in freshman year when his tantrums finally drove Suga up the wall. It earns him a smile.
“Iwa-chan blew me off our high school reunion again,” Suga replies dutifully, but ouch. That’s pretty high on the list.
“Was he a friend or something?” Oikawa asks.
Suga shakes his head against Oikawa’s thigh, blushing. “No…it’s not anything like that…I don’t even know his name. He was just—he was really, really cool and so nice to me and I thought he liked me, I thought he was doing all that blushing because he thought I was cute…” Suga sighs again. “You’re right, it’s dumb.”
Oikawa tugs on his hair gently in reprimand. “Can’t be that good of a guy if he wasn’t in to you.” Suga smiles up at him then, a real smile, and Oikawa’s heart flutters unpleasantly. He shoves a hand in Suga’s face on instinct. “Ew, don’t give me those gooey daydream eyes, I’ll catch hopeless romantic.” Suga laughs and licks his hand. Oikawa shrieks and yanks his hand away, catching the mischievous snicker and glint in Suga’s eyes. He’s about to go on a tirade about how Suga isn’t cute at all when Suga’s phone buzzes from his side table.
They exchange glances.
Suga scrambles for the phone a heartbeat later, Oikawa pulling him back into his lap and peeking around his shoulder at the phone. “Let’s see it, let’s see it!” He urges, wiggling excitedly behind Suga.
“Shh, shh! You’re gonna jinx it!” Suga chastises him, fumbling with his lock code five times before he opens his phone to one new text message. Suga stills his heart, preparing for the worst—
Suga’s jaw drops. That’s him. It has to be him. The description is too specific for it to be a prank or random number. It’s really him. “What do I do,” Suga breathes, leaning back against Oikawa to look up at him anxiously. “What do I say?”
“Um, tell him he doesn’t have the wrong number?” Oikawa snorts. Suga swallows, eyes his phone like it’s going to bit him, and cautiously types out a greeting after typing in a contact name.
“Gay,” Oikawa snorts, and Suga punches him in the arm. He’s grinning like an idiot, though. The phone buzzes not even a minute later. “Someone’s eager,” Oikawa notes, impressed.
“Shut up,” Suga mumbles, thumbs working furiously across the keyboard.
“Daichi,” Suga tests the name on his tongue, voice a whisper. Shivers run down his spine when he attaches the name Sawamura Daichi to the buff biker from yesterday with a smile that broke hearts. He feels giddy, like a kid, that Daichi actually texted him, that the whole fiasco yesterday wasn’t a fluke. Oikawa makes a retching noise behind Suga.
“Ugh, I’m going to be sick. You two deserve each other; I can practically see the hearts dancing in your eyes,” he grumbles, disentangling himself from Suga and making a run for it back to the bathroom before their suitemates showed up. “Style” can be heard through the door once he locks himself in the bathroom, but Suga is too absorbed in texting Daichi to care, rolling to his stomach so that he can wiggle his feet in the air excitedly.
He asks Daichi what he thinks of the shop (cute and smells nice), what his friends are like (annoying), what he likes to do (besides ride around town? fix cars), if he goes to university (a smaller community college). Daichi asks him about his hobbies (baking, working in wood shop, and stress painting), why the tiny manager was so angry (it’s just his personality), what he was looking at when they met…Suga flushes. He fidgets nervously, but confesses his interest in Daichi’s tattoos, sparking a conversation about art that makes Suga’s heart beat faster than it had in months.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh. Oh, it was actually happening. Daichi had—did he really—Suga checks, but yes, Daichi really did just ask him out on a date. He even put a little smiley face at the end, his first emoji in the entire conversation. Right after the word date. Oh god, Suga is smitten. He needs to actually meet this guy so he doesn’t accidentally fall for Daichi before he gets to know him.
Oikawa almost asks Suga if he wants to go out for coffee, but he catches sight of that dumb, all-consuming smile on Suga’s face and rolls his eyes, pulling out his own phone to text Makki instead. He tries to scowl, tries so hard to be sick with Suga’s newfound happiness, but a soft smile climbs on his face despite his best efforts and he closes their door slowly so as not to disturb his best friend.
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Daichi figured it was best that Suga not ride on his motorcycle for their first date (first! there would be more?), even though Suga gently nagged Daichi to let him have a try. Daichi had laughed and promised Suga next time. That ‘next time’ put a skip in Suga’s step all the way from his sociology class to the address Daichi had sent him.
The restaurant was called ‘Burrito Gallery’—some kind of odd, American-style place that Daichi insisted was delicious. The restaurant was further into the city, the end cap of a row of shops and enclosed by a parking lot on its other side. But along the parking lot-facing wall, a beautiful abstract mural was painted from top to bottom. Suga gasps and claps his hands together excitedly when he sees it, a beacon across the street for all art lovers. He’s still standing there, eyeing the mural with appreciation, when he hears a soft cough behind him. Suga spins around, and there he is.
