Me I Hate Suna Sm - Blog Posts

four drink rule - suna rintarou/f!reader (1.6k) sfwish, a bit silly, alcohol mention, enemies to something, samu dying a hero's death

atsumu slumps down into the banquette seating lining the wall of the club, exhausted.

there's a mysterious stain on the upholstery next to his thigh; the music is so loud it's rattling his teeth; and it's so hot in the crowded, rowdy space that the thin material of his dress shirt is sticking to him, even with the three top buttons undone.

this was supposed to be a night out with old friends.

this was supposed to be fun.

but now he just wants to go home.

"how many's she on?" his twin appears before atsumu, a drink in each hand. osamu mercifully hands the full one over to him.

atsumu accepts the drink gratefully, not a damn clue what it is, and takes a healthy swig. it burns a little on the way down, and does little to parch his actual thirst, but it's better than nothing. he swallows, panting lightly as he drags the back of his hand over his slick mouth.

"three—"

osamu nods, turning his head to scan the crowd of bodies.

"—what about suna?"

osamu takes a sip of his own drink, a less gluttonous one than his brother had. he turns back to his brother and gives him a pointed look as his adam's apple bobs.

he sighs, and the sound seems to come from deep within him. "three."

"who's watchin' him now?" atsumu asks.

"aran-kun."

atsumu's brow arches at his brother's response. "aran's supposed to be watchin' her."

they share a look. the beat in the song playing over the sound system drops. they're moving towards the thick of the crowd before they know it.

they find aran relatively quickly, near the bar where osamu had left him with suna, but he is horrifyingly alone.

"where is he?"

"where is she?”

the twins speak at the same time, tones equally accusatorial. 

aran rolls his eyes lightly, shaking his head. "relax, they got into one of their spats and she stormed off a while ago, and he said he was gonna go see if he could steal a cig off someone outside while i got another drink."

both of the twins nod, slightly relieved.

osamu’s eyes sweep the surrounding area for a moment.

"aran-kun... where's your drink?" 

aran looks over at the bar where he must have left his glass, but finds nothing there but a ring of condensation where his drink once sat.

he looks back to the twins to meet two identically wide pairs of eyes.

"god damn it.”

atsumu runs his hands through his peroxide blonde hair, gripping the strands roughly in frustration. “aran! the Four Drink Rule is in place fer a reason! it’s sacred!”

"yeah, yeah I know," aran sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes closed.

atsumu stomps his foot—actually stomps it, like an overgrown child—and laments ”this never woulda happened if kita-san were here!"

“kita-san’d never be caught dead in a club, but at least they behave themselves when he’s around," his twin reminds him, more composed than his genetic counterpart. the more level-headed of the two evaluates his options momentarily. “tsumu, you go check outside and see if you can find that dickhead. i’ll look for her. aran why dontcha take a lap and see if you can find ‘em in any… dark corners.”

aran’s nose crinkles in disgust.

“why do i get the worst job?” he gripes.

“yer the one that lost track of ‘em,” osamu says sternly, and aran can’t refute his logic even if he hates it.

they part ways, and osamu approaches the bar—waiting for the bartender to turn her attention towards him as his fingertips tap the sticky surface of the bartop impatiently.

finally the woman approaches.

“sorry to ask ya this,” osamu sighs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “did a girl come through here recently? real feisty, probably ordered a lemon sour with no ice, about—“

he intimates your approximate height to the bartender.

“—yea high?”

the bartender actually laughs a little bit at how defeated osamu seems, nodding her head.

"yeah, I served her a lemon sour with no ice a couple minutes ago. maybe 10? only remember her because she told me i wasn't allowed to tell some big guy with bleached hair. she made me pinky promise and everything.”

osamu knocks his fist between his eyes. yeah, that was definitely you.

“everything okay?” the bartender asks warily, watching osamu cycle through all five stages of grief in the expressions on his face.

“oh yeah, we’re fine. thanks fer yer help though, miss, and ‘m sorry about the trouble.”

atsumu, aran, and osamu all meet up again where they’d left each other—a few minutes older and substantially more grim.

