Work Text:
“I’m gonna need to suck your dick,” Suna says, one mostly normal Sunday morning at the entirely unreasonable hour of nine forty-two.
There is no preparing for it. One minute, Osamu’s blinking at his traitorously sluggish coffee maker as it struggles to perform the basic function of boiling water; the next, his front door has blasted open and Suna's waving a fistful of paper like it’s scripture while he wrenches his shoes off one-handed and barks this magnificent demand.
Osamu’s apartment is chilly. It’s too bright. His bare feet stick unpleasantly to the linoleum kitchen tiles if he stands still too long. And Suna should at least knock before barging in.
A moment longer staring and the best Osamu is capable of is: “Huh?”
“This is the one,” Suna insists, wagging his fistful of crinkled paper in Osamu’s direction. “This is a method I can finally connect with.”
Suna may as well be speaking Latin.
Osamu blinks twice and turns back to his coffee maker. “Did you even sleep?”
“Yes, I slept.” Suna takes a handful of noisy steps into the kitchen and slaps the opposite counter. His anxious presence teases Osamu’s back.
This must have to do with Osamu’s stupid, stupid bet that Suna couldn’t quit smoking even if he wanted to. Every baffling word out of Suna’s mouth these days ties back to that one horrendous error in judgment. Osamu had mostly been kidding. He’d only said it because it stopped him from saying certain other things like ‘please quit because I want to kiss you and don’t like the taste’ or ‘it’s bad for you’ or ‘I want you to be happy and healthy and possibly also naked, is that so wrong?’
All true. All massively inappropriate to say to a friend.
Osamu never stopped to think about what would happen if Suna’s selective competitiveness ignited and he decided yes, I can. He didn’t weigh the odds despite knowing that nine times out of ten, the best way to get Suna to do anything is to tell him he can't. He certainly hadn’t been prepared for Suna, staring curiously across a table at the campus diner, thumbing a cigarette out of his pack, asking, ‘What do I get when I win?’ with indulgence curling the corner of his lip into a tempting smirk.
And Osamu, caught up in an abrupt, vivid fantasy involving that lip in his mouth, hadn’t been considering the consequences at all when he foolishly answered, ‘Anything you want.’
Suna’s eye twitches. Unhinged tension crackles through his posture. Fidgeting is nothing new but now it’s near-constant: wiggling his fingers, tapping his foot, clicking a pen for hours at a time regardless of how much Osamu—supportively—threatens to tranquilize him. He constantly complains he’s exhausted. At least once a day, Suna gets this look on his face like the corner store is out of egg sandwiches and whines life isn’t even worth living. These days, Suna’s emotions are an hourly lottery and Osamu never knows what he’s going to wind up with—he’d thought by this point there were no winners in the draw at all but here they are, before ten, talking about dick sucking.
“You sure? ‘Cause this is kind of a lot like the time you stayed up two days and picked all those fights with middle schoolers on the internet.”
“Don’t change the subject. And I doubt they were all middle schoolers.”
Osamu could probably win this one but it’s hardly worth arguing over. “Fine. Explain.”
Suna waves the crumpled-up paper at Osamu’s face like it explains everything until Osamu gives in and takes it.
Tall, bold letters proclaim: Sucking on nic? Try your homie’s dick instead. #TradeNicForDick.
“Excuse me, what?” Osamu asks right before choking on his own spit. The coffee maker gurgles in agreement.
Suna steps further into Osamu’s space, trapping him against the kitchen counter. A finger curls around the drawstring holding Osamu’s pajamas up, only millimeters from the knot. Suna’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Is it not self-explanatory?”
“I mean, are we the sort of friends that do that now?” Osamu asks. Please, please let them be that sort of friends.
Suna tugs Osamu’s drawstring bow loose and drops to his knees. “Apparently.”
If it were after both coffee and ten in the morning, perhaps Osamu would be capable of thinking it through but a deafening torrent gathers under Suna’s warm breath puffing through Osamu’s shirt a couple of centimeters below his belly button and drowns out any rational thought. Osamu’s toes wriggle against the clammy linoleum and brush Suna’s knees. A wet kiss trailed by a greedy tongue ruins said friendship in one definitive blow.
“Sure, then. Okay.” Osamu grips the counter behind him with both hands. “Friendship amended.”
Suna’s chuckles shake the foundations.