Daichi is slouching, hands in his pockets, looking simultaneously nervous and cool. He’s dressed in a nice leather jacket like his friends were, red button-down visible at the collar and dark jeans. He pulls off the nice-but-not-trying-too-hard look effortlessly, making Suga feel underdressed in his cozy cream sweater and artful scarf. His facial hair is trimmed so nicely that Suga just wants to run his hands over it.
But he’s still doing the whole looking-but-not-looking thing like they’re teenagers or something, and Suga has to laugh.
“Hey,” Daichi protests, embarrassed, light catching on a single hoop earring Suga didn’t even know he had. “Kind of mean to laugh at your date.”
Suga smothers his giggles behind a hand. “I’m sorry, Daichi,” he apologizes. “But you know…you don’t have to be so anxious around me. I’m just that guy from the ice cream shop, remember?”
Daichi walks up to him, bumping Suga’s shoulder amiably and guiding him in to the restaurant. “Yeah, right,” he mumbles. “Have you ever tried looking in a mirror?”
It’s Suga’s turn to flush and cover his face with tiny noises of denial. He can’t actually see where he’s going when he’s trying to burrow into the sleeves of his sweater, but Daichi solves that problem quickly by lighting a hand on Suga’s waist to guide him. “This way,” he half-laughs into Suga’s hair. Despite the tattoos poking up just past his collar, Daichi treats Suga like Suga would treat his most prized art pieces, and Suga is a goner.
Ordering food consists less of perusing a menu for choices of what to eat and more of chances to tease Daichi and be teased in return. Suga tries to guess Daichi’s favorite burrito, purposefully picking all the meaty, manly sounding choices and Daichi finally rolls his eyes and takes Suga’s hand, pointing it to the curry chicken burrito. All the rational thought in Suga’s mind shuts down at Daichi’s purposeful touch and raspy whisper in his ear, so when the cashier raises her eyebrow at Suga and he realizes, wow, she’s been waiting for me to order for a long time, he blurts out “curry chicken burrito” as his order to Daichi’s infinite amusement.
They sit across from each other in a booth to wait for their order. Suga recovers from his mortification in time to notice the reason for Burrito Gallery’s namesake. Like Yaku’s ice cream parlor, the restaurant is covered in art. But this art was the real deal. Pop art pieces mingle with abstract, neon colors with muted earth tones, skulls with trees and noses and eyes wander all over the canvasses, unattached. Suga’s particularly attached to one piece that appears to be a plant cell made up of human body parts, scanning the work with his hands folded in front of him on the table.
He looks away from the piece when he feels Daichi’s gaze burning into him. Daichi’s still a bit pink, and he scratches at the red flames climbing up his neck nervously. “So, uh…” he starts hesitantly. “Do you—do you like it? This place, I mean?”
The image of Oikawa screaming his lungs out into his pillow comes to mind, but Suga can’t help the feeling that it’s a completely appropriate response to this boyish sweetheart sitting across from him. Suga is profoundly, profoundly lucky to have snagged this one’s attention, and he smiles warmly.
“I love it,” he says truthfully, but then taps his chin. “I have to confess, though…I’ve never had a burrito before.”
Daichi shoots him a grin. “Well, prepare yourself.”
The burrito is less complex and frightening than expected. Suga pokes at the tortilla-wrapped bundle of meat, rice, and beans uncertainly. How should he eat it? Did he need silverware? A glance around tells him that he needs to use his hands, and the shit-eating grin splitting Daichi’s face tells him that he’s overthinking it. Suga sniffs disdainfully and picks up the burrito, biting into it with as much certainty as he can muster.
It’s absolutely delicious, which is what he had expected, given Daichi’s vote of confidence, but it is a tough opponent to wrestle, which he didn’t expect. Suga has to twist and turn and roll the burrito to keep it from spilling rice over the sides and force chunks of chicken to remain where they belong.
“It’s like I’m still wrestling the chicken even though it’s cooked,” Suga complains, and Daichi laughs so hard he chokes on his tortilla. Serves him right for laughing, Suga thinks reflexively, but laughs just as hard at Daichi’s struggle. In the end, he can’t even finish the massive thing and sits there, glaring at it with a mix of admiration and irritation.
“You win this time, burrito,” Suga mutters. Daichi wipes his mouth politely on a napkin, and Suga stares at him in disbelief.
“Who are you?” He asks.
Daichi looks up, tilts his head to the side. “What d’you mean?”