“couldn’t find ‘em.”

“he wasn’t outside.”

“she got a fourth drink.”

they all relay their findings one after the other, the bad news compounding.

osamu looks at atsumu. atsumu looks at aran. aran looks at osamu. then the order repeats itself in reverse.

“i’m not doin’ it,” atsumu is the first to speak up, staunch and adamant. “i’m tired of baby sittin’ those two brats every time we go out. if they wanna down four drinks and end up suckin' each other’s faces off and bumpin' uglies in a nasty ol’ bathroom that’s their problem!” 

“but we’re the ones that have to deal with the fallout, ‘tsumu!” his brother argues. “suna’s gonna complain about her not replying to the stupid memes he sends like a lovesick idiot for the next two weeks, minimum. and she’s gonna blame us for not stopping her!”

“i agree with atsumu, we’ve been doing this for years. if they can’t admit they like each other that’s between them and god.” aran shrugs, equally exasperated with the foolishness. he’s been dealing with this for too damn long.

osamu tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, watching the way the club lights flicker across the black tiles overhead.

“if you guys help me figure out where they are, i’ll be the one to break ‘em apart.”

“deal.”

“fine.”

it doesn’t take them long really, once ginjima informs the three of them that he spotted you and suna slipping into an out of order washroom near coat check not fifteen minutes prior. suna’s hand had been, according to akagi’s chipper contribution, so far up your shirt it looked like ‘that scene in alien when the alien pops clear outta their chests!’

osamu stares at the out of order sign on the bathroom door for longer than he cares to admit; mustering his resolve, saying a prayer, lamenting the day of his own birth, etc. 

he casts a look down to the other end of the dimly lit hall (predominantly used by staff) to where atsumu, aran, and a few other of their friends are watching him like spectators standing on the dock to send ill fated soldiers off to war. atsumu waves him on encouragingly.

osamu sighs.

he pushes the door open.

“haa, please, rintar-MMPH!”

osamu fights back a gag as the door swings closed and the bathroom falls deathly silent.

he hears the drip of water from a leaking tap, the distant thrum of bass from the music outside.

“you two are gross, y’know that?”

osamu can see suna’s shoes under the door of the bathroom stall nearest to him. your shoes slowly appear on the ground just in front of suna’s, dropping down into view from above.

“i’m not leavin’ without the two of ya, so put yer junk away and get the hell out here,” osamu demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“my junk’s not even out yet,” suna mutters sullenly from behind the door, and he hears a smack a moment later.

there’s a bit of shuffling that osamu doesn’t want to picture and the stall lock clicks open. 

well, at least you two had the decency to lock one door. 

the stall door opens a crack, only to slam closed again a moment later.

“hey!” osamu hears you complain.

“you know we don’t actually have to go out there, right? he’s not our boss.”

“get your grubby hands off of me,” you hiss, and there’s another audible scuffle. finally the door to the stall is wrenched open, and you step out.

your hair is a mess. your skirt is creased. your makeup is running. osamu doesn’t dwell too long on the way you’re walking like you’re weak-kneed in the interest of preserving his own sanity.

“god i can’t stand you,” you hiss over your shoulder towards the stall where suna is also emerging, looking equally dishevelled—though notably more smug than you do.

“i’ve got a seat i can offer if you’re looking for one,” suna says, a smirk tugging the corner of his swollen, rosy lips up. there's lipstick streaking across his mouth, jaw, and neck.

“i’m never doing this again,” you say adamantly, grabbing your purse off of the bathroom counter beside osamu, where you’d evidently hastily cast it aside, avoiding his judgemental gaze as you do so.

osamu wants to echo your statement. 

you tug the strap of your bag up over your arm and stomp towards the door of the bathroom with your lipstick still smeared down your chin. osamu turns to look at his friend, his expression flat and unimpressed, but suna’s preoccupied watching you go, eyes glued to the doorway until the door swings shut behind you—the ignored OUT OF ORDER sign fluttering sadly. 

it’s quiet again once you’re gone, and suna turns to look at osamu with a dopey, self-satisfied smile. he sighs happily.

“she says that every time.”