Suna doesn’t give Osamu much time to overthink things.
There’s the required breather after incident number one, which Osamu uses to freak the fuck out in the bathroom under the guise of cleaning up and getting dressed. Suna flicks on the television and leaves Osamu to it like the excellent, dick-sucking best friend he is.
Twenty minutes, a shower, and pants later, Osamu feels like he’s mostly pulled it together. It didn’t mean anything, it doesn’t have to mean anything, everything is fine. This whole morning can go down in the history books as just another crazy thing Suna did while trying to quit smoking. He can face Suna—except Suna is sleeping face-down under the coffee table, completely unbothered by the blaring television.
Osamu nudges Suna’s arm with a toe to see if he’s faking out of shame or mortification but if he is, it’s a dedicated effort. What a giant liar, Suna didn’t sleep at all. One more poke—ribs, this time—and Osamu leaves Suna to his nap.
Distraction is easy to secure courtesy of sixteen ranting messages from Atsumu bitching about problems the volleyball team’s running into for their end of season party. Something about an argument with the mascot and around half a dozen pranks, all of which Atsumu claims both credit and innocence for. Osamu stopped paying attention after the words ‘golf cart’ and ‘shaving cream.’ Atsumu’s complaining is, however, exactly distraction enough for Osamu to not obsess over what the hell sort of friends he and Suna are now that his dick has been in Suna’s mouth, so Osamu jabs a sore spot every time Atsumu seems at risk of wearing himself out and goes about his day as normally as possible.
Then, Suna wakes up. And Suna is clearly not ashamed, embarrassed, or anywhere near having it worked out of his system.
By the fifth time Suna is doing unspeakable things with his tongue, Osamu has happily accepted his new reality. Apparently, Suna has chosen to redirect all of his idle energy—every twitch, every frustration, every single time he stops halfway through reaching for a pack of cigarettes and realizes he no longer gets a reward for basic tasks—directly into a burning fixation to become the campus expert on sucking his homie’s soul out through his dick.
Good for him, Osamu figures. It’s nice to have a hobby; a craft to hone.
This more than makes up for the energy drinks, all the gum, the pound of baby carrots Suna managed to eat the entirety of in around three hours, the yelling, the crying, the ridiculous afternoon Osamu watched Suna get kicked out of not one, but two convenience stores because everything gets jacked up to eleven no matter how insignificant it is. Everything. And now, finally, Osamu is being rewarded for his stupendous patience and all the goodness of his heart. This is compensation.
Unfortunately, Osamu has always been greedy. It’s not enough to lean back and let Suna do as he pleases—Osamu wants to keep score. And why shouldn’t he? If the past few days have taught Osamu anything it’s that the gods are real and they are on his side. So, somewhere in the middle of week two of this new cessation method, Osamu starts feeling for the boundaries.
How far can Osamu push it? Who will blink first? Can Osamu even call it playing chicken when Suna opened with blowjobs?
Fuck it, echoes in Osamu’s head tilted against the back of his couch, incident forty, three hundred, six thousand—who knows? Suna makes Osamu’s mouth dry. He makes Osamu hungry, starved for the taste of his lips, the feel of his hair, his weight on Osamu’s thighs, trapping him against couch cushions and mattresses and kitchen counters.
The quietly amused smolder Suna aims through the barricade of his eyelashes is an invitation and challenge braided into one cord. Really, this is all Suna’s fault in the first place. He found the flyer, he threw out the gauntlet. He’s been content to torment Osamu with starvation so he should also be content to deal with escalation. Osamu has a pitifully simple string of hoops to jump through rationalizing it as he stares up at the matte sheen of his living room ceiling.
Suna’s palm lays flat over Osamu’s stomach, pushing his shirt up into a wrinkled twist around Osamu’s ribs as he tugs Osamu’s belt loose. For around one-eighth of a second, Osamu considers the myriad of reasons he absolutely should not kiss Suna. Their friendship is complicated, now. Suna might not want to kiss Osamu even if he does seem to have a good time sucking his dick. Osamu shouldn’t kiss someone he wants so badly when they’re blatantly using him to win a bet—
Fuck it.
Osamu yanks Suna up by the collar and molds to his shape in an instant. Suna kisses back with whole determination and clumsy scrambling to get his hands planted on Osamu’s shoulders. Bravery swells through Osamu, trickles through his arms, and into his fingers slipping beneath the hem of Suna’s shirt and tracing the long cords of muscle running up his back.