Suga gestures to his entire body. “I don’t understand you one bit. You’ve got the whole ‘hot guy in a leather jacket on a motorbike’ vibe, great arms, even better ink, and that earring I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of. You’re like…you look like a punk. But then you go acting all shy and kind and you’ve got a fantastic sense of humor, so don’t blame a guy for being confused.” Suga takes a deep breath. “You’re, um, you’re kind of the entire package, and I’m just…the guy from the ice cream shop.”
Daichi’s eyes almost sparkle. “You keep saying that, ‘guy from the ice cream shop,’ like you didn’t knock me off my feet or anything just looking at you.” He stands up—fully capable—while Suga gapes. Daichi offers a hand and dumbfounded, Suga takes it.
“I guess you’ll just have to let me take you on another date, to find out,” Daichi says. “If you want to know more about me, that is.”
Sneaky bastard, Suga thinks.
“Okay,” he squeaks. He doesn’t notice that Daichi hasn’t let go of his hand until they’re in the parking lot, and he wants to kick and scream because on top of everything else, Daichi is smooth when he really wants to be.
Daichi only lets go of him to climb onto his motorbike, slipping on his helmet. Suga crosses his arms, an amused smile on his face. “You do realize,” he says slowly, “that it’s my turn to take you out on a date next time?” Daichi hesitates, then shrugs.
“I trust your judgment. I’ll be leaving it to you, Sugawara Koushi,” he announces. Suga feels warm from the inside out.
“Hey,” he calls softly, getting Daichi’s attention quicker than he expected. “How’d you know I was such a sucker for that style of art?”
“I guess we know each other better than we think,” Daichi replies, voice as warm as Suga feels. He drives away, and with him, he takes Suga’s heart.
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They go on smaller dates after that—lunch in the park, a walk through Suga’s old neighborhood, a train ride to Sendai to window shop and buy touristy food, even a quiet date to the public library where they just read shoulder to shoulder. Reading dates are the most common. Midterms have finally reared their ugly heads and Suga is drowning under the weight of so many looming exams and papers due that more often times than not he falls asleep without saying good night to Daichi.
It’s a bummer. For the first time in his life, Suga has found a guy who fits him like his shadow, and he can’t even spend time with him because of school. A part of his mind anxiously gnaws at him, making him worry that Daichi will grow tired of him, but Daichi never fails to give him back massages and texts shooing him to bed when he needs them. Daichi is a really, really good…not-boyfriend.
Are they together? Suga is terrified of calling Daichi his boyfriend and stepping over boundaries when they’re just going on dates, but he’s been in too few relationships to know exactly how the process works. In any case, Daichi becomes enough a distraction that Suga actually has to tell him that he’s temporarily cutting contact with Daichi (and everyone else) during midterms week.
By the time he stumbles out of his last exam—an afternoon exam, of all things—he cranky, he’s tired, and he just wants to collapse across Daichi’s chest and sleep for about four hundred years. Even Oikawa takes one look at his stormy expression and doesn’t bother to ask him about his exams. Suga is down the steps of the building, shoulders hunched and looking steadily down, when he hears the whispers.
“Whoa, is he a student here?”
“God, I hope so; he is one fine specimen.”
“Shhh! He’ll hear you!”
“That’s a really nice bike, too.”
The word ‘bike’ catches Suga’s attention and he glances up. The cloudy weather in his mind clears, and he lets a smile split his face. Daichi is parked in the fire lane, resting against his bike, a venti coffee in each hand, still steaming. Suga isn’t sure whether to cry or kiss him, so he goes for the safe route of plucking the cup with ‘Suga’ scrawled across it and wrapping Daichi in as tight of hug as he can manage with one arm.
“I am so immeasurably happy to see you,” Suga says, not really sure if he means Daichi or the coffee. “Both of you,” he adds.
“Drink up,” Daichi tells him. “I’ve got a post-midterms surprise for you.”
Suga eyes him doubtfully. “I hate to tell you, but I’m dead tired,” he starts, but Daichi cuts him off with the wave of a hand.
“I know, I know. It’s okay; you don’t have to be awake long.” Suga’s still looking at him doubtfully, so Daichi gestures to his motorcycle. “You’ll get to ride on my bike…”
High speed adrenaline rush? Clinging to Daichi like a second skin? Suga’s in. He gulps down the rest of his coffee. “Deal,” he agrees. “And…thank you for the coffee. Honestly, I’d probably be a zombie without it.”
“Don’t I know it,” Daichi laughs, a victim of one too many zombie-Suga attacks. He straightens up, grabbing the second helmet from his bike and eases it over Suga’s head, wiggling it into place. “Can you breathe alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Suga says, chest constricting. Daichi nods and hops on his motorcycle, gesturing for Suga to climb on behind him. Suga gingerly eases himself into the seat, alternatively afraid of losing his balance and of falling onto Daichi. Once he’s situated, he wraps his arms around Daichi lightly, trying not to invade his personal space as much as he can on a motorcycle.