It would only be fair to reciprocate, Osamu reasons as his fingers dip lower. A reward for weeks of hard work. Motivation.
“This sort of friends, too?” Suna asks with wide eyes and both hands gripping Osamu’s hair.
“If you wanna—” Osamu doesn’t get a chance to finish.
“Variety is good,” Suna says, five minutes later, after Osamu has forgotten the conversation entirely.
Osamu blindly agrees and goes back to counting Suna’s teeth with his tongue.
“At what point am I considered the victor of our little wager?” Suna asks around the one month mark, sprawled across Osamu’s couch, one leg hanging off the armrest, his other foot planted on the floor. One of Suna’s arms is curled around the back of his head as a pillow. His shirt is conspicuously absent but then again, so are Osamu’s pants so it’s not like there’s a quorum here.
Osamu’s phone chimes with a near-constant stream of messages from Atsumu, still bitching about his mascot debacle. It never ends. Atsumu has been going on about it for hours, only taking a break when—Osamu presumes—he’s found some other poor soul to unload on.
“I guess that’s up to you,” Osamu says, yanking back the never about to fly up his throat. He mashes the power button on the side of his phone until the entire thing turns off. “You feel like you kicked it for good?”
Suna considers the question more seriously than Osamu assumed he would. He knocks his gaze up to the ceiling and clicks his tongue. “Brutal. Not only are you asking me to self-assess, you’re making me decide if I’ve won or not? Let the journey end but get my reward… What a dilemma.”
There is an unruly, ravenous beast cartwheeling through Osamu’s chest that hopes Suna never, ever decides he has successfully quit smoking.
“I woke up the other day and realized I feel better,” Suna says as if it costs him to admit it. “More like myself. Less frazzled and kind of leveled off. It still sucks? Like, a lot? But I can think around it, now.”
This is all amazing news. Osamu hates it. “That’s awesome, Rin. I’m proud of you.”
“I guess.” Suna yanks his arm out from behind his head and sits up, chin cupped in his hand; elbow resting on his thigh.
Osamu putters around the apartment doing nothing in particular while he ignores his suddenly quiet phone and tries not to wonder if this means he’s supposed to go find his pants. When Osamu glances over, Suna is still watching with a considering gaze and head cocked to the side. He’s even more distracting like this than he was lounging around. Suna needs more or less clothes immediately.
“Aren’t you curious what I want for winning?” Suna asks when Osamu’s pacing takes him through another lap around the couch.
Yes and no. Mostly no. “Fine.”
A grin snakes over Suna’s face, devious and terrifying. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. What is the proper reward for the hell I endured? Because it was, you know, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I was drawing a complete blank for the longest time, but then Atsumu mentioned the volleyball team isn’t on the best terms with Riseki right now—something about shaving cream and condoms?”
“I thought it was a golf cart?”
Suna shrugs and gestures like he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. “He’s your brother, I’m not wasting my time trying to figure out what the fuck he’s doing. Point is, Riseki is refusing to make an appearance at the volleyball team’s end of season party, and this is, as I’m sure you can understand, a catastrophe.”
Atsumu’s constant, ranting messages weigh heavy in Osamu’s phone. A frozen boulder settles in his stomach. “No.”
“You said you want to be more supportive of your brother.”
“I absolutely have never said that once in my life.”
“It’s in the name of school spirit,” Suna adds with a flourish in the air, fingers wiggling as he twirls his wrist around and grins. “They won the intercollegiate, they deserve to celebrate with their mascot. And besides, you said anything.”
“Can I suck your dick instead?”
Suna laughs so hard he falls off the couch. From the floor, he cackles, “Not instead.”
Osamu hates volleyball, as a concept. He hates his brother, laughing hysterically from the living room floor as Osamu struggles to keep upright instead of lolling to one side or the other as he constantly fights for balance. He hates Suna winning their bet.
Is this karmic punishment? Are the gods angry with Osamu for doing a good deed and then selfishly cashing in on it? How unfair. Osamu only got—okay, he got a lot of blowjobs out of it. Maybe he deserves this awful polyester and faux-feather suit supposedly resembling a woodpecker but karma is pushing it here. What sort of utter sadist came up with the notion of dressing an actual human being up in this monstrosity? In public, no less? There aren’t even proper eye holes, only a headache-inducing mesh that makes everything look dull and pixilated. The entire inside of the getup scratches like burlap. It smells like Riseki eats french fries in here.
Click.
“How?” Atsumu howls. “How did you get him to agree to this?”
“Sucked his dick for a month,” Suna says.
Atsumu’s joyous expression flips upside-down until he looks like he’s chewing through yogurt on the cusp of going rancid. “Oh, gross, ew!”
“If you don’t wanna know, don’t ask.” Suna turns, snagging a picture of Atsumu’s horrified face before kicking him in the leg twice to get him up off the floor and toward the door. “You wanted to make sure it fits and now you see. Get out. We’ll catch up to you in a bit.”
“Samu we are gonna discuss this later,” Atsumu whines as he crams his feet into his sneakers.
What Osamu is going to do is pretend none of this ever happened, thank you very much.
“You didn’t have to tell him that,” Osamu says from behind the safety of his awful mascot head once Atsumu and all his bitching are out of his apartment. “Now he’s gonna ask questions while yellin’ he don’t want answers and it’ll be months before he shuts up.”
Suna only laughs.
“I’m serious!” What has Osamu’s life turned into? He’s trapped in a smelly mascot costume being mocked by the guy maybe no longer sucking his dick—this is all so unbelievably tragic.
“I’m sorry, but it’s— you’re just— Fuck, Samu, I’m so happy I quit smoking right now.”
Osamu cannot believe this shit. The costume is bulky, too hard to move in. It smells. “I hate you.”
“I love you.” Suna’s eyes blow wide and his gaze jerks up and to the left. “Um.”
Osamu wrenches the hulking pile of plastic, metal, and polyester glued to a bicycle helmet off his head and drops it on the floor with exactly the level of care and respect it deserves—none at all—and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t think, simply shouts, “You love me?!”
“You cannot be surprised to hear it.” Suna looks like he’s been both run over by a train and told only his phone was damaged in the incident. “What did you think that whole suck your dick thing was about?”
“At first I thought it was about quitting smoking but now I think you just wanted to get me dressed up like Woody Woodpecker to humiliate me.”
“His name is Harold and you know that.”
The only response Osamu is willing to give is a sneer and middle finger—too bad it’s completely obscured by his woodpecker mittens.
Suna rolls his eyes like he gets it anyway. “Drama queen. Did you really not think there might have been some personal motivation thrown in there, too? I could have sucked anyone’s dick, you never stopped to wonder why I picked yours?”
Osamu should admit the personal motivation on his end made it hard to consider such obvious nuances. “I dunno, you were acting kind of crazy. Seemed easier to just go with it.”
“Well, for the record, I was full of shit, who in the world is stupid enough to believe a xeroxed flyer obviously made by a freshman trying to get their dick wet?”
“You mean hashtag trade nic for dick was a lie?!” A booming quiet settles between them. Osamu’s face feels hotter than his poor feet, crammed into the disgusting, damp sweat-lodge of his oversized woodpecker shoes. “Oh my god, pretend I never said that.”
“I can’t.” Suna wheezes, cracking up all over again.
“Shut up.” Osamu bats away Suna’s hands the first time they come up to cradle his face, but the second time he’s sort of caught up in laughing too. Suna’s palms feel nice and cool on his flushed cheeks. Through the chuckles and embarrassment and the hot-air balloon inflating in the middle of his chest, Osamu says, “You’re such a liar.”
“Osamu. Oh, Osamu. Hashtag trade nic for dick is not only real, it’s very effective.” Suna’s smile spreads wide as he sweeps his thumbs under Osamu’s eyes. He looks so unbearably fond, stuck halfway between last month’s desperate I’m gonna need to suck your dick and the happy laughter spiraling through I love you.
A quiet snort is all the warning Osamu gets before Suna tries to grope his ass but winds up with two handfuls of polyester and faux-feathers. “Let’s go make an appearance at Atsumu’s stupid party so I can get you out of this thing.”
Osamu asks, “So, is this the kind of friends we are now?”
Suna gives a stern nod and presses a kiss to the corner of Osamu’s mouth before picking up the helmet from the floor and cramming it back on Osamu’s head. “Friendship amended.”