Daichi revs the engine once, scaring Suga to death and causing him to jolt forward, clinging tightly to Daichi and pressing the full front of his body flush against him. Suga’s heart is beating too quickly, but from where he’s pinned cheek to hip against Daichi, ear on his hard back, right over his heart, Suga can hear Daichi’s heart pounding away, too. It’s comforting, in a way—knowing that Daichi was just as affected by Suga as Suga was by Daichi. It’s also maddening.
Daichi tears out of the university and Suga squeezes his middle, earning himself the feeling of Daichi’s abs moving under his hands with the huff of a laugh. Suga wants to enjoy this, he really does, but between the closeness of the pavement to their bodies at such high speeds and the closeness of Daichi to Suga’s touch-starved body all he can do is close his eyes tightly and try and calm himself down.
“Suga,” Daichi calls over the wind when they’ve been moving steadily for a while. “Suga, open your eyes.”
No thank you, Suga wants to say, but there was a certain tone to Daichi’s voice that makes him curious and he blinks one eye open, then the other. And gasps.
To his left, as far as the eye can see, is the ocean, turning a reddish gold from the late afternoon sun sinking into the horizon behind them. All around them, the scent of sea salt mingles with Daichi’s cologne, and Suga breathes deeply, daring to lift his cheek from Daichi’s back to look around. The beach is peaceful and empty considering how cold it was starting to get after dark, but to Suga, it’s just the right level of deserted. The water winks at him invitingly and the clouds paint the sky in ways Suga only dreams of being able to recreate. Daichi pulls into a parking space.
Although he was tired not half an hour ago, Suga sprints for the beach with a childish excitement he didn’t know he still possessed. He bolts for the water, first, dipping his toes and then jumping away with a squeal at how cold it is. He spins around to see Daichi slowly working his way down to the water, a towel in hand. It’s the kind of towel that’s big enough for two.
Suga whoops happily and throws himself into a hideous cartwheel that fails halfway through and leaves him collapsed on the sand, laughing at his own stupidity, at the smell of the ocean and freedom, at how painfully and undeniably in love with Daichi he is.
Daichi drops the towel on his face, and Suga makes an undignified noise of complaint until Daichi removes it, laying out the towel like it’s a picnic blanket on the sand next to Suga. He crawls onto it, being careful not to get sand on the towel and lies down on his back. He beckons for Suga to join him and, feeling particularly mischievous, Suga launches himself—sand and all—at Daichi. It’s Daichi’s turn to yelp and complain about the mess Suga’s made, but Suga is tucked neatly against his chest, rubbing the sand from his hair all over Daichi.
It’s a mess. They’re a mess. There’s sand shoved into every crevice of their clothes and it scratches where they’re pressed close together, but Suga has this bright-eyed glee and optimism about him that despite the fact that an art education major and a motorcycle gang member should rub each other raw like sand against skin, he and Daichi melt together more like the tide fades into the shore. Suga relaxes fully against Daichi, reaching a hand out to trace his full sleeve tattoos and where the ink emerged from underneath his tank. Daichi’s hand is curled under Suga’s body and stroking him along his side.
“I...want to start dating for real. Officially,” Suga says into the silence between them. “I don’t want to let you slip away from me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Daichi assures him with a small laugh. Suga thinks of today; the waiting and the coffee, the heartbeat and the closeness, the motorcycle and the beach. He thinks of all the times Daichi has been there for him, just a breath or a text away. He thinks of Daichi now, holding Suga like he means something, like he belong in Daichi’s arms, and he sits up, leans over Daichi.
“I guess you’re right,” Suga says softly, looking down at Daichi. “And that’s a good thing, too, because neither am I.”
“Good,” Daichi says, raising an eyebrow.
“Good,” Suga asserts.
“Good,” Daichi replies, grinning wildly.
“G—” Suga starts to say, but is cut off by the slow and steady movement Daichi makes forward, sitting up just so that he can steal the word and the breath from Suga’s lips. He holds the kiss for a long moment, a point proven, and when he falls back down, Suga falls with him, cupping his cheeks and tracing the stubbly lines of his face like he had in so many dreams, nibbling at Daichi’s lips until they were red and puffy and his. Daichi pulls away only so that he can kiss a line from Suga’s ear down his throat, mouthing at the delicate skin there in a way that has Suga breathing hard and digging his nails into Daichi’s scalp.
Daichi pulls back again when he hears a tiny gasp escape Suga. “Good?” He asks, teasing edge to his smile. Suga can’t even grumble at him for it.
“Good,” he whispers, as breathless as he was the first time they met. They meet each other halfway, the perfect balance between give and take, walking the line separating two worlds. And when Suga slides one hand down Daichi’s chest to rest over his heart, he finds it still beating like the idling rumble of his motorcycle, like the dab of a paintbrush on canvas.